Mongolian Horse Friction
Admiral Biscuit
All things considered, living in Ponyville isn’t all that bad. The weather’s pretty nice most of the time, and rain’s scheduled out well in advance. You’ve got a decent home and a decent job that pays in actual gold coins, and the desserts at Sugar Cube Corner almost make up for the lack of meat.
There aren’t any drugs, though, which is a real shame.
You weren’t an addict, but one day the thought got in your head that being stoned while in Ponyville would be mind-bendingly wonderful. Or acid—that might also be epic, although it would certainly be wiser to start with something tamer.
It’s hard to know for sure how it works in horseland, but you know full well that just wandering around on the street asking for drugs isn’t a good move back on Earth, and probably also isn’t in Equestria.
Your discreet inquiries go nowhere. Although the ponies conveniently speak English, they don’t have street slang. They misinterpret grass, moss, weed, and hay (which you should have seen coming), and they’ve never heard of a doobie or a joint or a blunt or a spliff, and you eventually drop the topic entirely after dozens of false leads. At least you learned that there’s more than one kind of hay; however, none of them will get you high.
You’d’ve completely given it up as a bad job except that Tree Hugger came to visit Fluttershy.
You were never a big-time stoner, but you know one when you see one. The only thing she’s missing is a pony Bob Marley shirt and a hacky sack—maybe she left those at home.
There’s no sense in beating around the bush with her, so you just ask.
“Get high? You mean, like a balloon?”
“Whatever you’re on.”
“I’m, like, on the ground.” She looks down at her hooves to make sure that she is, in fact, still on the ground.
“Okay, listen.” You could probably give a decent explanation of drugs, but judging by her look, she’d tune out ten seconds in. “Food fills your belly and makes you happy, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What if you want something to fill your mind? To expand it?”
“Like, a book? That’s a total downer.”
“Something you eat. Or smoke. Or inject.”
“Oh, like resin.”
“Sure.”
She leans in close. “Cloud Chaser knows the way.”
“Cloud Chaser?”
“Yeah, you know. She’s a pegasus. She knows how to get high.”
“Um, okay, thanks, bye.”
Another damn pony not understanding.
Maybe she’s just high on life. That wouldn’t surprise you. Or copious quantities of sugar; odds are that’s what keeps Pinkie Pie crazy.
But then you turn and notice that she’s still standing there, one hoof raised up to her muzzle, and she’s studying it intently. Nopony looks at their hoof that intently if they’re not on something.
You’re blunt with Cloud Chaser. “I want what Tree Hugger’s on.”
Her eyes dart left and right, and her ears swivel around like little radar dishes, making sure that nopony’s in earshot. “You sure you’re stallion enough to handle it, monkey boy?”
“I’m sure.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible.”
“I . . .” She licks her lips. “Okay, tell you what, you help me collect it, and I’ll let you have all you can handle for twenty bits.”
“Isn’t that a little steep?”
“You saw Tree Hugger.”
“Fair enough.” Help me collect it. “Are we going now?”
“Tomorrow. I’ve got weather duty. Meet me behind the spa, okay, and be clean. You smell the slightest bit dirty, and I’m just gonna fly off, got it?”
“’Be clean?’ Is that some kind of euphemism? Like don’t wear a wire? Don’t narc you out?”
“Soap and water, everywhere. You do know how to bathe, don’t you?”
“Um, okay.” This is not what a normal drug dealer would request.
“Might want to bring a canteen, too.” She flicks her ears. “With water in it.”
“Water, got it.”
“And bits up front.” She holds out a hoof.
As she leads you further into the forest, you’re starting to get some serious Breaking Bad vibes. Even though she’s still got your twenty bits, if you see a sketchy RV you’re going to book right out of there.
Instead, she leads you to an open glade in the forest, and even with your none-too-sensitive human nose, you can clearly smell that it’s marijuana.
You don’t know a whole lot about actually harvesting the stuff, but you’re decently certain that it’s got to be dried before use. Just hanging it up in the house ought to work, although that’s not entirely subtle. For twenty bits she ought to teach you how.
You also realize that she’s not wearing saddlebags and harvesting plants generally implies some sort of a cutting tool.
“There it is,” she says. “Now, take off your clothes.”
“What?”
“Do you want your drugs or not?”
You cross your arms. “I’m not getting naked.”
“Suit yourself.” She does a weird little wing-shrug.
“And I want my twenty bits back.”
“Why? I kept up my end of the bargain. You’ve got all that you can handle, monkey boy.”
“I’ve got nothing.”
“Guess that’s all you can handle.”
You consider that. You could probably uproot a few plants. How tough can roots be? Assuming you picked the right ones, and that you dried them correctly, you’d have enough to get decently baked a few times.
But ‘decently baked’ is nowhere near where Tree Hugger was. She was a full-on space cadet.
You also hate the idea that you just wasted twenty bits, so you pull your shirt over your head.
Things proceed swimmingly until you get to your underwear. Ponies, of course, don’t have a cultural taboo about being naked, a fact which you are quite familiar with.
“Everything?”
“Yeah, even your diaper.”
“It’s not a diaper.”
“Whatever you say.” She leans back and tugs at her wing, shifting a few feathers around. “If you’re not stallion enough for the good stuff. . . .”
“I hate you right now,” you mutter under your breath, but you do shuck your underwear, half expecting a dick joke at your expense.
None is forthcoming, and then you remember that stallions normally keep it tucked up inside and she’s probably assuming that humans are the same way.
“Is this to appease the wood nymphs or something?”
“What’s a wood nymph?”
“Never mind.” You glance at the field and then back at her. “So?”
“So now we gallop.”
“Gallop?”
She doesn’t wait around to answer your question. She breaks into a gallop, running between the plants. You can see little bits of pollen or something coming off them and dancing around in the sunlight and her head bobbing as she crosses the glen, and a strange sensation seizes you and you start to run after her.
There’s a certain sort of freedom to running naked amongst the plants. Something primal that satisfies your mind. Something that your ancient ancestors probably knew and while it normally lays dormant you have to admit that physical activity feels good.
For a few minutes.
And then you start to become uncomfortably aware of the sweat running down your body and the sticky plant-juices and how your balls are bouncing against your thighs. How your feet aren’t happy at all without shoes to absorb some of the impact of your stride, or how your arms flail in a kind of silly way and you’re not really sure what to do with them because no motion feels quite right.
You know if you stop she’ll mock you and probably not give you anything at all, and it’s unfair because she’s in great shape and she’s also got four legs which is clearly better than two. She’s built for galloping and you’re decidedly not built for running but you keep it up anyway because you can’t let a mare show you up and because you aren’t going to let her have that twenty bits that easily.
At some point the pain sort of stops, or at least is no longer you main focus. It’s probably like hypothermia where you shiver for a while and then stop shivering as your body gives up.
Your lungs are burning and at least she told you to bring a canteen because you’ve probably sweated off two or three gallons of water but damned if you didn’t manage to last as long as she did.
She’s also streaked with sweat. Admittedly, she was moving a lot faster than you were, but still.
You follow her back to the little spot by the path’s end. It’s a good spot; there’s a lush carpet of grass there which would be perfect to collapse on. You really want a drink of water but it’s just too much effort to move. You can see things pulsing in time to your heartbeat which is probably not a good thing.
Your pride keeps you on your feet, at least for the moment. That, and the fear of some creepy crawly walking all over your bare junk.
Which, you now realize, is nearly exactly at her eye level, and she’s studying you rather intently.
You’re a bit too tired to care.
“Now lick me.”
“What?” Surely you didn’t hear that right.
“Lick me.”
“You . . . you’re all sweaty and stuff. And you haven’t even bought me dinner yet, and—hey!”
While you were talking, she darts in and runs her tongue up your thigh. “What the fuck?”
“LICK ME. It’s not that hard.”
“I don’t even—”
“Stars, that’s good.” While you were trying to process just what the hell she wants, she licks you again. “Come on, monkey boy.”
“Okay, fine.” You crouch down and lean towards her. She’s sweaty and furry and you are about a million percent sure that this is some really weird pony prank or very strange sexual fetish that you just walked into but you’re a little bit high from gasping in all the marijuana fumes as you ran, and she started with the licking anyway.
It’s like licking a hot, damp towel but also salty and bitter and one tiny little part of your mind was expecting some sort of epiphany like ponies taste like candy but they don’t. It’s almost exactly what you would have imagined licking a horse would taste like, except for that strange bitterness.
And then all of a sudden you’re in a magical new world. All the colors of the forest and the glade take on new depth and this time it isn’t objectionable at all. She lets out the cutest little squeak as your tongue brushes against the back of her ear and then licks your knee.
“What the fuck?” you say. “What even is this?”
“Plastilin. It comes from the plants and sticks to sweat.”
The world starts to shift. It’s cliched to say that you can suddenly taste colors, but you can. She tastes like plain cotton candy and oatmeal.
You have one final moment of mental freewheeling, one more moment where you’re still sober enough to process what’s happening, where you mind is balanced on the precipice. Marijuana . . . it isn’t a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor so the air tastes like linen and Cloud Chaser is pulsing slightly, a heartbeat manifested. You can hear every single bird in the god damn forest and you can understand what every one of them is saying.
You lick her again. No hesitation, no inhibition. A kaleidoscope of feelings drags along behind your tongue, the texture of her coat and the rougher mane-hair and under that velvety skin and you understand why cats groom themselves with their tongues because it is so right.
Her tongue is a cute pink tentacle against your belly because you’re lying on your back now, it was too hard to stand, and you’d just drifted down like dandelion fluff. Birds stop, mid-air, but their chirping continues unabated. You watch a drifting leaf slowly turning on its axis, hung suspended for just a moment in the air and then it’s not there anymore, just a green trail where it had been.
Trees have auras now and so does the grass and the clouds are changing colors and you lick her again, up across her fetlock and to her knee joint or whatever part of a horse that is, you really don't know and it really doesn't matter anymore because you're plummeting down the rabbit hole, Cloud Chaser is talking backwards, and you now fully understand triangles.
