Meg waltzed in wearing a party hat—a conical thing with spiral squiggles, bright cherry sparklies, and a little spray of limp confetti at its peak. The silly thing looked quite good on her, actually. But then, everything looks good on her. Anything looks good on her. Nothing looks especially good on her.
Whatever. You get the idea.
She handed me a present, wrapped in classic Plain Brown Paper, tied with white string in a cute little bow. “Happy Birthday, Alex,” she said, smooching my cheek. Then she produced a rather phallic looking candle, hummed the “Happy Birthday” song on some kazoo-like thing, followed that up with a recitation of the traditional British coda (Why were you born so beautiful, why were you born at all? You’re no bloody use to anyone, you’re no bloody use at all), and finally plopped herself down in front of me, eager with anticipation.
I blew out the freaking candle (oh yeah, with a little wish) and gave her my best you’ve been a bad girl look. “It’s not my birthday,” I said.
“I know that,” she said. “But it’s close.”
“It’s next month,” I said, “It’s not that close.”
“You’ll like the present,” she said, “Or, at least, I will,” and winked.
How Betturkey does one combat a Force of Nature? One bends, or binds, or blinds oneself to fate, perhaps or, as in my case, one simply caves.
I opened her present. It was… odd. The box (large, shallow, square, originally from Morelli’s Pizza—where it apparently once cradled a twelve-inch deep dish Margherita special, vaguely stained by random grease) held a can of Red Bull, a small bottle of personal lubricant, and something that looked like an overgrown switch—the kind of thing Sidney Greenstreet swatted flies with in Casablanca: a cone-shaped plastic handle, narrowly pinched just below the tail before flaring out to a tapered head, its base crowned with a long, luxurious whisk of thick black hair, cut straight across at end.
The thing looked like a cross between a fly swatter and a pony’s tail.
A pony’s tail.
Meg’s expression was eager, though not particularly transparent. While quite puzzled by her “gift,” I managed to croak out, “Thanks, love,” before she burst into laughter.
“Try it on!” she said, barely containing her excitement.
“Try what on?” I said, confused.
“Alex,” Betturkey Giriş she said, tsking under her breath, “geez. It’s a butt plug. You put it in your ass. Coat the end liberally with this,” she said, tossing the lubricant at me. “It’ll slip right in.”
College professors are not often speechless. We talk for a living. Usually dully and at great length about topics our students could not care less about, but rarely without a comeback to even the most bizarre undergraduate query. But trying to cope with Meg’s response, I was left grasping for words. I managed to get out, “Ah, ah, ah…” before she clarified things (wait on this a minute, please) by putting a wingèd helmet on her head. Then, with what I hoped was mock intensity, she declared, “As truly as I be sired by Glaucus, may only I ever ride stallions!”
Things seemed to be getting seriously out of hand, so I thought this might be a swell time for a Level Reset.
Some time later, after we both had focused on mutually rewarding activities that reasserted the respective roles in our relationship, I asked her: “The ponyboy thing, I think I see. I got that part. The tail. The lubricant. But what was Betturkey Güncel Giriş that Red Bull about?”
Meg, limp, heavy-eyed, lazy, post-coital, slurred, “The thing goes in your ass, you know. So you then have a tail.”
“Well, it won’t go anywhere near mine, I hope, but yes?”
“That makes you my ponyboy,” she said, sighing, rolling over on her back. Her perfect breasts, her long, lean stomach, her magnificent thighs all clamored for my necessarily divided attention. She nodded at the helmet. “It’s that. That thing.”
“The helmet?”
“I’ve been cast as Bellerophon in a local play,” she said, “Gender-neutral casting, since the B-man was a boy. But I get to play a hero. The hero who rides Pegasus.”
“The flying horse.”
“The,” she grinned a bit drunkenly at me, “one and fucking only flying horse.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“What can I say?” she said, “He’s a stud. It’s Nature’s Way.”
“OK,” I said. “I get that. So?”
“Oh, Alex,” she smiled. Or smirked. Or whatever. “That long, thick tail arcing out your ass should right there make you horse enough. I mean, my God, you’re hung like one.
“Hung,” she said again, her tongue lolling lasciviously slowly along the dipthong. I could see she wasn’t looking at my face.
“Red Bull?” I prompted.
“Oh, yeah,” she grinned. “That tail thing just makes you horse. Makes you kind of like a horse.
“It’s Red Bull gives you wings.”