I grew up in a rural farming community. I didn’t live on a farm, but farms were all over the place. Wheat, barley, and milo fields were everywhere. Cows grazed lazily everywhere you turned, slack jaws and bored stares offered to passers-by, tails lifting every now and then to deposit their commentary on the state of human society at large.

My friend James was a fifth generation farmer’s kid. While I’d rattle off my favorite X-Men characters, he’d gush about his dad’s new tractor. While I’d be drawing my illicit naked pictures of April O’Neal and Gadget from Rescue Rangers (Fuck off. I WAS A KID, and I knew nothing about Rule 34 and furries. Take the mouse ears and tail off her, and she was just a chick with buck teeth), he was sketching designs for bigger and better grain silos.

We used to play Army Men on his land, using old rusted out husks of tractors and trucks as bases and forts. Our clubhouse was a derelict semi trailer. The old Studebaker was our Millennium Falcon.

One day, for his 13th birthday, James got a horse.

She was a beautiful pony. Pure white, with a proud mane, and powerful muscles that twitched tightly with every confident step. She was a younger horse, not yet fully grown, and she trotted happily in her enclosure, head high. Her name was Flicka, after the children’s book.

“Want to pet her? She’s REAL friendly,” offered James, opening the gate a bit.

I was thrilled. I’d never been close to a horse. I slowly entered the pen, and approached Flicka. I offered my hand as I got closer, in a friendly gesture.

Flicka snorted, and her eyes fixed on me intently, wide and firghtening. It was then that I saw two things.

One, that Flicka had begun to paw the ground in front of her.

And two, that she appeared to have an erection.

I looked back, in time to see James closing the gate with an evil grin.

“James. . .you son of a BITCH.”

I slowly started walking to the gate, not wanting to make any sudden movements. I could hear Flicka pacing me, gaining on me. I picked up speed. Flicka matched it. I broke into a run. . .


Flicka rammed me, knocking me to the mud. I tried to stand, only to be pinned down by two hooves to my shoulders. Something firm poked my buttocks.



James continued laughing, and did nothing, as Flicka’s penis jabbed and rammed the back of my jeans. Each thrust was like getting punched in the ass, and I was afraid my jeans would split.


More giggles. The pounding increased in frequency and intensity, until–


There was one final thrust, hard and prlonged, and the back of my pants were suddenly warm and wet. Flicka took his front hooves off my shoulders, and with a contented snort, he trotted off.

James was laughing his head off. He entered the gate, and reached down to help me up. “OH, MY GOD, you should have seen you–”

With every ounce of strength I had in me, I punched him in the balls. He went down like a sandbag, and I stood up, and gave him three hard kicks in the nuts. As he lay there screaming, I yelled through clenched teeth:


I gave him one final kick, and began my long walk home, covered in muddy hoofprints, and stinking of horse spunk and shame.