When the Plot Met the Clop and Neither Cared

I’m not picky when it comes to stallions. Nopony who knows me could claim that I am. There’s only one thing that they must avoid doing; one single thing, that’s all. One question they must never, ever ask.

But they always do. At some point, they just blurt it out. I’m starting to believe it’s fate.

This one has broken the record, though.

“So what do you do for living?” he asks. I can hear him cutting into his food while waiting for the response.

“Snowflakes,” I answer. “I design them.”

He swallows before answering. For me, the faint gulp might as well be an explosion, despite the background din of the restaurant. “Must be difficult. They all have to be unique, right? And there are so many, every winter.”

A smile lights my lips. He passed yet another test. Thus far, all the rest have stumbled on this one.

Let’s see if my luck has finally turned.

“That’s why I’m so good at it.” A bait. “I never get stuck with a single pattern.” A hook. Now, to reel it in: “Props of my condition, I suppose.”

He coughs. It’s not for clearing his throat, I can tell.

“I see,” he says, and coughs some more after thinking twice his choice of words. “Uhm, so you like it much?”

It’s the only reason I live for. “The ups beat the downs. But enough of me: what do you do?”

He sighs in relief, probably without noticing it himself. “I’m a color inspector, for two weeks now. I used to work in the maintenance, but I needed change. And air, really.” He chuckles. “Yeah, you’d think you couldn’t find a stuffy place in Cloudsdale, but you wouldn’t have been in the undercloud levels then. Gosh, sometimes you just can’t tell whether you’re even in the sky down there…”

Hoofsteps approach me. It’s the waiter: he steps like a cat.

“Ready to order, miss Snowdrop?” he asks.

I bite my lip. My companion has made it farther than anypony else. He even passed my little test. Perhaps it’s safe to order appetizers. “The house’s carrot salad, please.” After a moment I add: “And a glass of red wine.”

“You come here often?” he asks after the waiter has gone. “You didn’t even look, aah, ask to sss…” He coughs some more. “I mean, you know the list already. And the waiter knows you.”

I choose to ignore the wobbling for now. The order has been made. Besides, there’s that little problem that I haven’t gotten laid for months. I should cut him some slack.

“I come here once or twice a week. The owner’s daughter is my roommate.”

“Oh, you’re friends with the Skyfalls? Fancy that.” He starts eating again. By concentrating, I can hear the crumbs falling down on the tablecloth. “I hear they practically own half the Cloudsdale.”

At least they wish they did. “My mother and Mrs Skyfall go way back. Naturally they would like their daughters to be friends, too.”

“They would like?” he says, again after swallowing. “Is that a touch of irony I hear?”

He has good manners, and a bright mind. Should I dare to order the main course? Even the dessert?

“Don’t get me wrong: Cy’ and I get on like a house on fire. Sometimes I’m the house, she’s the fire, and then we switch. Keeps things balanced.”

He chuckles. He has a pleasant chuckle, too. Reminds me of a laughing pillow.

“Is ‘Cy’ a nickname?” he asks

“From ‘Cyclone’, yes. It’s an apt name, I find.” The salad arrives. I can hear it coming five tables ahead, smell it from two.

“Bon appetit,” says the waiter. A plate brushes against the tablecloth before me. “The wine will be here in a minute. I ordered a new bottle from the cellar.”

“Thank you, Spoons.”

“My pleasure, miss.”

“I was wondering why my order came so quickly,” says my escort when Spoons has gone. “Do they treat you like a princess everywhere in this town?”

“Just here,” I confess. “It gets boring in the long run, I hear.”

“From Cyclone, no doubt.”

“No: from Luna.”

He coughs again, several times.

“Wait… you say you’ve talked with Princess Luna?”

Very calmly, I taste my salad. It does taste better than usual.

“A few times. Nowadays we mostly write to each other.” I swallow, and wonder if his face would be worth seeing at the moment.

“Is that because of your job or is there a horn hiding under that gorgeous mane?”

I smile at that. “We met for the first time when I was only a foal. Apparently I made an impression.” My hooves grope for more salad. “You could call us, if not as friends, then at least as very good pen pals.”

The awe is etched into his voice. “What do you write about?”

The wine arrives. The first sip runs away with my tongue.

“Various things. She is a very good writer.” I tilt my head slightly. “I could show you some letters tonight, in my place.”

His reaction is hard to read, for there is none. Did I go too far? Was I too hasty? Is my mane floating in my wine right now?

“I’d love to,” he finally says. The smile rings on his lips like a string of bells.

I straighten my neck. “Great. Cy’ is out of town, so we have the whole place for ourselves.”

The smile keeps on tingling. I want to taste it, savour it. I want to feel him touch me, caress my neck while I breath his scent pure and fierce, free of all the distractions that spoil the air here. A warmth washes over me, and I drink more wine to get an excuse for my blush. I shouldn’t be this easy: there is no fun in that. On the other hoof, it’s no fun being pent-up, either.

He shifts in his seat: I can hear the chafing clearly. Something’s wrong.

He draws a quick breath, too quick. “So I was wondering… This might be a bit inappropriate… Still, I can’t get my head around it…”

I hold my breath. Don’t ask it. Please. You’ve been doing so well.

“Is this your first blind date?” he says. “Is that okay to ask?”

I breathe out. Danger averted. Now where did I put that wine?

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I answer, fumbling with my wing. I swear, I put the glass right there next to my–

A push, a fall, a crash. After all these years, the feeling of shame doesn't’ fail to overwhelm me. It’s a disease.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, moving my hoof as the wine spreads on the floor. Spoons is trotting closer, I hear. He must’ve been expecting this.

“Don’t worry about it,” says my escort, right next to me. Something brushes against my leg. He is wiping the wine off me. He is wiping the wine off me.

“Oh, you shouldn't,” I blurt before I can hold my tongue.

“It’s nothing, really. Just a few stains.” He wipes them off gently, meticulously. I don’t want him to stop. “There, gone. Now, to pick these shards…”

“Let me take care of those,” says Spoons. “Would you like another glass?” he asks after a moment.

“No, thank you.”

“As you wish…”

“Bring the whole bottle. And for the main course, vegetable stew with sunflower bread. For the dessert, waffles with honey and ice cream.”

“An excellent choice, miss. And for you, mister…?”

“Proud Freight,” says Proud Freight. “And I take the same.”

I finish the rest of the salad. I feel hungry, famished. Briefly I wonder if he’d lap the wine off my wings, should I stumble again.

“Eighteen,” I say.

“Hmm?”

“You asked if I’ve been on a blind date before. That’s your answer: eighteen times. This year.”

“Oh.”

I try to focus my eyes on his face. It’s hard when I don’t know how tall he is. “The concept intrigues me. A mixture of spontaneity and determination. It becomes a game, once you get familiar enough with the idea.”

“Ah-ha…”

“You don’t think so?”

He moves restlessly. “I couldn’t say… This is my first time.” He pauses. “What do you mean, ‘it becomes a game’?”

The food arrives like an interlude in a theater. I can sense him behind the curtain, wishing to peer to the other side. Perhaps he likes games, too.

I take my time to taste the stew and sip the wine. “Would you mind if I rambled a bit?”

He shakes his head. I know this because he apologizes immediately after. I forgive him: they always do that, at some point.

“In truth, most everything can be viewed as a game of sorts. It all comes down to how one understands strategy. For example, when I asked your permission to ‘ramble a bit’ – not little but a bit – I made three simultaneous moves. First, I made sure it would be harder for you to interrupt me: I have your permission to go on just a bit more, after all. Second, by foregrounding what I was going to say, I ensured your interest. Thirdly, by belittling myself with the word ‘rambling’, I both put distance between myself and my message, and avoided giving an arrogant image of myself.”

He is quiet for a moment.

“Sounds… interesting. But isn’t that very manipulative?”

I smile. “Ah, you’re trying to break the game by moralizing me. A predictable move.” I take another sip and some more stew. “You’re right, of course. Games are very manipulative, once you become aware that they exist in everything.”

“But you don’t have to play games. You can always stop.”

“No, you can’t. All you can do is forget. Equine relations are built on reciprocity: all things have consequences, every move has an effect. So tell me, which is more moral: making moves blindly or mindfully?”

He seems slightly hurt. “I didn’t say you were immoral…”

“No, you hinted at the possibility. It’s always more effective than a straight statement.”

Silence descends between us. I hate silences. They deprive me of my vision.

“What’s your favourite book?” he asks.

I smile in a way Cy’ taught me to. Apparently it looks highly attractive. “I see you’re not into games.”

“Games suit me fine. It’s the losing that I hate.”

“Then we have something in common. But in the game I had in mind, we could both win. A lot, if you’re up to it.”

This gets his attention, it seems.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever met another pony like you.”

“That would most likely be because you haven’t met me at all. But perhaps you might. Perhaps you might…”

***

Cyclone and I live in the fifth level of the city, on a quiet area with other, more fortunate ponies of Cloudsdale. It’s small as far as cloudhouses go, consisting of only two stories. Cy’ often complains that we should move to a larger building so she could house her endless parties at home. Remember how I told that most everything resembles a game? Well, in that case, this topic would be Kimble, and Cy’ can beat that pop-o-matic like it was nopony’s business. It makes me wish I could turn my ears off.

I fumble with the key on the front door. I’m more drunk than I’ve been for a while. His breathing rumbles behind me, and I can imagine his gaze travelling over my neck, back and rump. I flick my tail, and giggle mentally as he lets out a quiet groan. Finally, the door opens. I close it quickly behind him.

“Nice place,” he says in the hall. “The mat really ties it all toget–aaahh!…”

My lips find his neck, and my tongue lashes out like a whip of a slaver, craving for the touch of fur and skin. The first lick is a long one; it travels all the way to the root of his ear. He wriggles a bit, and moans.

I rest my throat on his neck, feeling the muscles rippling underneath. “You taste delicious. Forgive me. I had to try it.”

“Yeah, I figured,” he muses. A shiver moves over him. “Still… you could’ve warned me…”

My hoof touches his flank, kneading it gently. “You didn’t like it?”

“I loved it.”

“Do you want more?”

“Yes…”

I bite his shoulder. Not hard, just enough to get a good mouthful of flesh between my teeth. He flinches, and I bite again, a bit harder. Nibbling my way upwards, I once again approach his right ear. He moves his head, as if offering it to me. I decline, and instead slip in front of him, all the while keeping my flank pressed against his. I close my eyes.

We kiss.

The familiar taste of wine is abundant, but not overwhelming. Beside the berry flavour, a pinch of salt lingers. The bittersweet symphony flows in rhythm of our tongues.

It’s all I wished for.

A hoof wraps around my neck, pulling me closer. His lust is touchable, a primal beat that matches mine to a note. Our lips depart as he revels in my mane, breathing it while I push against him. A flaming forge would not shame the heat that he emanates.

I lean close to his ear. “Upstairs, there are two rooms. One has a red door, the other blue.” I nibble his auricle. “Which one will you choose?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“No.”

He pauses. “Can I let you pick first?”

I can hear his blood rushing. “A clever colt. A bad sport, though.” I swirl around and trot across the carpet. One, two, three, four, five, six… Eleven steps. I raise my hoof to the railing. “Don’t you know that breaking a rule will only create another one?”

The carpet muffles his steps only slightly. “The house rule?”

“Yes.” I get on the stairs. “But remember… The true house is the world.”

He follows in my wake. One, two, three, four… and to the left. The rail leads me, and I him, until the two doors stand before us.

“The other is Cy’s room, right?” he says behind me.

“In truth, they both are. This is her house, remember.”

He steps closer. “But you sleep in one of them.”

“Not tonight.”

We step in. It’s up to you to decide in which one.

The Blue Door

The Red Door