There is a story from when I was 22 months old wherein my grandparents were watching me while my mother was in the hospital birthing my little sister.
They took me to the hardware store with them whilst running errands and I climbed on a small plastic horse with wheels. When it was time to leave the store I threw a fit and kept saying “that’s my horsey”. Now neither of my grandparents were the overindulging, spoiling type, but on this occasion, for whatever reason, after 5 minutes of trying to reason with me, my grandfather picked the horse up with me on it’s back, put it on the counter and said “you heard her, ring it up.”
My dad backed over it with the car shortly after, and promptly replaced it, and I still have a scar on my knee from the sister (who was being born when I got my horsey) ramming me at full speed into a trunk in the hallway where we were playing. My mother offered me the very same trunk recently. I have no idea where that horse went.
We moved to a subdivision shortly after the scar and the neighbourhood kids and I ran wild around the area. The gravel pit behind the subdivision, the pond full of frogs, turtle and tetanus, the empty lot with its underground stream and cedar forest and over the fence down the lane every spring to see the lambs a guy had on his little mini farm.
Further down the lane and across the road was a falling down barn with 3 paddocks and 3 horses.
I was obsessed. The guy who owned them let me pet them and feed them grass from the other side of the fence. I was brave enough to ask him if I could ride them but they were pacers, sulky horses. But I loved them anyways. I remember I renamed them Gemini, Morgan and something else.
I went to Pentacostal church camp with the neighbor across the street specifically because they had horses. I got the same horse 2 years in a row and we, I should say she won the barrels, she didn’t care about me, she just loved to run. But I loved her anyways.
Fast forward to farm life.
I, and a few other horse ladies. rescued auction horses. Kept them from being sold for meat.
Disclaimer, human beings have done some serious physical and psychological damage to some horses and I think the best thing for them is to live out their last days getting fat and unbothered by people before leaving the earth. They are angry, scared and dangerous. I won’t eat horse meat, but there are things worse than death.
I also need to add another disclaimer. I am not a horse lady. For all my wishing and wanting as a kid, I never had a horse. And somewhere between Angie, my lil spitfire camp horse, and having a farm, I got scared of horses. Nothing happened, I am just really insecure now. About a lot of things. Didn’t stop me from buying meat horses and bringing them home. There were a few instances where I could have been hurt very badly, but my deep, unshakeable reverence for these behemoths in the field, plus the hand of god a couple times I swear, kept me from dying or breaking limbs. I believe horses can sense your heart, and they knew I wasn’t going to hurt them, even though I looked the same as those who had hurt them before. My girls, and boys were silly, stupid, bratty and sometimes mean and I miss them.
RIP Lightning, you deserved better.
I haven’t written enough lately to think of a smooth transition, so ‘this is your captain speaking, the seatbelt light is on, please prepare for some light to moderate turbulence as we enter the next paragraph.’
I was laying in bed with Wolf and we always do a little recap after, once I can remember my name, and since I spend quite a bit of our sessions in subspace, I am not always aware of what I am doing, what time it is, what planet I am on etc.
He has gotten into the habit of counting when I black out just to make sure I am not gone too long. 8 seconds is enough. The orgasms come in waves and sometimes they are tsunamis and I drown for a minute, then break the surface gasping for air. Best description I can muster.
He calls what he does to me his art, and this pleases me. I have extrapolated and understand, that it is indeed art, but like a mosaic. He breaks me apart and puts me back together again in a pleasing way. And the conversations we have after are like a gallery showing. My praise is good for his ego, and his praise is necessary to quell my insecurities. I have never been able to absolutely let go with a partner before, the trust was never there before him.
In this safe space, and exploring subspace I don’t have much control over my actions or reactions. We practice consensual non consent, so ‘no’ doesn’t mean no. Nothing means no, except the safe word donuts, which can be padded with a description as in “breathing donuts” doesn’t mean stop exactly, just reposition so I can fill my lungs.
I am a vocal submissive. Not loud exactly, and not dirty talk so much. I purr sometimes, I moan before I tip over the edge, I giggle and cry and with him, due to his um…size I tend to say nonononononono as my body attempts to get used to being beaten up from the inside. Doesn’t help, just gives me the illusion of control then I have a massive orgasm and I don’t care that it hurts.
What I didn’t realize is the other vernacular I use.
Which happens to sound a lot like
“Hey” “Ho” something else that sounds like “at tat tat” and as you may have guessed it “whoa”. As in whoa horsey. In the same tone and volume I would use in the field to communicate with my beasts.
Twenty two months I have been with this man, and this last time was the first time he was ever specific about the ‘words’ I use, and I fucking HOWLED.
In a vulnerable position with a large creature that could do me harm if he wanted to, I have reverted to the reverence and language I used to stay safe and communicate with my horses.
I have the same kind of love and respect for him as I did for them, they were never mine, you can’t own something that powerful and magnificent, but I love him anyways.
He’s my horsey.