Horses & Me

Dear Marnie,

I’m stuck in a board game.

It’s not Jumanji, nor is it similar to Jumanji. This place is its own game with its own set of rules. It’s not even “in” the jungle, although it does have animals. That’s kinda common though, you know? You’ve got… Hungry Hungry Hippos and the dog figurine in Monopoly.

If anything it’s closer to, say, Chutes and Ladders. It’s got that anything-can-happen, roll-of-the-dice, one-wrong-move-and-it’s-over sort of feel. But again, it is NOT Chutes and Ladders. Completely original IP here. I know. I’m dancing around it. You want to know what the game. Look, I have zero issues telling you what the game is, but you’ve gotta hold your judgments. Okay? We can agree to be adults?

It’s “Escape from the Equine Fuck Farm.”

Just wait. Hold on.

FIRST. It’s not like the player (currently: me) is fucking the horses. It’s actually the other way around. The horses are trying to fuck me, and it’s my job to escape them. So, I mean, if you distill this, it’s a pretty common conceit we’ve got going here: Escape from the Equine Fuck Farm is basically hide and seek, with…you know, slightly higher stakes. I’m not even sure what happens should they “win” or when I “lose.” Do I leave? Do I play again? Do I die? I’d rather not find out.

SECOND. “Okay then, Gerald, why did you have a copy of ‘Escape from the Equine Fuck Farm’ lying around to get sucked into in the first place?” The answer is simple: I bought it…as a joke. It was like, $15 at the flea market off of 95, from that one stall way in the corner with the blind parakeet who only knows how to say “BONES.” It’s funny. It’s FUNNY. Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing. It’s the perfect prank gift. “Hey, do you guys wanna play a board game tonight?” “Sure, which game?” Then you drop Escape from the Equine Fuck Farm on the kitchen table. What a hoot.

THIRD. How did I get stuck inside? Right, well. I’m not sure, but I’ve got a hunch. See, I got out of work at the shop, stopped by Chester’s on my way home to grab a bit of ring bologna and some olives. Drove home. Cut a slice of said ring bologna, started through the living room, and that’s when I dropped it. The bologna slipped out of my fingers and landed on the top of the box for Escape, and when I went to pick it up: BAM. I woke up in a stable, like Jesus.

My working theory is that the ring bologna acted as a sort of catalyst, activating the game’s curse or enchantment (depending on what you’re into), which yanked me inside since I was “connected” to the bologna by having ingested it. The unfortunate aspect of this theory is that— and this is just me spit-balling here— I believe the bologna activated the game because horse meat was an ingredient. Whatever. It’s fine. I’ve eaten the ring bologna from Chester’s since I was 11 and nothing bad has happened to me. Except this.

They must’ve modeled this game after Little House on the Prairie. It’s essentially a 1:1 replica. There’s a handful of quaint structures, but they’re mostly empty. I don’t think they thought to really fill in these spaces, which is understandable, considering I doubt they also thought anyone would ever be stuck inside the game itself. The log cabin did have this rag paper and quill pen, though. Life is hard on the fuck farm, Marnie. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been in here. For the first week or so I tried placate the horses like they were irate customers. “I’m so sorry, but we are not allowed to take an IOU from your grandson as payment” has the same cadence and feel as “Hey Seabiscuit, you’re not allowed to mount me from behind, okay?” But, ah, no. It is very different.

The horses are not just insanely horny, but so clever. A six hundred pound Percheron can be quite sneaky when they want something, and when that “something” is the release of a breathtaking buildup of ejaculate, they’ll find a way to get it. At the slightest hint of my scent they bray and whine. They stomp their hooves. They act more like angry bulls than horses. They’re overflowing with an amount of pent-up seed that could drown Pompeii. With how long have they been here, with how long have they been locked inside this game? My God, Marnie. The look in their eyes, it’s otherworldly. You can see the threads being connected. They become T-1000s scanning for John Connor. If you happen to catch one off-guard, grazing or galloping around, there’s a round, doughy softness to their gaze; you’d think them docile. But with the flip of a switch— one good look at this caboose— the semen takes hold. The passion turns into a hunger beyond reason. They begin to charge, unerring, their gigantic horse cocks piercing forward through the air as a knight’s lance would.

So far, I’ve counted ten different horses. There’s the aforementioned Seabiscuit. Then we’ve got Bubblegums, Powerade Zero, L’Oreal, 877-CASH-NOW, Bushmaster, E.T. the Equine Terrestrial , Chappie (That’s Chappie), Sonny Eclipse, and the most frightening of them all, Ultra Moisturizing. In terms of “packing heat” this horse is in a league of his own. If the rest of the horses have rifles, Ultra Moisturizing has a god damn railgun, which is something I found out the hard way.

Some time ago I found myself exploring the acreage when I stopped to wash myself in a small pond. I could see around me in every direction: hills of verdant green, a few shrubs, a spot of trees. Nothing but clear skies as far as the eye could see. I was safe. So I removed my button-up and tee shirt, laid them beside me, and bent down beside the pool. As I dipped my head beneath the surface, I noticed a shadow that began to stretch across the bottom of the pond. For a moment I hesitated-- just a cloud, I thought. But the shadow grew longer, darker. I froze. There was a wild heat that began to form behind me, as if a molten rod was being held inches from the backs of my knees. I heard a single, gruff snort.

I craned my neck enough to glimpse behind me. Behold, a pale horse. A Clydesdale the same color as the lotion I used during the winter when my fingers would start to crack and bleed. Ultra Moisturizing. He was at least 7 feet tall and as wide as a compact car. How he made it to me without a sound, without even the slightest hint of sound, it shouldn’t have been possible. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a horse, Marnie. I mean, you’ve seen a horse. But have you ever really looked at a horse? The most absurd amount of muscle in any animal. Absolutely shredded. Ultra Moisturizing was all-consuming: his massive frame looming behind, above, around. An enormous barrel chest, eyes locked on me, drawing intense, slow breath. He took a single hoof-step closer, as if to say, “I’ll be taking what’s mine now.” And to Ultra Moisturizing’s credit I was…in a vulnerable position. I had left myself half-naked, ass-up in the middle of a prairie. I shut my eyes in fear. The moment spiraled into a singularity, my senses collapsing into a single searing presence that coalesced around this one undeniable truth: Ultra Moisturizing was attempting to dock himself inside of my ass. I could not see, but my eyes were wide. I could not speak, but my mouth was agape. I could not hear beyond the trembling ringing filling my ears. My limbs started tingling as my body rushed blood to my heart.

As brief as the moment may have been, it was as significant a sensation as the moon itself grazing the earth. Twenty inches of blood-gorged tissue so solid that it could shatter the earth was passing through the troposphere of my ass, scraping against the sides of my cheeks. So I dove. I dove as fast and far as I could into the water and I sank myself onto the bottom. It was freezing, even in the constant sunshine. Time crept. The ebbing visage of Ultra Moisturizing loomed there on the surface, like he knew I would eventually be his, ripe for the taking. It didn’t happen, somehow. Not that day. Maybe he just wanted the challenge. Maybe he wanted me to want it. Maybe he wanted to prove a point.

Needless to say, I spend my days trying to evade these horses. I cover my tracks, rub myself down with local fauna and dirt. I don’t have to piss, eat, drink. Nothing to do except sleep and not get railed. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, there seems to be no escape. The edge of this game is simply a wall. You can follow it, and I did. It just forms a square. On the plus side, there’s a vast plain with a snow-capped mountain range far in the distance at every turn. There are birds and buffalo that roam. Small critters that dart around the plains. I spend hours out there, just looking. That was where I saw you again.

You are always just kind of standing there. Some days you’re a little bit closer, some days a little further, but always out of reach. Wavy hair to your shoulders. Eyes that glimmer like emeralds. Exactly the same as I remember. Every time, you’re in a romper. I only know that it’s a romper because you were the first person I ever saw wearing a romper, and when I asked what it was, you said, “It’s a romper.” So that’s how I stay sane. I come to the edge, sit on the warm grass, take off my shoes, and stare out into the distance. I try to remember the layout of my apartment by drawing a floor plan with my fingers in the dirt. I try to remember my coworkers names and what my parents look like. I say a prayer to whatever god is listening that my sweet little Maisie is taken care of and being fed the food she likes (shredded, not minced, and no fish flavors: just beef or chicken in gravy). After a while, I’ll rest my eyes, and when I open them you’re just.. there. I wave. You wave back, like there’s a dozen other people we both could be waving to, but it’s just me.

Every time I see you I can actually feel the serotonin being squirted out of my brain, a little chemical reward. I talk to you-- well, at you-- about everything. The sun doesn’t set, so we have all the time in the world. Not like last time. Do you remember the last time we actually saw each other? The Barnes & Nobles parking lot 25 miles outside the city? We were there for three hours, my belongings stuffed in the back of the Honda. We brought up that billboard for Real Housewives at least a dozen times. Anything to avoid the inevitable. “I think Lisa is spreading rumors about us. That bitch.” Repeatedly going over every inside joke we had. Laying in the backseat intertwined, the windows rolled down with our feet out the window. You packed peanut butter & jelly sandwiches and picked the crumbs off of my flannel. As the sun went down I told you I had to get going, I had a long drive. I mumbled that I’d see you in a few weeks. We held one another and I did that thing where I know I’m crying, but I have to laugh to try to distract from it, and I know you know I’m laughing to try and distract from crying, and I know it’s an inherently upsetting moment, but I have to laugh or else I’ll want to throw myself off a roof. Then...that was it.

If we did speak, we were pleasant. We still wished one another happy birthday, a Merry Christmas. We “reacted” to posts on social media, or whatever you want to call it. In retrospect, some sort of meltdown could’ve helped with the closure. Anything other than a slow decay. Each night for over a year, I’d walk home after closing at the store with barely have enough energy to think, let alone be a person. I just knew where to go, where to turn, when to look both ways. But one day, around the halfway point on my trek home at the 39 bus stop, I decided to try a different way. I knew it had less to look at in general, but better sidewalks and more streetlights. There were more homes. Eventually, I’d round a corner and end up on Belmont and I’d see a little hot dog joint on the corner. That was when I’d think of you. It’d give me this little… jolt. This little boost. A nudge to get me home. This was one of those ancient places where they— thankfully— did not feel the need to make a hot dog pun with the name. Just a solid concrete building painted the most nauseating shade of yellow. CITY BEST HOT DOGS.

It was early August and I was staying the weekend. We both had sweat through our clothes by noon, and were planning to get hot dogs downtown at the place with the hot dog sodas, where they punch a hole in a wiener so you can use it as a straw. We stopped by your apartment to change and you saw me fidgeting with myself in the mirror, frustrated. I was seconds from trying on a fourth shirt, searching for one that didn’t give me a Flubber-esque silhouette. Without a word, you came up to me and took your hand, placing it on my cheek, letting your thumb run over my stubble. You just did that for what felt like hours, but was probably 30 seconds. I felt my shoulders slump, my jaw unclench, as if every insecurity was being siphoned out of me. Every worry, doubt. All you were doing was looking at me, looking at you. Chapped lips. Hair stuck to your forehead. Your flats barely holding together. The necklace your grandmother gave you and the birthmark on your neck it sat above. You pulled yourself into me, put your head on my chest and let out a sigh. I glanced down at you; you had closed your shut with this grin across your face. I asked what you were smiling at. You didn’t reply. For a few minutes we stood there, motionless, before you gently pulled away. You took both of your hands in mine, stood on your toes, leaned in, and whispered. “How many hot dogs do you think I could fit in my mouth?”

I blinked, thinking I misheard you. So you asked again, this time louder.

“How many. Hot dogs. Could I fit. In my Mouth. Gerald?”

I stammered. You started poking my stomach.

“How. MANY. HOT. DOGS?”

I folded over, trying to protect myself, red in the face, screaming that I didn’t know. It was like a blooper from “Sicario.”

“How many, Gerald?” you pressed, “how many wieners could I stuff in this mouth?!”

You chased me around the apartment for 10 minutes prodding me for an answer, but I never gave you one.

That night when you were sleeping, I went into the bathroom for 45 minutes. Not because of the hot dog sodas. Well, a little because of the hot dog sodas, but I was mostly laying in the tub in the dark on my phone, searching for advice on how to tell someone you love them. It was the one thing I knew for certain, but never had the courage to tell you. I am so sorry this is the best I could do after all of this time.

Which brings me to last night. Last night I had a dream. Normally not a huge deal, I’ve never been one to remember my dreams, especially since I’ve been in here. In this dream, I’m not sure when it is—could be the future or the past— I just know I’m no longer in this place. It is somewhen else. We run into one another at a bookstore. I spot you before you see me, and quickly hide in an attempt to collect myself. But before I get the chance to, you’re there, arms out, giving me the biggest hug. We are pleasant, courteous. You are holding a cookbook written by Austin Powers. It’s called “Do I Make You Hungry, Baby?” and I have a magazine called “Porridge Sluts.”

You are not in a romper, but a wild Victorian gown with frills and lace, and you’re speaking in a very Dickensian manner with a British accent, but you’re also leaning into it a little too hard, as not to forget you were born in San Diego. We exchange pleasantries for a few minutes, then you get a phone call which comes somewhere from inside your bosom. You laugh heartily and say, “I must take this, excuse me!” before going to some corner a few yards away. I begin fidgeting with myself again. I know I smell. My hair is a mess. I’m a little gassy from the fuji apple chicken salad I had for lunch. There’s a dull pain in my left shoulder that’s been there for months now. I glance down to see my shoe is untied. While I’m mumbling the bunny ear rhyme, tying loops, I realize this is a dream.

I am crushed. I saw no purpose in continuing the charade. Some faux-memory of you. What was the use? But then I felt that nudge again, the same one I did when I would pass by CITY BEST HOT DOGS, pushing me along. I continue to dream. There is a familiar warmth on my cheek. I look up. There you are, bathed in halogen light. Your arm extended, eyes set on me, gently working my stubble with your thumb. I feel a single tear escape my eye and start to laugh harder than I could possible imagine, even in a dream. You have somehow fit the most hot dogs I have ever seen into your mouth. I don’t know how many hot dogs. It was fewer than 40, but more than 1. It could’ve been 5, 6, 7. 15. It could’ve been 25 or 30. It was some inconceivable, secret number which I will never really know. That sort of uncertainty used to terrify me. I always had to exert every possible force I could in an attempt control or limit the future in light of the past. But I can’t do it anymore.

I’ll never know what might’ve happened if I stayed with you in that parking lot. Maybe there was some forked path we could’ve stumbled down, together. Maybe I never would’ve ended up at the equine fuck farm. Maybe that path is still there, like a nerve inside of a dead tooth, longing, waiting to be addressed. Maybe it’s a lost cause. What I do know is that tomorrow I am going to do something, and when it’s over, I may still be here, or I may not be. Perhaps I’ll be somewhere else entirely, but the only way out is through.

Love,

Gerald