Track 4.

Track 4.

I nearly stumbled over my latest copy of “International Geographic.” Good, the evening was saved. I prepared a little nest for myself on the sofa, with soda and ice cream. The latest “Doctor Whooves” audio drama was coming on, and I wasn't gonna miss it for the world.

This was my weekend entertainment, science and Doctor Whooves. But at some point, I started tuning out the plot of the episode, and the photographs of naughtily clothed tribal zebras began to look more enticing... Damn libido, this was an itch I was tired of scratching myself.

I considered my options. there was at least a hundred ponies who'd be more than willing to share my bed in the area, at least a dozen of which had already given me their number... And just about all of them would talk about The Night They Fucked DJ Pon3 until their jaw fell off or a reporter noticed, whichever came first.

Who could I trust to be discreet about this? A list appeared in my mind, but it was quickly whittled down due to personal or geographic incompatibility until only one name remained. My old boyfriend I dumped back in magic high school, the kindest and most bashful stallion you'll ever find. I wonder if his acne have improved...

I went back to fantasizing over the striped equines while Doctor Whooves ran away from some threat in the background and the ice cream slowly melted.

Author's Note

There seems to be a difference in European and American art when it comes to sexuality. It's often framed as we Europeans being horny perverts and Americans being prudes horrified by even the sight of a nipple, and that is ~~absolutely true~~ completely false. If I can generalize to a MASSIVE degree I think it is that Americans prefer to have a clear dividing line between porn and regular art, while European art tend to treats sexuality as just another aspect of life.