Getting Laid

Twilight.

There was no response.

Twilight Sparkle.

There was no response.

Twilight Sparkle, Element of Magic, respond to me this instant!

There was a rather bright flash of light, and Twilight found herself blinking up from a hospital bed.

“Pr—Princess Celestia?”

“Twilight Sparkle, my faithful student,” Celestia said, standing at the foot of the bed, “I am incredibly disappointed in you.”

“Princess Celestia!” Twilight said, and quickly pushed herself up; if she hadn’t been chained to the bed she was in by several tons of arcanomedical equipment, she might have succeeded. “Wh—what happened?”

“Twilight Sparkle, I have just scorched thousands of telepathic alien worms to ash in an attempt to save your life. What possessed you to teleport yourself to a distant, theoretical planet so far away that it would have taken light itself several years to reach you?”

She mumbled something incoherent about empathetic links.

“I don’t mean to be harsh on you, Twilight, but what you did was beyond irresponsible. You would have died in the most horrific fashion yet unknown to ponykind if I hadn’t felt the disturbance immediately. The teleportation feedback was strong enough to cause a physical tremor. You almost killed a meditating student in the tower above you.”

Twilight meeped.

Celestia sighed and began to deliver to her a declaration on the various rights and responsibilities of individuals, guilds and organs of magic to promote and protect universally recognised controls on conscious magic and maintain the universal availability of safe magic in all situations, emergency situations in particular, the contents of which any reasonable reader can surely be assumed to imply and upon which thus the humble scene closes with only a pinch of self-reference.

—

“...contrary to the provisions of the Charter of Celestia.”

Twilight nodded, with a diligence only she could muster.

“Now,” Celestia said, “Now that you’ve learned that lesson again, my faithful student, is there anything you wish to ask?”

“Yes,” she said, summoning a quill and piece of parchment, “how did you lose your virginity?”

Celestia, having been asked far worse questions in far more surprising circumstances, found her inquisition not so nearly as unpleasant as the time a Royal Guard asked whether her vagina or anus was tighter as he laid dying upon the battlefield and so, instead of feigning shock, tilted her head to the side. “Why would you ask me, Twilight?”

“It’s a long story,” she said, and proceeded to explain her motivations in exacting detail.

Celestia nodded sagely.

“Well, Twilight—the truth is that I’ve never been married or fornicated in my life.”

“What?” Twilight said, her eyes going wide, “but ye Æcreponnyes Gwwedde—”

“Was written by me.”

“Wait, that wasn’t what I was imply—” Twilight began, before Celestia drew herself closer and hugged her around the neck with a foreleg, looking into her eyes as she leaned forwards.

—

When I was your age, Twilight, I had urges as well. Even then, however, I knew that involving myself with a peasant would hurt the aura of infallibility I had built to unite Equestria.

So, in the short spaces I had when I wasn’t trying to enforce tribal interdependence on a lower scale in an attempt to prevent the pegasi from divebombing their gardeners and the earth ponies from crushing their topiarists and the unicorns from blasting their waterfillies—that’s not tribalist, it’s accurate—I wrote. The census had some interesting names on it, and I wrote about these almost nonexistent ponies, wishing every day that those stories were true and that I could be a part of them.

As the centuries came and Equestria stabilized a few decades after, I knew I could have any mate I wanted—a sword couldn’t bring me down, and so neither could a dildo. I courted many, and rejected them all; they were boorish or obeisant, stupid or pedantic, cowardly or temeritous, treasonously loyal or loyally treasonous. My advisors were all of these things and more, the peasants never bathed and my dog died before I could choose him.

So I started thinking, instead. I started imagining my perfect lover, shaping it in my head, just as I’d done so long ago as a filly. She took shape over years, and her personality, from her childhood to her adulthood to her immortality—but when she came, she came a perfect shade of gray.

And I was happy. We played together, we did everything together; she was a part of me in a literal sense, yes, but we were more conjoined twins than anything else. She was the distilled intelligence of my impression of every great scientist, advisor and general I’d ever had. She was a mirror, really, whispering to me from the shadows and advising me where I was too stubborn to know the truth and being bold where I was meek.

I imagined consummating our relationship, of course, but it felt strange to think that I’d be consummating my relationship with a part of my own mind.

So, naturally, I tried to bring her into reality.

This was easy.

When I saw her form—in reality, this time, away from my mind entirely—I immediately noticed the problem:

She was exactly as I knew her.

Her perfections suddenly became flaws; her intelligence became obnoxious, her boldness became loudness, her audacity became temerity, her brashness became insensitivity, her progressiveness became promiscuity and, perhaps cruellest of all, she was outrageously bootylicious, with royal flanks so tight that had they not been forged by magic, their mass might have created singularities.

She and her amazing booty were abominations against nature, and though I loved her deeply I could not imagine myself ever consummating our relationship.

I named her Luna, and called her my sister.

I realized something, as I crowned her and smiled at her sororally: I’d been living in my fantasies so long that they’d kept me perfectly occupied. There was no reason to give them up. I love my sister, slut that she is, but I will never know her intimate touch as I may have known her perfection in my dreams.

I desired verisimilitude, and I got it.

But I am wiser now, and I know this:

It doesn’t matter when I lose mine. What matters is how, and with who.

I don’t care if I ever lose my virginity—but if I do, well—

I want it to be a story that will be told for millennia in languages I will never know.

I want it to be something that, even as I traverse the void eternally, I will never forget.

I want it to be perfect.

—

“So what you’re saying is that I don’t need to worry about losing my virginity? That I can just content myself with my Starswirl tulpa until I find the right mate?” Twilight asked, hopeful sparkles in her eyes.

“Oh, no,” Celestia said, nuzzling her student on the forehead slightly before pulling back and giving her a warm smile. “I’m immortal and my fantasies can spawn gods. You’re just a schizophrenic permavirgin. I’ll have Luna come by in a while to tell you about hers. Ta-ta!”

She disappeared in a flash of yellow light.

Twilight’s groan of despair was so deep and so heartfelt that it warranted more than just a scene break:

It warranted an entirely new chapter.