venus in spurs...an unfinished tail

it's pony's playtime. he waits all week for this.


where's his ponytail buttplug? oh right, it's in its zippered case in the bathroom.

plug me in, plug me in. plug me in, plug me in.

pony time.

when he shakes his head, it isn't a weak combover that is tossed around. the spell is working. he shakes his mane instead.

but where is she?

where is that wascawwy jockey? where is the bitch with the hold on his reins?

pony starts to sweat. spooked pony.

he trots to the kitchen, nudges open the fridge door with his big horsey nose. good horsie. thassa good trick you know. the pony nibbles on the end of a carrot he freed from the bag. chews thoughtfully.


he is a showy, wily pony. he is a wonderhorse.

the pony can drive a car. the pony can do quick mental math. the pony can balance a checkbook. the pony can balance a checkbook on his nose.


the pony can talk, but only when the jockey says it's okay. that's part of the magic.


the horse is only mildly aware of the man outside. the man is only mildly aware of the horse inside.

it is their shared dream that binds them so strongly.
the dream of the centaur.
the perfect form, unattainable.

speaking of binds.


here comes the jockey; the pony's ears pricked up at the sound of her distinctive, clandestine tattoo against the backdoor. yes, it is safe to come in. yes, little girl, you may come play with the pony.




"did you...hrrmmhuhhrrmm...did you bring the spurs?"


breaking the rules. breaking the spell. but pony wants!




"bad horsie. ponies don't talk and i only deal with equines, buddy."


but the pony looks so sheepish,


it's a look that is all animal. it softens her. pony is forgiven.




he is, after all, a wonderhorse.