Safe Sex, Trixie-Style

On one particular Friday, following two simultaneous but separate rabbit-related disasters, Trixie and Fluttershy found themselves in the same detention period. And while they’d usually serve their sentences in silence, today, the two had been forcibly volunteered to help CHS’ elderly Health teacher, Mrs. Lumbago, prepare for an all-school assembly on safe sex. So while Lumbago snoozed, Trixie and Fluttershy reviewed the “state-approved educational materials” they’d be working from.

“Is Trixie reading this correctly?” Trixie poked the musty textbook in front of her. “‘Premarital intercourse is known to result in the decay and eventual separation of the male genitals from the body, and the spontaneous combustion of the female.’” She looked up. “The entire female?”

Nearby, Fluttershy flipped through a worn binder. “‘For reasons unknown,’” she read, ‘“all females produce a viscous fluid from their groin at the exact same time each month. Scholars believe this is punishment for eating the serpent’s forbidden fruit.’”

“No wonder we don’t even have tampon dispensers in the bathrooms,” Trixie said, rolling her eyes. “This school is stuck in the 1750s.”

“I’m sure it’s not all bad,” Fluttershy said. She grabbed another old textbook and opened to a random page, revealing a diagram of the uterus with a goblin inside of it. Then she slowly closed the book and turned to Trixie. “What should we do?”

“We get over it,” Trixie said, kicking up her feet. “It’s offensive, sure, but who cares about some dumb assembly?”

Fluttershy shrank. “I don’t feel good about spreading disinformation. Shouldn’t we try our best to do a good job?”

“Putting effort into our work?” Trixie blew a raspberry. “Talk about embarrassing.”

While Trixie lazed, Fluttershy steamed. She wasn’t one to challenge her teachers, but reading this garbage made her go cross-eyed. She had too much pride to parrot it — and she knew Trixie had higher standards too. But what would convince her to help?

Fluttershy’s gaze drifted down to the floor, onto Trixie’s backpack. It was covered in glitter, and out of the top stuck an unopened pack of smoke bombs.

That’s it!

Fluttershy put on an oversized frown. “Huh, I guess you aren’t the amazing performer I thought you were!”

Trixie’s eyes snapped open. “Of course I am,” she spat. “Who’s saying otherwise?”

“You’re the one who wants to put on a boring assembly!”

“Nothing Trixie does is boring, you...” Trixie narrowed her eyes. “You’re baiting me.”

Fluttershy flinched. “What? I’d never—”

“It worked.” Trixie stood. “I’ll help you turn this hogwash into something passable. But I’m doing it the Trixie way.”

She stormed off, slamming the door behind her hard enough to shake the windows, but not hard enough to wake Mrs. Lumbago.

Fluttershy sighed and gathered the textbooks — but jumped when Trixie kicked the door back open.

“What’s our budget?” she asked.

Fluttershy shrugged. “I don’t think we have one.”

Trixie’s face fell — then perked back up. “No problem,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Trixie’s mother has a credit card!” And she disappeared again.

On Monday, Fluttershy stood behind the auditorium’s curtain, wringing her hands as Vice-Principal Luna calmed the rowdy crowd.

She’d spent all weekend putting together a beautiful slideshow, including everything from warnings about STDs to signs of an abusive relationship. She’d done it all without ever hearing from Trixie again. And now, with less than a minute to go until curtain call, Trixie was still missing.

The thought of lecturing her classmates about sex, totally alone, made Fluttershy lightheaded. But she promised Mrs. Lumbago — now sleeping in the corner — that she’d do her best. So as Luna left the stage, she took a deep breath and marched into the spotlight. That steeling breath didn’t stop her from cringing under the heat of a thousand eyes, though.

After reaching her podium, she adjusted the microphone and cleared her throat. “Hello,” she said, shaking. “My name is—”

The lights went out.

Fluttershy shrieked, and the crowd murmured in mild surprise. But that murmur evolved into a groan as a single spotlight sparked to life, revealing Trixie — clad in wizard hat and sparkling cape — descending from the ceiling by a harness.

“Fear not, my licentious classmates!” she cried as she touched down. “It is I, the Great and Experienced Trixie, here to extol the virtues of sexual hygiene!”

Fluttershy uncovered her eyes. “What are you doing?”

Trixie smirked at her. “I got this. When I give the signal, pull that rope.”

On cue, a rope dropped from the sky, bonking Fluttershy on the head.

Trixie turned back to the audience. “Dear friends, who among us has not struggled with intimate hormonal urges? Today, I arrive to tell you that these urges are not caused by demons living in your genitalia! And that excessive premarital sex will not send you directly to Hell!”

In the front row, Applejack let out a long sigh.

“Trixie says that shame is not the answer — safety is!” She lifted her arms up high and shouted, “Now: Let the lesson commence!”

A silent moment passed.

Trixie shot a glare at Fluttershy, who squeaked and pulled the rope.

Above the crowd, some clunking noises rang out. A second later, a thousand unwrapped condoms fell from the ceiling.

“Yes!” Trixie said as the crowd screamed. “This is true sex education!”

An hour later, Trixie and Fluttershy left Luna’s office, each holding a month’s worth of detention slips.

Trixie scowled. “This is so unfair. How was I supposed to know Principal Celestia is allergic to latex?”

“I think it’s a little fair. She turned red. They called an ambulance.”

“Melodramatic.” Trixie shoved her slips into her backpack. “At least we didn’t spread any of that sexist tripe.”

Fluttershy nodded. “And I’m sure our classmates know better, even without our assembly.”

As they walked, the two passed Apple Bloom and Scootaloo. “Watch out for mirrors,” Scootaloo said. “If you break one, the Teen Pregnancy Goblin jumps out and gets you!”

Trixie and Fluttershy exchanged a glance. Then they put their heads down and kept walking.