Coco the Ho
Sunday, October 29, 2007, 1:00pm
Shadowfax Stables
Eating is an adventure without a gall bladder. In fact, it's less like actual eating and more like borrowing the food for a few hours before it shoots out of your ass as if blasted from a whale's blowhole.
Yeah, I can't eat like I used to. The doctor says I'll be back to normal soon, but until then, I'm staying far away from anything remotely unhealthy.
The post-surgery pain isn't bad at all. I have four incisions on my abdomen, the largest of which is the size of the memory chip slot on my cell phone. Most of the time, I don't even know they are there.
Last night, Tim decided I had recovered enough to resume my evolutionary duties, so she leaned over in bed and whispered softly in my ear until I was ready to go.
What she actually said is irrelevant. It's the sound of her voice, her closeness, the heat of her breath, that gets me off. She could have been reading a weather forecast; as long as she threw in a few cocks and pussys, I'd be hard enough to smash a plate-glass window with my johnson by the time she was done.
And hard I was--but mounting her and pounding away like a Rottweiler was a bad idea. As soon as the cumshot--and the flood of endorphins--subsided, talons of pain clawed at my intestines until I rolled off the bed and onto the floor in agony.
"No seconds for you!" Tim giggled.
So yeah, my return to, um, normal activity didn't go so well. But that was, like, 12 hours ago! I should be fine now.
Tim and I, along with four other couples, sit in a lazy circle and introduce ourselves before our horseback riding trip. "We're Adam and Kristen," a guy says. "We're from Boston."
I approach him as the horses are being saddled. "So you're from Boston, eh?" I ask.
"Well, Worcester, actually," he says.
Those of you from the area are cracking up right now. Massachusetts is small, and it's all relative, but a Worcester guy saying he's from Boston is kinda like going to Coney Island and saying you're in the Bahamas. It's like going to a carnival in a church parking lot and claiming you're at Disney World.
"It's easier to say 'Boston' than 'Massachusetts'", he says, noticing my grin.
It seems that Coco, my horse, is in just as much gastro-intestinal distress as I am. After walking less than 50 feet, she stops dead in her tracks and lets out a fart that could have peeled wallpaper--a rancid, rotten, barf-inducing cloud of stink that sticks to the back of my throat like Chloraseptic spray.
One hundred yards later, Coco has taken an unhealthy interest in the asshole of the horse in front of her, sniffing desperately at it like a cokehead trying to get the last few specs off a mirror.
"Pull back on the reins," Ana, the group leader, yells. "Show her who's boss!"
I pull back, and Coco dips her head angrily. We're definitely off on the wrong foot.
She stops again and drops another stink bomb, followed immediately by a series of wet plopping sounds. "She's using the bathroom," Ana says.
She shoulda gone before we left!
Coco has fallen behind now, and trots to catch up, zeroing in on her buddy's asshole like a heat-seeking missile. She nuzzles it, apparently too aggressively, and the other horse rears up on his hind legs, his rider clinging, terrified, to the reins.
The horse takes off like a shot and Coco springs into a gallop after him.
"Pull back! Pull back on the reins!" Ana shouts, but her voice is fading so fast I can barely hear her.
Coco's gallop bounces me violently against the saddle, my incisions screaming in agony as I strain to hold on. I'm not going to last much longer.
I'll hold on. I have to. People don't get thrown off horses!
Do they?
Coco sprints past the other horse and around a sharp bend in the trail. There's no way I can hold on.
The reins slip from my hands and the Earth turns upside down in slow motion. I hear a dull thud, and wonder for a second what it was before I realize it was me hitting the ground.
Ana rides up behind me. "You didn't show her who's boss!" she scolds.
