GIRL 39
HORSEY GIRL
What is it with girls and horses?
All my life I've followed the rules of the macho guys who taught me most of my dating moves, one of which is, stay away from the horsey girls. But I always wondered why. Could it be that this was simply typical male insecurity? That the horse had a bigger penis than any of us, and we were worried what the horsey girl would say in that first vulnerable moment when our jeans hit the floor? That seemed unlikely - any woman who made fun of the human penis by comparing it to the horse's would be foolish, because the guy would simply bolt. Unless it were revenge. The more likely explanation would appear to be the lesbian factor. Girls who wear worn jeans, muddy hiking boots covered with fresh horse manure, plaid flannel shirts and have the scent of hay in their hair and pick their noses with short dirty fingernails are somehow satisfying some need they have that isn't met by humanity, and let's face it. The rough girls like that can be counted on to wear the symbols of lesbianism - no makeup, short hair, and extra weight. It's easy to see why they should be avoided. Assuming they'd even want to date a guy. But for me it had been academic. The easily-detectible lesbians I'd always avoided. It was the closet lipstick lesbos who'd given me so much trouble.
By the way, the women who wear knee high boots and jodhpurs and carry a riding crop and one of those little British beany horseback-riding helmets could be either part of the American upper class (they do exist) or a pretender. When people refer to "the horsey set," they're talking about polo playing royalty, not the horse-loving lesbos. And let's face it, any man who is not a member of the upper class is a fool to date a girl who is. To be clear, I'm not talking about rich girls. Rich women are fair game, whether they are second generation rich, with daddy's millions working hard for them, or they earned it the old fashioned way, by earning it. Females from the true American upper class should be avoided by middle class and blue collar males. The blue bloods use us for their playtime, but rarely are we candidates for anything real. Don't believe me? Try dating one, then see how you're treated at Sunday dinner at the manor house. It matters little if you went to Princeton, got two grad degrees from Yale, earned ten mil on Wall St., bedded a supermodel and cured cancer in children. To them, if you weren't born into the crowd, you are an uncouth outsider. And their value system speaks for itself. Go ahead and insert your penis into upper class female orifices, but never ever fall in love with the female who owns the holes.
One exception to the Avoid-Horsey-Girls rule involves Texas women who wear tight jeans, worn cowboy boots and cowboy hats - and who wear that not as a fashion statement but as their everyday attire. These women drive Suburbans or Denalis and smoke small cigars. Beneath their blouses you may find fake boobs. Beneath their thongs you'll find trimmed pussy hair. And beneath their cowgirl exterior you will find a real woman who knows how to take care of a man in every way. Don't mess with Texas. Thing is, these women are rare because they are all happily married. As well they should be, they deserve it.
So why I responded to the wink from the non-Texas woman in the plaid flannel shirt and horseshit-encrusted hiking boots who was hugging a horse in her cover picture is beyond me. She was by no means pretty, not even cute. There was something to be learned from every female, I thought.
I may have been wrong. In person, she was just as hard looking, hard acting and lesbian-in-denial as her photograph would imply. But at one point, she spoke of the metal-shredding highway accident that spilled her broken body across the pavement of an interstate, the two hundred thousand dollar horseflesh that had been in the Suburban's trailer dead on impact.
Her near-death experience was one for the books. At one point I asked her if she'd seen anyone in the beyond who might possibly represent the supreme being. Her expression became confused for a fraction of a second.
"I think that may be why I winked at you," she said.
Why's that, I asked.
"There was this guy," she stammered.
It took a long time for her to get the story out. The supreme being, she said, looked a lot like me, except he had a scar from a knife fight, had a thinner frame, stood slightly taller and wore state trooper Ray·Ban dark sunglasses.
Goddamned supreme being, I thought. Always with the jokes.
I did actually kiss her goodnight. Unbelievably, she gave me one of the best kisses I'd gotten in two months, and I found myself reaching for her erect nipple and hearing her moan.
I called her the next day, and the day after that.
She never returned my call.
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