It's 6:30 am and She's Eating Peaches
Princess Celestia is (still) in your Bed
It's 6:30 am and She's Eating Peaches
A Sequel to Celestia is in Your Bed
Admiral Biscuit
“Why would I kid? This bed is big enough for two.”
And just like that I was stuck on the horns of a dilemma. Or perhaps horn would have been more apropos, since Celestia had but one.
It was one thing to turn down a girl who wanted to share the bed with you. There were reasons that a man could, damn good reasons in some cases. So even though she was female, I wasn't obligated to join her. And if she'd been some other female, I could have politely waved off, and spent the night on the couch.
But she was a pony, and not just a pony but a capital-P Pony. Would I dare show my face on a fan site again if I turned down this literal once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?
The cons loomed just as large. Despite what any number of fanfics implied, she was still an equine, and the whole concept of sleeping with an animal was an issue. More to the point—since I didn't think she had that in mind when she suggested that I join her—I had a big bed for a reason. I liked to have space to stretch out during the night, and that would be severely hampered with Princess Celestia in the bed.
Also, it was still only 5:30 pm, even if it was fully dark outside.
• • •
Of course I got into bed with her. Really, it wasn't much of a choice.
I could have gone back downstairs and stayed on the couch. I would have had to come up with some explanation for Wayne, but I had plenty of time to think of one. Anyway, it wouldn't be the first time he'd come home and I was on the couch watching TV or playing a video game, so he might not have even remarked on it. If I kept it quiet, I could stay up until he'd gone to bed, then get a few hours of sleep on the couch before she was gone, and Wanyne'd never be the wiser.
Hell, I could have checked into a hotel. I could have checked her into a hotel. Or a stable. I could have taken pictures and shared them all over the internet.
I didn't do any of those things. I went to the bathroom, a set of pajamas under my arm. She was clearly fine with being naked; I wasn't.
Once I was finished with my evening ablution, I walked down to my bedroom with the faint hope that this was all in my mind. Sadly, when I pushed the bedroom door back open, she was still there.
I tossed my old clothes on the floor, then thought better of it and picked them back up and took them all the way to the laundry room. It wouldn't do to have her think I was a slob.
On my way over to the bed, I 'accidentally' unplugged my computer. Just to be safe.
Then I was seated on the edge of the bed, knowing that there was no longer a way to turn back, and not sure if I wanted to anyway. It was like that feeling that you have when you're standing at the end of a diving board and you suddenly realize just how far it is down to the water, but you can't go back because everybody including that cute girl named Melissa who sits in front of you in French II will see you wimp out so you swallow down that lump of fear in your throat and take the dive and it isn't as bad as you thought it might be until you surface again and realize too late that you should have tied the drawstring on your swimming trunks just a little bit tighter.
And then I was in bed and my pajama bottoms stayed on because the drawstring was pulled uncomfortably tight.
In any story, we would have curled up together and I would have slept the sleep of the just. Perhaps we would have even made love in the morning as the sun rose in the sky. But that would mean she'd have to multitask, so it was probably best that we didn't.
Instead, sleeping with Celestia was like sleeping with a horse. It's a terrible metaphor, but then it was a terrible time. She might look all soft and fluffy, but even without her hoof-boots, her hooves were hard and sharp, and kicked at me when she lay on her side. If she rolled over the other way, I was in danger of losing an eye from her horn, and that's not even speaking of the occasional wing-slaps. Picture getting hit in the side by a down pillow with a two-by-four inside.
And on top of that she farted a lot. Almost every movement was followed with a fart. The first time, it happened, she was snoring softly, and then she sucked in a bit of drool and smacked her lips. She rolled to the side, striking me with a wing.
Then, from the depths of the covers, braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap.
My mind rationalized it as being something on the bed shifting around. Surely a princess couldn't fart. I mean, girls don't fart, every guy knows that. It was just accepted knowledge.
Unfortunately, my mind couldn't rationalize the stench away. As the cloud of miasma wafted out from under the covers, I remembered too late that cow farts contributed to global warming and that since horses also ate grass, it would stand to reason that similar rules applied here.
By nine pm, I'd been forced to open the bedroom window and turn on a fan.
By midnight, I'd resigned myself to not getting any sleep. Whenever I'd drift off, she'd twitch, and I'd be wide awake instantly, ready to dodge an errant hoof or wing, and dreading the biological warfare she was about to wage with my bedroom.
By two am, the battle had been lost. This wasn't wussing out; I'd spent almost eight hours in hell. I'd done my time, and a wise man knew when it was time to make a strategic retreat to the living room and retrench on the couch. If I was lucky, I could get four hours of sleep before I had to wake up for work.
And I did. Compared to the war zone that my bed had become, the couch was luxurious, even if my neck was bent at an odd angle and my feet were hanging off the end and I didn't have a blanket because I'd assumed that the horse smell in the bedroom had stuck to everything I owned and I could hardly wake up Wayne at two in the morning asking to borrow one of his blankets.
As reliably as ever, my cell phone alarm went off at 6:30. The only clear thought I had through the fuzziness of sleep deprivation was how much my neck hurt. It seriously felt like somebody had jammed a hot needle into it.
Besides the ordinary disorientation of not waking up in my room, the sun was up, blazing like fury into the living room, and while I thought at first that the alarm on my phone had malfunctioned, I soon remembered my guest. I could take some small measure of satisfaction of knowing the reason behind why so many astronomers had also had a sleepless night.
I didn't want to go back upstairs to my room, but my clothes were there, and I'd need those for after I showered. So I trudged up the stairs like a man on his way to the gallows.
She was awake, stretched out on the bed eating her breakfast. Said breakfast consisted of all the canned fruit we had in the house. Admittedly, that was but one can of peaches. Still, it was kind of sad to see them go. They'd been a fixture in the cupboard since we'd moved in, a housewarming present from the last tenant. Wayne and I had had every intention of continuing the tradition when we moved out.
“You're still here,” I said. I hadn't expected anything different, but it would have been nice.
“Lulu has a temper sometimes.”
“This won't be one of those thousand year things, will it?”
“Probably no more than a week. If she hasn't unbanished me by then, I'll go back on my own.”
“Thank God.” I kept my body between the dresser and her as I picked a pair of boxers. “Tell you what, if you agree to stay on the couch tomorrow night and not mess with the sun any more, I'll buy you another bottle of Strawberry Fanta on my way home.”
She nodded eagerly.
I went into the bathroom with a little bit of a spring in my step. It was matter of setting boundaries. Wayne and I had done it, and there was no reason why Princess Celestia and I couldn't do the same thing. I could make this work for a week.
Plus, there was a certain satisfaction at bribing an alicorn powerful enough to move the sun with a bottle of Fanta.
Author's Note
This is, of course, totally ocalhoun's fault.
As always, details in the blog post.
