In Which I Talk About Horses And Become Quite Rude, No, Really Very Rude, Near The End, So Watch Out
I hate horses. It's true, and I won't deny it.
The sentences previous to this one are really stupid. First, I said something very plainly, and then, without it being at all necessary, I followed the initial statement with that second, entirely useless sentence. Of course I won't deny my horse hatred, because I already wrote it down, and unless there is some reason to think otherwise, I am likely telling the truth.
Yeah, I will underscore the verity of my first sentence by repeating it. I hate horses.
When I was a young pre-pubescent.....
Goddam! Can I even write today? There is no need to go putting "young" in front of "pre-pubescent", unless I am creating a clear separation between myself and the many victims of progeria that I hung around with as a child, which was not the case. I did not know one single person who had progeria.
So, when I was a pre-pubescent of about eleven, something strange started happening to the other girls in my grade. Paperback books with covers featuring softly drawn horses started showing up in their desks, and they used bookmarks with silver unicorns stamped onto them and with yarn tassels. The girls who came from wealthier families bragged about their riding lessons and adopted tones of accelerated maturity to inform the rest of us that horses were a lot of work and that you had to be very serious about it to take on that kind of responsibility.
I hated those girls. They were always able to get the sides of their hair moussed out into perfect, permed fluffs.
I was clueless when it came to their newly acquired horse fetishes. Then, as now, horses were large and somewhat terrifying behemoths to me. Their eyes were too smart, too bright, too searching when they looked at my face. Their coats were beautiful, but the sheen only amplified the nervous jumping of their muscles. It was their teeth that were the worst, though. When I saw their teeth, I wanted to run. OH MY GAWD! HORSE TEETH! I would wail in my head. I imagined that image coupled with the horribleness of seeing the whites of their eyes, and I was all done with noting the glossy coat. Their glossy coats were not enough to overpower the awfulness of their teeth and their huge, flexible nostrils. Horses doing anything near me dropped me squarely into a carnival of visual horrors.
The other girls in my grade talked about horses like they were dreamy boyfriend material, though. I was too young to make the sexual connection between these girls experiencing their first flush of rising hormones and their love of these large, hot, muscular mammals that they pressed their crotches against. I had my Raggedy Andy doll for that, and he didn't terrify me with his rolling eyes and glistening teeth.
Although, maybe I was missing out. Horses inspired poetry and reading and tacky sweaters and drawings of them in notebooks; my Raggedy Andy doll did not occupy my mental space at all after he'd been thrown back into the closet. I was a late bloomer, so perhaps I just wasn't ready to rhapsodize over his soft yarn hair in poetry just yet.
Somehow, I don't think I was ever cut out for getting all gooey and precious about things that, in truth, I just wanted to fuck.
Did I just inadvertently accuse two-thirds of the girls in my elementary school class of wanting to fuck horses? That's awesome. I wish I could send them all a letter that goes like this:
You want to fuck a horse.
You so want to ride hot horse dick.
Normally, I like to wrap an entry up all tidy like to give myself a sense of closure and fulfillment of purpose, but that is not going to happen. I'm laughing too hard now, and really, where can I go from here? What is going to happen is that I am going to give you three outcomes to choose from, and then we can all part ways happily. Ready? This is like one of those choose-your-own-adventure novels circa 1984!
Ending #1: I actually do write that letter, and I manage to hunt down the addresses of a surprising number of my old female classmates. Invariably, each of them reads the letter and says Who the hell is "Schmutzie"?
Ending #2: I have actually been suppressing my beastial yearnings, and this entry brings my desires out of hiding. I start out innocently enough with a ride on the merry-go-round at the summer fare, but I quickly spiral out of control with riding lessons, waking repeatedly at night to run my hands over a horse's bit, and eventually insisting that I sleep in the stall with Eagle, a chestnut stallion who has stolen my heart and opened my eyes to true love. After his death, I write a revelatory memoir of our years together, and my old classmates secretly seethe with envy because they never had the courage to pursue their own horse love.
Ending #3: The Fiery One reads this entry and is horrified at my childhood plushophilia. He insists that we seek counselling to deal with my suppressed deviance and, for the good of our marriage, forces me to tell a therapist that I might be sexually attracted to stuffed toys that wear striped knee socks.