Glamorama

by Guy_Incognito

Rating: teen
Tags: Fancypants, Octavia, Hoity Toity, Fleur de Lis, Slice of Life, DJ P0N-3, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Comedy
Length: 11242

Snippets from the life of Hoity Toity, who struggles with obscurity, scrutiny and his own mortality.

Approaching his fortieth birthday, Hoity Toity -- Canterlot's fashion king -- struggles with his growing obscurity as a designer, an unspoken rivalry with 'Miss Rarity from Ponyville', his disillusion with youth culture in Canterlot and his inability and lack of desire to re-invent himself.

(I feel I should mention this story has shades of M/M, Drug Use, Alcohol abuse and is quite overly pessimistic and cynical.)

*The Amazing Artwork is provided by the multi-talented Pandemonia.

Published 2013-01-30 05:30:01 UTC
Last updated 2013-02-26 21:54:12 UTC

Thirty Nine.

My Office

I’m sitting at my desk, looking over designs from some new designer from Ponyville; either a ‘Miss. Elusive.’ or a ‘Miss. Rarity’, I think. For some reason her name rings bells and I suspect that there’s been a time in my life when I’ve boastfully criticized her work. For some reason.

I despise these designs for the lack of imagination they exude; they’re plain, uninspired and regal, very regal, but, I remember that Fancy Pants has vouched for the young starlet to be and I consider the idea that maybe I’m just being cynical?

My assistant walks in, she’s smiling and carrying my mail and, still scornful about the fact that I can’t quite see what’s so impressive about these designs, I frown at her. She’s unphased, still all smiles and cheer as she places the letters on my desk.

“Ooooh, is that from the new fall line?” She asks, peering over my shoulder at these dreadful works of art on my desk.

“Hmmm, no, no.” I mumble, quietly. “They’re from some new designer that Fancy was raving about the other night at The ‘Pony.”

“Oh, my...” She looks like she has something to say, and I’m curious what it is, so I urge her to continue with my hoof. “They’re very impressive.”

I bite my lower lip, stare back down at them and I’m reminded of the pictures on the back of cereal boxes when I was a foal, the ones where if you focus your eyes you can see past the millions of multicoloured dots and there’s actually a picture of a sailboat, or a train.

I’m tempted to ask my secretary what exactly about them she finds so impressive, but then I remember that she’s in fact just my secretary and I pay her eleven bits an hour to answer my phone, hold my calls, book appointments, schedule lunches and make sure my mail is sorted, and not for her opinion on fashion.

I stare up, my snarl and gaze drawn from these perplexing designs, and focus them on her; she’s wearing some horrendous ‘J-Mart’ outfit; something from the kind of store that also sells microwavable dinners, kitchen appliances and has a fast food restaurant built into it and, after I internalize this fact, I’m totally reassured that I made the right choice in not asking her for her opinion.

“Oh, speaking of Mr. Pants,” My secretary begins again, still smiling. “You and him have a meeting tonight at Seven O’Clock at The 'Pony.”

I just grumble a sigh then wave my hoof at her, excusing her from my office. I somehow tear my gaze from the perplexing designs on my desk and sort through my mail; there’s an invitation from Prince Blueblood to attend a Canterlot Fundraiser for ‘The Orphans’, that I imagine must have been organized by his lovely sister, Cadence, and certainly not the selfish, self absorbed, monster himself. At first, I’m tempted to crumble the invitation, throw it in the trash and still show up. But, that feeling quickly passes by and I decide to RRSP some scathingly long winded rant about how I really shouldn’t attend (Because I’m so busy.) but that I’m going to anyway (For the orphans, of course.) and that he should be thankful I’m showing up.

I get a slight rise out of writing this letter to him, but just as quickly as it comes on, it passes by and I’m left feeling empty and alone.

There’s more mail, but none of it is interesting; there are a hooffull of letters from desperate models begging to star in The Fall Line. They’re offering incentives I can certainly do without; This model wants to sleep with me if I let her trot the runway. That model is telling me she’ll have my foals as long as she can play her new demo tape at my next show. I crumple all these requests and give a deep seated sigh; All of these desperate pleas are coming from mares, and so, I ignore them.

Next up there’s an ad for some new nightclub; ‘The Edge’ and about ten or eleven ‘V.I.P’ tickets, because, allegedly, I’m a Very Important Pony. Staring at the picture of ‘The Edge’, I’m reminded that this place used to be Canterlot’s first Colt Cuddler club -- Bahama Mama’s -- almost twenty years ago. It’s a trip down memory lane that I can do without. I grow resentful. Of ‘The Edge'. Of the memories I have of ‘Bahama Mama’s’. Of my age. I tear the invitation, and all the ‘V.I.P.’ tickets, into tiny paper snowflakes that I toss in the air so that they rain down on my desk.

This makes me smile.

Finally, hidden at the bottom of the pile of mail, there’s a letter from my brother who’s visiting the Gryphon kingdom. It’s short at three sentences, and it ends with 'Happy Birthday, Hoity.'

I feel old.

My fortieth birthday is less than a week away, and, I suppose ‘Morality’ is starting to dawn on me. Forty is a terrible age. Especially in this city. In Canterlot you either die young, or retire, but you never reach forty and continue to exist in the spotlight. As this realization dawns on me, I start to feel miserable, old, and tired.

I stare back down at the designs and realize that I’ll never see it in them. I’ll never understand what about them my secretary, or Fancy Pants, or his Filly-Friend Fleur De Lis, or anypony else will ever see in them; and as this realization hits me I feel Defunct. Destroyed. Done In.

Three ‘D’s of Defeat.

I decide to take the afternoon off. It’s only Eleven-Thirty-Five, but if I stay in my office and look over these designs and continue with this horrible self pity party any longer, I’m liable to do something dramatic and unfortunate. I can’t imagine what that might be, but it feels like an act of complete desperation is in my near future if I stay here any longer, and so I leave. I don’t say anything to my secretary, even though she stares curious as I make my escape, I just grumble and trot out the door and into the cobblestone streets of Canterlot.

Therapist’s Office.

The therapist I see is younger than me, almost by a decade, with a pointed beard and horn-rimmed glasses -- tinted brown -- from the same designer in Canterlot who I buy mine from.

I’m troubled by the fact that I receive all of my sage wisdom from a colt who was probably just learning to use the bathroom when I was graduating from the sixth grade. Who probably doesn’t remember the three month stretch almost twenty two years ago when Canterlot Waste Disposal went on strike and ponies were throwing their trash on the street, and how the whole city smelled like rotten apple cores and coffee grinds. He probably hasn't even heard of ‘Bahama Mama’s.’ either. But, he has a great way of talking to ponies; slow, quiet drawl that’s both introspective and invites me to share my feelings, so, I accept what he has to say and take it at face value.

Today’s discussion is all about me.

“You said you feel ‘Sick’ and ‘Old’?” He asks me and taps the inked tip of his quill against a pad of paper then strokes his pointed beard.

“I suppose,” I begin, staring past him and at the photo on the back wall of his office. It’s an oil painted image of a plain dirt road that leads up and through a garden green valley. I feel like I’ve seen this image before and wonder if it was inspired by anything in Equestria?

“Please elaborate.” He asks, quietly.

I groan. I don’t really want to talk about it. At all. But, I can’t imagine not talking about it would help me out and so I let myself tear down a few emotional barriers, if only to ease my mind.

“My fortieth birthday is in six days,” I tell him. “And, I think I’m having a brush with mortality...”

“Interesting.” He says, plainly, and scribbles something into his note pad. I’m curious what it is, but I don’t ask. “And, how does that make you feel?”

Old. Decrepit. Past my prime. Defeated. Dejected. Detached. Despondent. Disillusioned.

A few more ‘D’s’ to add to the ‘D’s’ of Defeat.

“I’m not really sure...” I lie, though the look he gives me makes me feel like he realizes I’m lying, and so I elaborate. “I suppose, ‘Old’ if anything. Perhaps, maybe even ‘Defeated’?”

He smiles. Jots down more notes.

“What exactly about it makes you feel that way?”

“Well, I... suppose, it’s that the spotlight has an age limit in this city.”

“And you feel you’ve reached that ‘limit’?”

“Yes... I... imagine you could say that.” I pause, run a hoof through my mane. Stare at the painting; where do I know that dirt road from? “Yes. Maybe I do feel that way...”

My Therapist smiles, he jots down a few more notes than asks me to elaborate on how I feel and I tell him; about this ‘Miss Rarity’ and, how I can’t see what everypony else in Canterlot can see in her designs, how it angers me that I can’t, how I’m fading, facing obscurity, how that angers me. How I feel old, ancient, decrepit and obsolete. How Thirty Nine, almost Forty, is too old to reinvent myself as anything and that I’m facing the figurative firing squad in this city by not doing that. How in five years I’ll be Forty-Five, and five years after that I’ll be Fifty and what will I do then? Will I even be alive? Will people even remember the name ‘Hoity Toity’ in ten years?

I rant, and rave for a solid fifteen minutes in his office and by the time I’m finished I feel my face flushed and I’m glad that I’m wearing sunglasses indoors, because I imagine my eyes feel wet and I can't imagine them not being bloodshot.

All I want to do is for my therapist to tell me that I’ll be ‘A-Okay.’ and that these things happen sometimes.

He stares up at me -- having been taking notes during my ranting and raving -- and speaks.

“Oh, Mr. Toity,”

I’m on the edge of my seat; I need his reassurance that this is normal to feel this way, and that I can, and will, survive it; survive turning forty, survive obscurity and, then, thrive.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little... melodramatic.”

I cringe. Inside I’m all rage. The fuse was lit before, but now the bomb has exploded. I do, and say. nothing. After a few quiet minutes of neither of us speaking, and me trying to maintain my composure and calm, he asks me if I want to change the subject and I say ‘Sure’ even though I don’t really want to.

He begins talking about himself, and this script he’s writing for The Royal Canterlot Theatre which, he asks, if I’ll endorse it for him -- using my well earned connections in that realm of entertainment -- and also, if I can get him backstage passes to The Vinyl Dash/Octavia show going on at Camden in a few weeks.

Suddenly, I wonder why I’m paying him one hundred and fifty bits an hour.

I decide to cut my session with him a half an hour early, citing some business meeting I forgot about as an excuse. He seems to understand and asks me to think about helping him get his script published, again, and then the straw that breaks the camel’s back comes; after everything else he’s done and said over this session that has troubled me, he asks me if I have any ‘V.I.P.’ tickets to ‘The Edge’, and all the memories of Bahama Mama’s come flooding back, and my entire day suddenly turns to shit.

I say ‘No’ as I leave his office.

My Apartment.

It’s Three-O-Clock, P.M. I’m laying on my back in my bed at my apartment, counting ceiling tiles; there are two hundred long, three hundred across. I still feel old. A half hour ago, after a bout of manic-depression that came out of nowhere, I took two Valiums -- Two 40mg capsules -- and washed them down with a double Skynoff on the rocks. Now, the valium is starting to kick in, and I can feel that calm, cool, collected feeling begin to wash over me. I’m relaxed and at peace, with myself, with my age, my creations, Miss “Rarity From Ponyville” and her awe-inspiring works of art which overthrow my genius.

***

Its Six-Forty-Seven before I wake up and realize that I’m due to meet Fancy Pants and Fleur De Lis at the Prancing Pony in less than fifteen minutes. Panic never seeps in. I imagine it has to do with the double dose of Valium that’s starting to slowly wear off (Though I can still feel it coursing through my veins. Which is nice.) or, the fact that I perfected the art of being ‘Fashionably Late’ in this city.

Either way, I’m calm as I make my way out of my bed.

There are messages on my machine. The red light flashes on/off and I’m tempted to listen to them but I realize they’re probably as dull and mundane as the mail I received today. More well wishers who’ll make me feel old and useless. More colts and mares begging me to help give them their big break in this city. More invitations to parties I’ll show up to out of obligation.

That sort of thing.

I’m almost out the door, when I stop and even though I’m supposed to be having drinks in less than ten minutes, now, I pour myself a double Skynoff, rocks and stare at myself in the mirror. I look disheveled, my mane is a mess of sweat stained strands that cling to my face, my eyes are absolutely red and my face looks puffy and bloated. I decide, a few minutes more waiting won’t kill Fancy Pants or Fleur, and take a warm shower. When I'm done I wash my face with this fantastic moisturizer that came in a gift basket I got at Princess Cadence’s wedding. My face looks less puffy, not-bloated, and I’m no longer worried about how I look.

Afterwards, I decide to pick an outfit. Fancy Pants is a close friend and I don’t as greatly need to be seen wearing something fantastic in his company as I would with other socialites and celebrities, so I consider dressing down for the evening.

I decide to wear collars with golden ‘H.T.’ cufflinks, a sequin tie from Perseus I had custom made for me and, just for the occasion of potentially running into parazzi, I also throw on a navy-blue blazer from H’Armani and my sunglasses, even though it’s dark out and I can hardly manage to see out of them.

Even if the Paparazzi are out -- Tracy Flash or any one of her hired thugs -- I figure what I’m wearing is enough to turn heads and sell papers; The Headlines, I imagine, read something similar to ‘Hoity Toity seen sipping Skynoff with close friend Fancy Pants. Both, dressed to the Nines.’ or something like that.

Appearance is everything in this city.

The Prancing Pony.

I arrive at The Prancing Pony at Seven-Fifteen. I’m late, and as I enter--cutting past the line to gawks and stares from the peasants who have to wait to get in--the bouncer, I think his name is ‘Hot Rod’, or ‘Hot Dog’, smiles at me and welcomes me graciously like we’ve been friends for years. I snarl at the crowd and Hot Rod/Dog finds this funny and gives a quiet chuckle.

Inside, I’m lead to the private booth Fancy Pants has reserved, by an awe-struck host; some young mare, twenty-to-twenty five, who keeps staring at me like I’m from another world or something. The music is loud, and certainly not my style. I think I hear somepony inside call it ‘Dub-Trot’. It’s horrendous and I’m startled to find that on the dance floor just beside the bar Ponies are actually dancing to it.

I feel old.

Fancy Pants is waiting at the table, beside him is Fleur De Lise and beside her is a colt I’ve never seen or met before in my life. He’s handsome in a rugged kind of way; bone white coat, flowing blond mane and a face that I can see using to pimp my new Fall Line. I approach cautiously, not knowing which face to wear with this stranger present; I have a reputation, in this city, as a snake-tongued cynic and, even though Fancy is a friend, and Fleur is also, the appearance of this stranger is troubling.

“Hoity, so glad you could make it.”

It’s the first thing Fancy says as I take my seat. He smiles at me, and so does Fluer, so does The Gorgeous Hunk across from them. I think tonight, that I’m going to let alcohol decide which Hoity Toity comes out and grabbing a waitresses attention, I order a double Skynoff, rocks.

“I’d like you to meet...”

Fancy introduces The Gorgeous Hunk, but I don’t catch his name because the ‘Dub-Trot’ song blaring overhead stops and then a new one starts. I cringe, and just smile in retort. Like I suspect, The Gorgeous Hunk is a model -- hopeful -- from a town called ‘Appleooza’ who’s looking for work. How he managed to gain Fancy’s attention is a curious interest I develop with him, but, then I’m reminded that Fancy has a knack for finding diamonds where others see rocks.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” The Gorgeous Hunk grins. I don’t mind that he calls me ‘Sir’ because he has a handsome smile, perfect teeth and a great, well defined jawline. Fleur continues to stare at her drink; A Crystal Island Iced Tea, Fancy orders himself a Manehattan. Dub-Trot music is blaring and I’m wondering when The Prancing Pony went from being just another pub in Canterlot to a full fledged nightclub?

***

Twenty minutes into the evening and I’m buzzed -- not drunk -- and consider going to the restroom to check my mane because it feels slightly disheveled and I think that The Gorgeous Hunk might also think this. I’m waiting for a polite lull in the discussion to do this, but Fancy -- quite drunk from his third Manehattan of the night -- is going on and on about the designs that he sent me earlier this week.

“She’s quite talented,” He says, in regards to this ‘Miss Rarity’ he seems to have some kind of emotional connection, though I can’t imagine it’s romantic because whoever she is, she’s certainly not prettier than Fleur, and him and Fleur have been dating long enough to be married. Their excuse, as it seems, is that despite being Canterlot’s most famous couple, they won’t wed until ‘Colts can marry colts and mares can marry mares.’. If it were any other couple, this would be the kind of cringe worthy scheme to boost their public image, but I know both ponies well enough to know their intentions are sincere, and more than likely, a goodwill gesture aimed at me; a bonafide colt cuddler.

I nod my head in agreement with what he’s saying. The Gorgeous Hunk smiles, laughs then takes a sip of his Bellini.

“What are your thoughts?” He asks, not me, but The Gorgeous Hunk. I’m almost on the edge of my seat with curiosity, and I feel he must know this because he gives me a look; a ‘sultry’ one, if I’m not mistaken, then speaks for the first time that night.

“They’re certainly unique.” He says, chuckles then takes another sip of his drink. He turns to me, smiles again and offers more insight. “Though, it would be absolutely foolish not to think she drew inspiration from your work, Mr. Toity.”

I feel old when he calls me ‘Mr.’, but the compliment shines through. The look, which by now I’m sure is ‘Sultry’, grows and I can almost guarantee two things will end up happening tonight; The first is that I’ll be leaving tonight with this colt, and the second is that after I do, he’ll beg me for a modeling job and I’ll have to accept.

Either way, I’m happy with this eventual outcome.

“Hmmm, yes, yes. I can see that.” Fancy says. Fleur says nothing, just nods along with Fancy. The Gorgeous Hunk’s face springs to life with an aura of profound pride. Again, he stares at me, his eyes soft and gentle, and I feel his hoof gently brush against my thigh under the table.

I’m certain now that we’re going to be leaving together.

***

It’s another half hour of drinking intertwined with mild flirting between myself and The Gorgeous Hunk, before something unique and exciting happens. Octavia, a very popular Canterlot musician, spots us from across the bar and joins us. She’s accompanied by her Filly-Friend; Vinyl Scratch.

Personally, I prefer the company of Octavia to that of her ‘soul mate’ Vinyl. Octavia is cultured, sophisticated and potentially the only pony in all of Equestria I can safely say that if we were both boring heterosexuals I’d marry in a heartbeat.

Vinyl Dash is a loud and arrogant musician.

Vinyl and Octavia take a seat with us in the booth. Octavia is sipping a flute of champagne gracefully and Vinyl keeps spilling her Whiskey Sour all over the table. I seem to be the only one bothered by this, however.

“Hoity, it’s been too long.” Octavia says and leans forward, her lips press against my left cheek, then my right one, then she draws back and takes a sip of her drink. Vinyl just smiles and finishes her Whiskey Sour.

“The pleasure is all mine, Octavia.” I smile up at her, and she returns it. The Gorgeous Hunk seems put off by this for some reason, but his hoof is still petting my leg and now that Octavia and Vinyl have joined us, we’re forced to squish into the booth and I’m ‘forced’ to sit beside him.

“Can you believe they’re playing Poison Jam’s new album in this place?” Vinyl speaks up, sipping the last drops out of the ice cubes in her Whiskey Sour. “I gave them my latest album, like, last week and they decide to play his crap?”

“It’s a travesty.” Fancy agrees. Vinyl smiles. Fleur is still staring quietly at her unfinished Crystal Island Iced Tea; the ice in it has melted now and it’s overflowing onto the already soaked table. I say nothing, just nod my head and wonder, to myself, who or what a ‘Poison Jam’ is, and why that’s relevant to the conversation.

“Well, Vinyl, you can’t expect to win them all...” Octavia interjects, and Vinyl looks happy; she leans forward, her tongue jets out of her mouth and she drags it along the underside of Octavia’s jaw. Octavia flushes, almost drops her flute of champagne, then giggles. “Not in front of company...”

“Sorry, babe.” Vinyl finishes after she draws her tongue back. Octavia giggles, Fleur smiles, Fancy grins, The Gorgeous Hunk chuckles and I roll my eyes. What Vinyl Scratch did to attract Octavia is beyond me, and even though I’m happy that they’re one of Canterlot’s most famously celebrated ‘Power Couples’ and that they’re paving the way for ‘LGBT’ rights in Equestria, I ask myself why of all the attractive Filly Foolers she had to pick the one with the least amount of table manners?

“Oh, Hoity...” Octavia begins, taking another sip from her flute of wine. “Did Fancy show you those new designs? They really are absolutely unique, aren’t they?”

I feel my blood boil.

“Yes they’re... certainly something else.” I groan, though no one seems to notice. Around me, I’m met with smiles and ruckus encouragement; no one seems to care that I dislike these designs and I’m momentarily startled by this fact, until I realize that everypony is drunk. I recall a time when my subtle discouragement was enough, in this city, to completely and entirely obliterate a pony’s dreams.

I feel old.

Octavia just smiles. Her filly-friend continues to lick her -- this time her tongue meets the gape of her neck -- and Octavia is smiling and giggling; she has no regrets. Octavia finishes her flute of champagne and orders herself another, and another Whiskey Sour for her filly-friend and I groan, internally.

I’m still curious what it is about Ms. Vinyl Scratch that Octavia finds so irrepressibly attractive. She’s certainly an exceptionally good looking mare, that much I note. But, what else is there? Is there some facet of her personality that I’m missing? Is there something about her that, because I’m so old, decrepit and out of touch with youth culture, I can’t see?

I’m troubled by this fact, and even though The Gorgeous Hunk’s hoof has made it’s way past my thigh and is brushing ever closer to my flank, I’m unphased and my focus on these two new additions to the table, and their relationship, troubles me.

I decide to do something to take my mind off it.

I feel a muzzle brush against my ear and in a sultry voice I hear The Gorgeous Hunk whisper "Follow me."

He takes his hoof off my thigh, stands up and, while Fancy and Fleur are distracted chatting with Vinyl and Octavia, he gives me an inviting look; urging me to follow him. I think up an excuse to offer, but, since Fleur and Fancy and Vinyl and Octavia are all distracted, and are all probably too drunk by now to notice my absence, I say nothing as I get up and leave the table.

Bathroom.

I follow The Gorgeous Hunk to the restroom and when we get inside he slams the door shut using his flank and locks it. I’m momentarily startled by his aggressive attitude, since all night he’s been quiet and calm, but I feel relief wash over me when he smiles at me and winks. I’m not naive, and I’ve been in this situation enough times to know what happens next; and, just like I suspect a short second after he locks the door, The Gorgeous Hunk is reaching into his wallet for a condom, and I’m thinking ‘Does he really want to do this here? In the vacant bathroom of The Prancing Pony?’ But it doesn’t matter, because this colt is absolutely gorgeous, it’s been far too long since I’ve had a good rutting and, if anything, this absolute stallion is the kind who could make me walk funny for a week.

I’m momentarily at ease; I don’t feel old, or decrepit, or useless. This colt likes me, maybe for my looks, maybe for my talent, but we are going to do this and for the time it lasts and the time after that I’ll continue to feel this way...

...until he finally withdraws what he was fishing around his wallet for and it’s not a condom at all. Instead of the plastic wrapped ‘O’ ring that would be a condom, which I suspected, its instead a small dime-bag of Sniffing Salt. He smiles at me again, pours a quarter gram of the powder out on the table and starts chopping it into lines using the hardened edge of the dime bag.

I grow uncomfortable; if I were fifteen years younger, I might consider this the prelude to a night of great sex, but I’m not; I’m Thirty Nine. I’m well past my prime and, except for the drinking, I’ve been sober for almost a decade.

The Gorgeous Hunk doesn’t wait for me to say or do anything before he sniffs his line, and I find myself backing out of the bathroom not even giving him an excuse, but he doesn’t even notice as I leave.

Suddenly, I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses because I feel the fur around my eyes grow damp and I’m wondering if I’m crying, though, I realize the only way I can really find out is to go back into the bathroom and check, and that somehow makes it seem worse.

The Dub-Trot is still loud, the song is different, I think, but I can’t tell.

I’ll be Forty years old in less than a week. I’m not young enough to get my kicks doing drugs with Handsome Colts in bathrooms of my favorite bars. I’m not young enough to know what ‘Dub Trot’ is. I’m not young enough to like the designs that ‘Miss Rarity from Ponyville’ worked on and I’m not dumb enough to realize that my time has come and gone in this city. I’m fading. I’m past my prime in a city where even ponies in their prime burnout and fade away as quickly as they emerge. It’s a miracle, I think to myself, that I’ve made it as long and as far as I have and that ponies still believe in my influence and follow with bated breath the things I say, and the judgements that I pass.

I walk past the table where Vinyl Scratch is biting Octavia’s neck, one hoof grappling with her flank and the other holding a Whiskey Sour, and where Fleur De Lise is still locked in a curious engage with her Long Island Iced Tea, and Fancy Pants is watching some Filly Fooler couple on the dance floor grind against each other.

I consider approaching, giving an excuse and then having them beg me to stay for the rest of the night, but then I remember that The Gorgeous Hunk will probably return from the bathroom soon and I can’t bare to look him in the eye--even with sunglasses on--and instead I just walk away from the table

I leave The Prancing Pony feeling old and useless.

Author's Note

I'm not really sure what to say about this; I realize there are probably GLARING continuity errors with the show since Hoity Toity has met Rarity, and by the end of that ep seemed to like her stuff, I think? It's the start of something, if people like it I might keep it going, but if it gets down voted to oblivion it'll be a lesson learned.

Anyway; a huge shout out goes to Pandemonia; if you guys like the cover art please check out his Deviantart Page (He's also got a great blog with tons more art on it, so definitely check that shit out too.)

Oceans

Pool.

I’m laying belly up and almost naked in a lawn chair by the pool. I can feel my body baking in the sun, and I’m almost done my third -- maybe fourth -- Vodka Lime. I’m wearing sunglasses, which I think is good because out of the corner of my eye I’m sort of watching -- more so observing -- the pool boy, and have been for the past half an hour.

He’s young, an Earth Pony, his coat is brown and his hair is fair and golden. He’s almost naked, like myself, just a pair of festive shorts with little white flowers against the blank red material -- which, I think is either suede or polyester -- on his hips and some kind of locket linked by a chain that dangles under his neck. His body is toned, muscular and I find him very attractive.

I watch as he continues to use some kind of net that he gently wades through the deep end of the pool, he pauses for a second when the net hits a snag, drops the net and moves toward what I think is some kind of skimmer or something. Its a circle shaped hole on the side with a silver lid that he opens and dips his right hoof into.

I just sit and watch. His flank is hidden behind the baggy shorts so I only have the chest of this adonis to really admire in my semi-drunken haze. This, I think, is more than a fair trade.

I’ve been here for three days now, at my brother’s villa just off the coast. Watching over his estate while he’s still in The Gryphon Kingdom on a business trip. After whatever it was that happened/didn’t happen to me at The ‘Pony a few days ago, I had to leave Canterlot. I had to get out and away from that city, and my brother is the only pony I know in all of Equestria who has a piece of land far enough away from Canterlot that I don’t have to make a point of avoiding ponies I know in the streets.

There’s a few minutes where the pool boy just sort of plays around in the skimmer. He looks kind of frustrated and I feel like I should get up and flirt with him under the pretense of helping him fix whatever is wrong with the pool, until I realize this idea comes on only because I’m half drunk and also that if I did, he’d certainly turn me down, and that thought vanishes. I lay back down, crane my neck backwards and close my eyes.

It’s a perfect day; there’s no wind coming in from the north, the sky is a beautiful blue, peppered with little white puffs that don’t block out the sun and I can see, but not hear, the ocean from my brother’s porch. I imagine the scene set out before me is what artists all across Equestria strive to bring to life on blank canvases, and I’m living in it. Everything about today reminds me that my brother was smarter than a lot of ponies are for moving away from Canterlot.

I stare back down and the pool boy is staring at me, smiling, and I smile back. Maybe I was wrong about him? It’s possible he’s interested in me, or recognizes me, because a gleam appears in his eye and his smile brightens.

He’s much younger than me, probably nineteen or twenty, and I realize that even if I’m somehow right about him, there are so many potential heartaches and pains that come associated with banging (Or rather, being banged by.) my brother’s poolboy that it’s not worth it to pursue it.

Either way I’m watching him as he floats towards me. There’s a melancholy look to his face and I’m almost convinced it’s a flirtatious grin; this gives me some kind of ego boost and I sit up in the lawnchair and just watch as the space between us gets smaller and smaller until he’s right in front of me, his body casting a shadow over mine. He’s almost looming.

“Mr Toity...” He says, grinning.

“I’m afraid so,” I tease back, almost purring.

I’m convinced now that, based only on the fact that he knows me by name, there’s some kind attraction to me--or at the very least an understanding of who and what I am--and this makes me some kind of giddy; my blood spikes and I eagerly await what he has to say.

“Yeah,” his grin fades, and he stares down at me with an uncertainty in his eyes. “There’s two dead rats caught in the skimmer, dude.”

“Oh...” Is all I say.

‘Useless.’ ‘Stupid.’ ‘Embarrassed.’ ‘Ashamed.’ and, ‘Disappointed.’ are all words I could use to describe how I feel at the moment.

“It happens sometimes.” He states matter-of-factly, and, even though I’m 100% certain he’s referring to the dead animals in my brother’s skimmer -- and not my internal monologue -- I feel at ease.

He takes a seat across from me, in another lawnchair separated by a marble table where my half empty bottle of Vodka, a bowl of slowly melting ice and Clemmon’s Lime Mix are.

“They must have come out of the sticks and gone for a swim last night?” I kind of joke, trying to break some kind of tension that is probably only in my head. The kid grins, reaches into the pocket of his shorts and takes out a pack of cigarettes.

It’s kind of morbid to think how their deaths came about; I hate to imagine these two gigantic disease ridden beasts prowling boastfully in my brother’s otherwise spotless backyard when I was sleeping. Them, fat, hairy and gross, doing some kind of non verbal communication then deciding to take a little dip in the pool, splashing around in the water, mucking and infecting with their bodies, then just drowning, sinking to the bottom, getting sucked into the skimmer and remaining there, dead and disease ridden, until the poolboy found them.

It bothers me that I was planning to do laps in the pool later today.

I kind of shudder thinking about all this, and the kid lights his cigarette.

“It happens sometimes,” He repeats after exhaling a cloud of smoke through his nose. The way he does it still kind of excites me and I’m tempted, platonically, to ask him to join me for a drink. “I think it was the chlorine that killed them. Rats are like, allergic to that shit... or something.”

He continues to smoke and I continue to think of something, anything, to say to keep the conversation going.

“This happens a lot?” I muse, he turns back to me and shrugs.

“I guess.”

“Hmm,” I nod.

The kid, still sitting and smoking, seems to take some subconscious cue from me and reaches into the cooler, pulls out a bottle of Coltrona Lime from a case of six I had been drinking earlier in the day, cracks it open and takes a sip.

I lift my Vodka Lime about to take a sip when the kid chuckles and, with his beer still raised, clinks the bottom of his beer against the bottom of the tumbler.

“Fuckin’ aye,” He says, and, I feel a sense of comradery with this kid, it might not be romantic, or lustful, but at least he acknowledges me as some kind of equal.

It feels nice.

“Hot as fuck out, eh?” He states, downing almost half the beer in one long gulp, then wipes the bottom of the bottle clean across his forehead.

I nod.

“You here for a while, Mr. Toity?” He asks, finishing the beer and reaching for another. I’m curious why he’s curious, but don’t intend to bring it up.

“A few days, I suppose.”

“Good stuff,” He says with a casualness to it. He takes another sip of beer and drops his cigarette in the empty bottle. A few dying trails of smoke rise out from the opening at the top, then nothing.

“You go into town at all?”

‘Town’ is actually ‘Palm Hills.’, it’s a small -- quaint -- town of about four or five hundred, no more than twenty minutes away from my brother’s place. It has a certain appeal to it; like most small towns do. It’s the kind of place I’d never want to live but can certainly visit from time to time when I’m having a midlife crisis induced vacation at my brother’s summer home.

Again, I nod.

“You should come out tonight,” he urges. “I’m playing a show at Little Rock Cafe, and I’ve got some friends who’d kill to meet you, dude.”

I kind of like the way he calls me ‘Dude.’. It makes me feel young. Hip. Relevant. It’s a lovely counter to being called ‘Sir.’ or ‘Mr.’.

I finish my Vodka Lime and agree to his proposal with a nod.

“Killer.” He says. “Show’s at Eight, doors open at Seven-Thirty, don’t worry about cover or anything, just tell them ‘Rip from Oceans said you could get in.”

‘Rip.’, I imagine is the kid and, ‘Oceans’ his band. Based on the name of the band and the venue, I’m picturing a night of being the oldest colt in the crowd who isn’t one of the band member’s parents, sitting alone at a booth in the back, drinking a local beer or maybe a bourbon, in this cafe that’s filled with colts and fillies who wear glasses without lenses, berets, fedoras and scarfs even if it’s hot enough to cook marshmallows, listening to an acoustic and drum set, followed by an impromptu poetry reading.

Either way, it’s something interesting to do tonight.

The kid, Rip, looks at his watch then sighs, heavy. He downs the rest of a second beer he’d cracked open, and stands up.

“Your brother only pays me to be here ‘till three.” He says as he stands up. “I should probably take off.”

I know I want him to stay, but I can’t honestly think up an excuse that doesn’t border on creepy or desperate or needy, so I just lay back down. I watch him finish up for the day, with the pool net he fishes out the two dead rats; which look like gigantic, bloated and sopping wet couch cushions. He grabs a garbage bag and just dumps these two dilapidated bodies into it. I can’t imagine where/how he plans on disposing of these bags filled with deceased sewer animals, but, whatever dump takes them is more than an appropriate resting place for them.

I pour myself another drink and cancel indefinitely my plans to take a drunken dip in the pool.

Music.

I’m walking through my brother’s villa now and seething with envy at how fantastic the entire place looks; the living room has an impressive collection of wall sized windows that face the ocean, the floors are all either marble, limestone or granite, and there’s an open-air quality that I would literally kill a pony -- Perhaps, Vinyl Scratch? -- to have at my place in Canterlot.

I consider getting the name of the designer from my brother, inviting him to stay in Canterlot and have him draw up plans on how to properly remodel my apartment. Then, I realize that I’ve been living in the same Penthouse Loft in The Golden Corral, on Madison Street, for nearly fifteen years. That every time I remodel it just pick a theme and base my surroundings around it. How, I spent three years living in a ‘Gryphon Inspired’ flat until I got tired of the bidet. How, before that, it was a ‘Rustic Urban’ theme with a stone fireplace, an artificial fire I could control with a switch, and a Manticore skin rug in front of it.

Where does the time go?

I collapse in a heap on the couch and pour myself a White Rush-In, One part Vodka, Two parts Khaloua and a dash of milk. There’s a moment of peace and calm that washes over me when I take the first sip. I grind my body into the couch, and knowing no one is around to silently judge me on my manners, kick my hooves up on the table and relax, thinking of Rip; the pool boy.

There has to be a reason he invited me? There has to be a reason why he went out of his way to spend time with me by the pool? I know there’s a reason, I just can’t seem to see it.

Maybe he thinks if I like his music I can take his demo tape back to Canterlot and recommend his band to somepony who cares about music. Maybe Octavia? Maybe he’d prefer Vinyl’s stamp of approval? Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. I keep repeating that word and a thousand rhetorical questions along with it in my head until my head starts to spin and I have to stop and finish my drink, which I do in one quick and long gulp.

I pour myself another White Rush-In, this time going a little heavier on the Vodka, a little lighter on the Khaloua and almost skimping entirely on the milk.

So, Rip, wants me to see his little hipster band? What do I wear to an event like this? Palm Hills isn’t Canterlot so I don’t have to worry too much about how I present myself, but, I do want to make a good impression on Rip and company.

So, how do I dress for a venue that doubles as a coffee shop during the day? A jacket seems too uptight. A shirt too formal. It’s a million degrees outside and half my wardrobe is still packed into my suitcase. My brother, however, has left a decent closet worth of ‘Islander’ clothes; flamboyant shirts with huge petaled flowers made of silken fibres and khaki shorts of differently bleak colours like ‘Pastel’ or ‘Beige’.

I take a sip from my drink.

Casual seems right for the event. Of course, for appearance sake I’ll also wear sunglasses and do my mane properly, but, I feel like cutting loose tonight. I want to impress Rip, and his friends, by showing them a pony at my age can still at least be interesting; I doubt any of them would be privy to hear me rant and rave about their music with my malicious criticism so, regardless of how good or bad they end up, I plan out an eloquent review in my head; something like ‘The whole set had a clear, crisp sound and a sheen of consummate professionalism that really gave your songs a big boost.’

I finish the last few drops of my drink, pour myself another--this time a simple Vodka-Rocks, then decide that, if I’m going to show up, I need to be in the right mood. I leave my drink on the table and glide towards my brother’s record collection. It’s impressive, very impressive; he’s got nearly a hundred records by my count and nearly all of them are first editions, as well.

Now, all I have to do is pick one.

I brush past ‘Sports’ by Huey Lewis and The Hooves, past ‘Cookin’.’ then ‘Relaxin’.’ and ‘My Favorite Things.’ by John Colt-Train, past ‘Dark Side of Luna’s Moon.’ by Pink’s Floyd, past ‘My Best To You.’ by Slim Whitmane and finally settle on an album I’ve never heard of; ‘The Imperial Army’ by some artist named ‘Zamphir’. It strikes me that this album might be exactly what I need to get into the mood; there’s a picture of a lone soul; a Zebra with solid stripes and matted fur, against a sunset backdrop. He’s wearing a cowboy hat -- Ironically, I imagine -- and stares away from the camera.

I put the record on, sit back down, lift my drink and listen.

The first track is a ballad to a mare who broke his heart. The lyrics are cringe worthy and cliche. During the chorus of the song he keeps calling this mare a ‘Total bitch.’ for leaving him, and then he rhymes it with ‘She gave my heart an itch’. I just sigh. Music used to be so much more inventive.

I finish another drink with gusto and keep listening.

It’s almost a ten minute track at this point, and nothing about it seems to capture any imagination in me. I just keep waiting for the next song and hoping it’s better than the first.

Track two isn’t much better; it’s, what I suppose you could call a ‘sequel’ to the first song, about how this Zebra crooner is pining for the mare he just spent eleven minutes calling a ‘Bitch’ to return to him, and I keep wondering if this is the standard courting process in Zebra culture; to insult your mate, then come crawling back with your tail tucked between your legs afterwards?

It’s close to six when the album finally ends, I don’t feel any more enlightened than I did an hour ago, just drunker, still confused; especially considering Rip’s -- the pool boy -- show is in an hour and a half and all I’ve been doing to prepare for it is fill my mind with worry and work on a decent drunk.

I finish another drink I kind of forgot that I poured, get up from the couch and decide to prep and groom myself for tonight.

Little Rock Cafe.

It’s Seven-Forty Five by the time I make it to Little Rock Cafe. Like I suspected it’s just an unimpressive coffee shop turned into an afterhours bar of sorts. There’s a line of twenty bodies waiting outside the door, and, unlike in Canterlot I realize I don’t know the bouncer to this place (Who’s actually just a young colt taking bits and stamping the backs of pony’s hooves with a smiley face drawn in felt marker.) so I stand at the back and wait in line.

There are two mares in the line in front of me; they’re either eighteen or nineteen, like Rip, and they’re having a discussion about the show that I’m eavesdropping in on.

“I hope they’re going to play ‘Love Me Tender.’ tonight.” the first one says. I recognize the name of the song. I used to listen to it when I was in my teens, and it surprises me that Rip and his band even know it.

“Oh, I know!” Mare Two says with a gasp. “Rip has such an amazing voice....”

I kind of blush thinking about Rip, the pool boy, getting on stage and breathing new life into a song I haven’t heard in almost five years. In my mind; it’s him alone on stage. He’s still wearing the pool boy outfit; those baggy shorts and the locket dangling gracefully under his throat. The spotlight shines on him, he’s gripping the microphone stand like he’s romancing a mare, and he’s staring at me, winking.

Then, I realize how stupid this it is to think about and I float back to reality.

I’m finally at the front of the line now; the two mares have entered and I stare dumbly at the colt taking tickets when I remember that Rip told me I can get in for free.

“I... um... Rip... from Oceans said I can get in?” I realize I’m stuttering like a moron. My face flushes up and I’m really glad that this isn’t Canterlot and that there aren’t any ponies with cameras around to immortalize this moment.

The colt handing out tickets’ face lights up with a smile, however. He doesn’t seem to have noticed my absolutely terrifying brush with stupidity; he just keeps grinning.

“Sweet, you must be ‘Hoity’?” He asks.

I nod.

“Oh, right on!” He continues. “Yeah, Rip’s been talking about you all day. Lemme just give you a stamp and we’re all good, here.”

He takes my hoof and draws a smiley face on the back of it with a white felt marker, only, it’s a winking smiley face with a tongue jetting out. I kind of find this funny so I grin at him and even though Rip said that I can get in for free, I reach into my pocket and drop a hoof full of bits into a mayonnaise jar with ‘Support Struggling Bouncers’ on it.

The colt smiles when I do.

Oceans.

I wasn’t far off with my earlier assumptions for the night’s events, the inside of the cafe is dimly lit; there’s almost fifty bodies; almost of them a decade or two younger than me, filling seats in two pony booths with little candles centered in the middle. There’s a young filly -- twenty five at the oldest -- serving wine and vodka at the counter and the entire focus on the room is on the stage; it’s a plain, hardwood floor lifted a few feet off the ground and small enough for maybe a three (four at the most) bodied band.

I’m in the back, sipping a glass of Chardonnay out of a crystal flute, waiting patiently and internally debating what I’m even here for; is it really to see Rip’s little band play a set of acoustic covers of songs I grew up listening too? Or, do I just think if I do it’ll somehow make me seem more attractive and young and I’ll fill the empty void that age has in my life this way?

Hypothetical and rhetorical questions that I don’t have the answers too seem to be the theme of the day.

I take another sip of wine and lean back into my seat. It’s 8:00, on the dot, and my heart kind of picks up a pace when I realize anytime now Rip is going to walk on stage and he might see me in the crowd, and he might wave, or he might not.

My heart is like a jackhammer at this point and I try to drown it by sluggishly downing what’s left in the glass and ordering another one; I’ll be damned if I’m going to become a sweaty panting mess in front of Rip (Especially, if it’s not going to be the fun kind of sweaty and panting mess, which I’d much prefer.)

Silence fills the room when a spotlight lands on the stage, the curtains open and out walks Rip, handsome, charming and dapper in some kind of black cargo jacket, a tie worn loose around the neck, V-neck shirt and sunglasses. There’s a guitar, an acoustic, strapped around his back and the crowd remains silent as he walks to the mic.

He has this presence, I can feel it even if that sounds ludicrous, but, as I watch Rip silently take a seat on the stool, swing the guitar around his shoulder and just tune it up, saying nothing, I’m enthralled with him.

He moves his face close to the mike, finishes plucking strings on the guitar and in a soft and gentle voice speaks for the first time that night.

“This ones called ‘To Live Is To Fly.”

I don’t recognize the song, I don’t know if it’s an original or a cover, but, what I do know is when he plays I fall in love; not just with him but his general presence, his cool--never cocky--attitude, his unassuming attitude, his everything. He’s no longer ‘Rip The Pool Boy’. Not anymore. Now, he’s ‘Rip: The Musician.” and I find this a much better coat for him to wear.

His set seems to go on forever, not in a bad way, but, I’m so enchanted by the music and the sound of his voice that it feels like a pain to me when he says ‘Thank you, you’ve been great.” And the crowd explodes into an uproar of ‘Whoops’ and cheer.

I wonder, silently, if I can use my celebrity--even out here--to sneak into the backroom to ambush Rip: The Musician, and just assault him with praise to see, what, if anything, that does to our borderline friendship.

Backstage At Little Rock.

I make my way to the backstage by pushing past a crowd of younger fillies (and a few colts) who’ve formed a physical wall before the only door to the back. As I brush against flanks and past heads, I keep uttering an almost pathetic mess of excuses; “Oh, so, sorry.” “I’m with the band.” “I like your hat...”

That sort of thing.

Finally, I’m backstage and there’s only two doors in what you could call the ‘Green Room’--which is really a worn down couch, table, coffee machine and a TV that’s playing a silent black and white movie--the doors are marked “Performers” and “Staff” and so I head to the right door.

There are a few young colts and mares hanging out on the couch in the Green Room; they’re smoking a joint of something powerful that assaulted my nose and I scoff, they stare at me, almost judging, but say nothing and shrug.

At Rip’s door I feel the jackhammer in my heart get back to work and I stare, dumbly, at the Red Letters to the words ‘Performers” and hesitantly raise a hoof; worry washes over me and I realize that I’ve prepared nothing to say and I’ll most likely end up a stupid, stuttering, obsolete and aged mess of a Colt Cuddler desperately clinging to the thought that this young Stallion admires me.

I knock either way.

The door swings open and I there’s Rip, standing--super casual--leaning against the doorframe with a gorgeous smirk on his face. There’s are two mares in the room behind him that I can hear giggling, and this actually doesn’t bother me, because they’re also lightly touching each other.

“Hey, glad you could make it.” Is all Rip says as he leads me into the room.

I say nothing, just try not to act like such an idiot.

“This is Misty,” He says, motioning towards one of the mares who’s now sitting on the other’s lap, playing with her hair, “She’s my producer, I guess. That’s her girlfriend, Flume.”

They’re locked in a romantic engage, their staring deep and intent into each others eyes, they’re inches away from locking lips and this doesn’t seem to excite or bother Rip, he just kind of shrugs.

“Don’t worry about them.” He says.

I don’t.

“That was... um...” I’m struggling to come up with something to say as I just stare at Rip; watching him grab a beer and take a seat on the couch. I watch him as he pats the empty seat beside him, invitingly, and I feel myself take it. “Very... interesting.”

“Thanks.” Rip says as he leans back into the couch. He tosses his arms along the headrest, and one of his hooves, his right one, just gingerly brushes against my shoulder and it takes everything in me not to shudder.

I can’t remember how or when I became an absolute School-Filly when a good looking colt took interest in me. But, I kind of like it.

“Yes, the... acoustics sounded very...” I kind of mumble “Good. They sounded good.”

Rip laughs.

One of the two Filly-Foolers, either Misty or Flume (I actually can’t remember which is which.) turns her head towards me and smiles.

“Yeah, The Rock has a great natural acoustic thing going on,” She says, then giggles when her girlfriend nips at her cheek. “Plus, it never hurts that Rip’s got a voice like a Trottingham Choir Boy.”

Rip smiles, sheepishly, then takes another sip of beer.

“I’m really glad you could make it, Mr. Toity.” He says and I sense the most basic twinge of hesitancy in his voice when he says it.

I want to play it off with casual disinterest like I would do for a million colts back in Canterlot, to just shrug and offer a simple ‘Well, you know; I always do enjoy a good show.’ to boost his ego, but, the truth is I’m more interested in the fact that he wanted me there than anything else.

“Well, you’re very welcome. It was an extremeley impressive set, and I’m not just saying that.” I hear myself say with confidence. “And, you can just call me ‘Hoity’ if you’d like.”

Rip beams, finishes his beer then leans forward and places it on the table.

“Cool.” He says. “Hoity’s a pretty stellar name. You’re from Canterlot, right?”

“Oh, well, thank you.” I think? “Yes, born and raised I’m afraid.”

Flume/Misty’s, attention gets turned to me, she kind of detaches her other half from herself by pushing her off--gently--then takes a very much uninvited spot on the couch.

“Oh, wow!” She says, as she turns my attention to her. I’m torn, because the truth is I want to talk about Rip more than I want to talk about anything Canterlot related, but, I give in when I feel Rip’s hoof brush against my back and I can almost swear this time it’s not by accident.

“So, you must know some musicians, right?”

Here it goes. I knew there had to be some ulterior motive, and, finally the elephant has left the room.

“Yes, a few.” I utter. Misty or Flume’s face brightens and I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses.

“Well, Rip is always looking for some kind of representation and...”

Before she can continue he coughs, and her face drops. I’m almost startled, but I turn to Rip and he’s just shaking her head at Misty/Flume in a way that I think means she’s said too much.

“Sorry, she’s just... excited. You’re kind of a, well, legend after all.” Rip says in her defense.

I’m more than flattered by this, though, still mildly curious about what exactly I’m doing here? Why am I here? Backstage? With Rip? With his Filly-Fooler Producer?

“We’re going down to the beach.” Rip says, casually. “Late night swim. There’s no tourists out this time of night so we’ll pretty much have the whole place to ourselves, there’s a few more ponies coming too.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it’d be really cool if you came, Hoity.”

I want to swoon, but, I don’t. I try to act super casual about being invited to a beach party by a colt half my age who may, or may not, find me attractive and who, in reverse, I find extremely attractive and would do anything at this point to jump his bones.

“Sounds delightful.” I say, smiling at Rip. He smiles back. Its a handsome smile.

“Killer.” He says.

Beach.

We’re at the beach now. Its night and, with the bonfire that one of Rip’s friends has started, I can see my brother’s villa from where I’m laying. Rip is here, beside me, strumming a guitar and singing a song about ‘Peace’ and ‘Unity’ to his filly-fooler producer, her girlfriend and two other colts who are giving each other looks that I can instantly tell are deviously smutty.

There’s a picnic basket between me and Rip, at our hooves, and one of the Colt’s, a blue Unicorn with a black mane, reaches forward and pulls a bottle of cheap wine out of it, he twists the lid off and takes a swig, handing it to his friend after, who does the same. They pause, stare longingly into each other's eyes and when they kiss -- its full of passionate intensity, open mouths and I can even see hints of their tongues battling -- I feel some kind of impulse take over me and I turn to Rip, who’s staring at me with that same kind of look in his eyes.

I’m more than convinced Rip is attracted to me by this point.

The Filly-Fooler couple goes at it next, Flume (I just assume that’s the name of the non-producer one.) climbs atop Misty and then starts gently nibbling her ear while Misty giggles. The two colts are rolling around in a passionate embrace and I feel Rip move closer to me. I get chills up my spine when he tosses a hoof around my shoulder.

“Wanna go for a dip?” He whispers into my ear. I can’t think of a single reason in the world to say ‘No’ so I follow after him as he starts tearing off his clothes and heading towards the water.

He’s nude, I’m getting there and I noticed he somehow managed to grab the bottle of wine while he was undressing. He tosses it to me as his hooves touch the water, I catch it, take an impressively long swig and throw it back, laughing -- just a light chuckle really -- when I feel the cold water touch my ankles.

Rip takes a swig, stands up and falls backwards into the water, splashing me slightly but I don’t really care at this point. He manages to keep the bottle afloat as his body sinks under the water, then a short second later he emerges; the image of a sopping wet and nude Rip; water dripping down his drenched mane, his head tossed backwards as he chugs gulp after gulp of wine, his body illuminated against the backdrop of black water by the moon, is one I’ll never forget as long as I live.

I’m up to my knees now, not really caring, I sort of slink -- I suppose like some kind of cat -- into the water until I’m closer to Rip. My lower half is wet, my face and mane still dry and Rip must not like this because he playfully splashes a hoof full of water into my face, then, when I’m about to do the same, I feel his hooves touch my shoulders and Rip tackles me under the water. It’s playful enough that I’m not bothered by the water that shoots up my nose.

When we emerge, Rip’s body is locked against me, his hooves hold me close to him and he’s just grinning. I grin too. He leans his head down and his wet lips press so softly against mine that it almost doesn’t feel like a kiss at all. I feel my lower leg’s want to give out and it takes everything in my power to keep myself from melting into his embrace.

This entire evening is like a chapter out of a bad romance novel; drunk late night skinny dipping in an ocean off the beach with a stallion who is also my brother’s poolboy. There are too many cliche’s about it to count, but, since this isn’t a bad romance novel, and infact my life, I’m far from complaining.

Rip pulls away, though he’s still holding onto me.

“That was...”

I can’t find the words.

“Fantastic?” He finishes for me with a cocky grin, then, lunges his head forwards and catches me, again, totally off guard in a hungry, drunken kiss. I can taste the wine on his lips and I like it enough to want to taste a little more. I slip my tongue between his lips and he’s into it because he opens his mouth and, before I know it, we’re making out.

Me; a Thirty Nine year old designer, and him, a Nineteen To Twenty-Two year old Pool Boy. I can see the potential heartbreak, the controversy, the headlines scream ‘Hoity caught courting young admirer.’ the streets, I can already see, filled with Ponies, torches and pitchforks, out for my blood.

I know this won’t end well, but, that’s a problem I’ll worry about later. For now, I just enjoy locking lips with my little musician.

Author's Note

Hi, Guy_Incognito here.

So, aside from the negative feedback which the first chapter got (Sadly, based on the art (Which I thought was just terrific and wonderful) I'm still so amazed with the great feedback you guys have put into this story. I felt like last chapter didn't really 'wrap up' everything and kind of ended on more of a 'downer' note, so, I wrote this as just a 'Maybe Hoity can find some kind of happiness in his life/Maybe not.'

I also wrote a more 'Mature' version of this chapter which picks up after the ending and gets.....yeah, sexy and smutty. If this goes over well and anyone would care to read it, I can always post it somewhere (or maybe as a separate story or something?)

Also, last thing, if people like this enough I can see ways to expand it and keep it going, if not, I think this more than works as an ending to a little chapter of Hoity Toity's life.