The Last Bronycon

Candy, Tom, Brook, and the backpack-bound Solitaire headed out later that night, skipping out on season three. Bets were made between the ponies about the outcome well before they left. The thin unicorn was light on his back. He elected to not wear the coverealls and leather jacket this time, just jeans and a pony T, though Laura kept her sexy outfit on. They walked close, with Solitaire watching reverently from her perch.

They went first into the twenty-one and older panel where amature authors were talking of how to write erotica. Tom looked to Laura with a knowing smile, she only shrugged. The topics were pretty basic stuff, including ideal story length, dick jokes about the word length, avoiding cliches and run-on sentences, sentence length, more laughs about the word, and so on. There was no structure at all, and the Q and A was a glorified advertisement for their own work by some of the attendees. Laura and the bunch enjoyed long pulls from packed away flasks, rum and whiskey and, for some god awful reason, Jägermeister. Brook had a peculiar taste.

They left with the crowd, stopping for selfies with a random Shining Armor cosplayer, the pony, and a disgusted looking Cadence outside the hall. They meandered across the bridge to the convention center and people watched as the sun set. The Orioles had won, and the army of orange shirts across the street was flowing away from the stadium like an overturned bucket. Tom loved how the convention was next door to a baseball game: the contrast between the awkward, smelly, typical fedora and cheeto dust brony was a fantastically stark contrast to the beer drinking, lawn mowing, baseball game enjoying dad and his wifes. The “normal” folk got a free costume show, and the shirtless black guys with megaphones shilling water and ballcaps raked in hundreds of crumpled dollars.

He loved it.

“Think I could get into the gala like this?” Laura asked as they lounged in a corner and watched fursuiters pose for pictures. One guy even had a suit of plastic and fiberboard power armor, with a mockup mini gun, what a badass!

He looked to her and smiled. “Oh yeah,” he said, looking at her cleavage. “You’d get in no problem. That dress is adorable.”

“Aw, thank you!”

“Yeah,” Brook said, sipping from his flask. “I can’t count how many guys stopped what they were doing to stare.”

“She likes it,” Tom injected.

He got a slug on the arm for that one.

“They were wrong,” a tiny voice whispered. Tom looked over his shoulder and lifted the whiskey to Solitaire’s mouth, offering a drink. She blushed slightly and declined.

Carefully, Tom set her down in the huddle, hidden mostly from prying eyes. She curled up in the drawstring bag, hiding her hooves under her body, her head poking out quite adorably. “How so?” asked Brook, directly in front of the little lanky mare. She was just big enough for perhaps Laura to ride, or a smaller human, and if she straightened her legs, Solitaire would barely grace the petite woman’s waist with her ears perked up, standing tall.

She answered. “About dicks,” she said, giggling a little. “Horsedicks, I mean. They’re not as big as humans say.”

“Well,” Laura laughed, looking to Tom. He thought she was screaming on the inside. “I mean, regular, non-little ponies have pretty huge dicks.”

“Yeah, but those creatures weigh hundreds of pounds, over a thousand,” Brook said. “Solitaire’s maybe thirty, likely less.”

She nodded, her big yellow eyes darting around the wide open room they were hiding in. “I don’t know what a pound is, for weight, at least.” She swallowed. “So, if Laura is five feet like you said, there’s no way a stallion is, his dick I mean,” she said it easily, but still paused to smirk childishly, as if the word was a speed bump being worn down with traffic. “It’s not even close to two or three feet, that’s insane. Maybe like, half of one.”

“We oughta ask the guys, maybe snag a ruler,” Tom said, taking another drink. Laura took the flask from him before he could get seconds, drawing deep herself. She winced as she swallowed, closing the flask and giving it to Brook, now owner of all three.

She leaned in close to Tom’s ear, body over Solitaire, and whispered: “You’re not getting whiskey dick tonight, god dammit.”

He laughed and gave her a quick peck on her ear, letting her sit back. Brook and Solitaire gagged.