And the not-so-pretty ones.

Dinner reservations are at 9, so I head out at 8:30. The restaurant’s downtown, along with all the other fancy joints, so I hightail it there on my new ride. Sure enough, I’m at the valet parking by 8:55. “Not a scratch,” I tell Frankel. 

He nods graciously. This isn’t his first rodeo.

I climb off, button my cuffs, and make for the revolving door. The three-piece two-button outlines my bottom-heavy figure. I breathe in, repeating to myself: Keep cool. Keep cool. Keep –

“What was that, sir?” Frankel spins around.

Damn. I’m saying my thoughts out loud. No time to dwell on it, though, because greener pastures await. I float through the revolving door, swinging one arm in front of the other, contracting my facial muscles into a breezy smile. Dinner guests murmur to one another over dim candlelights, casual conversation veiling clandestine appraisal. But I evade their judgment, tuning out the chatter to scan the room for my date.

There she is. Seated alone at a table, dark bourbon in hand, coral red dress twirling all the way down to her heels. It looks murderously expensive, but I’ve got my own suit of armor. As I stride forward, her heavy gaze pierces mine, bequeathing her objective beauty unto my averted eyes. 

“You must be my date,” she begins.

“Uh, yeah, it’s good to meet you,” I reply. The Pacific garbage patch fills up with my verbal debris.

She eyes me over.

I’m sweating bullets, but she doesn’t know it. Stay calm. 

“So, what kind of things are you interested in?” I offer.

“Well, I like to paint. Oil on canvas mostly, but I try acrylics once in a while. I also like to sing, and dance. And meet mysterious new men.” She tilts her head and smiles, raising her glass. “What about you?”

“I-uh, well, I’m not that interesting,” I mutter. “Just your usual Joe Blow.”

“There must be something,” she smirks playfully.

She’s conventionally beautiful, I think. 

She blushes, maintaining eye contact. “Why, thank you! You’re not so shabby yourself.”

For God’s sake, stop saying your thoughts out loud.

“But tell me more about yourself.” She thrusts.

Inexplicably, I forget to parry. “Well, I guess I like to ride horses.” It slips out suddenly, like children of divorce climbing out of a back window as a drunken father waddles home. There’s nothing wrong with what I said, though, so I keep smiling. 

“Horses? That’s so interesting! Where’d you pick that up?”

She’s a master conversationalist. I resist with a Sisyphean might, but futility flattens me underfoot. The words flow from my mouth like bourbon into her lips.

“Well, I guess the first time I was with a horse was when I was eight. Her name was Bessie, one of our old barnyard steeds – stern as a farmhand’s whiplash, but by God, if she wasn’t a gentle touch! We started out slow, but got comfortable with each other over time. I’ll never forget the bonds we had with each other.”

Her eyes light up, inquisitive. “Of course, a horseback rider! My father had a few thoroughbreds as a child. Are you close to your horses?”

“Intimately.” 

“How often do you ride them?”
“Every night.”

She pauses. “Wait, what?”
“What?” Uh-oh.

“Do you ride horses, or do you ride horses?”

Act natural. Act like a regular human being. “Have intimate relationships with horses?” I scoff. “Who would do something like that?”

“Oh.” She relaxes. “Sorry. The way you phrased your sentence was confusing. Boy, that would have been awkward, huh?” 

“So awkward,” I laugh, knowing my secret is safe. Kicking back, I envision myself surviving thirty more minutes of conversation, giving Frankel a hefty tip at the valet, and riding old Bessie all the way home. And she’ll never know I have sex with horses.

“Wait, what?”

Damn. I’m doing it again.