//------------------------------// // Going Potty Is Not a Potty Thing // Story: First Pony View // by Suomibrony //------------------------------// First Pony View A My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic fan fic By Suomibrony Chapter 19 Going Potty Is Not a Potty Thing Trailing Embee by half a body length, I glanced at a person we passed. Being waist-high was somewhat unsettling. My internal critique had become too intense to keep unvoiced. “I should've chosen my words better, Embee.” “Huh?” She looked at me before realizing what I alluded to. “Oh, it's nothing to feel sorry about. You said what was bothering you, that's all.” She finished with a jovial giggle that felt a little mocking in my ears. I assured myself that I was misinterpreting it. “But I could've said . . .” I bit my teeth as I gathered the necessary bravery. “Fillies room. No . . . Ah,” I finished with a mild huff, disappointed at myself. ‘Restroom! I could've said restroom! Geez! Darn my not-so-awake brain!’ “Hey, don't worry about it, hon,” Embee assuaged as we navigated past a woman strolling in the opposite direction. Embee's mellowness made me think I was overemphasizing my concern. “Yeah, I guess you're right,” I conceded. I caught a snippet of a topic that two earth ponies were having ahead. “. . . and leaky windows. There was talk of knocking it down,” said the mare of various grades of light brown and pale blue eyes. She looked so dispassionate that I first thought she was sleep-deprived. “That would've been more than welcome, but the powers that be wisely chose to do the impossible by renovating this ugly and dilapidated colossus instead,” her yellow interlocutor with her mane in a tight bun complained. “This hospital wasn't built to code to begin with, and I bet it's only a matter of time before the same old problems crop up again.” I spied her cutie mark: a cleaved lemon. For some reason, the conversation didn't continue as we passed. “She looks like a whirlwind pulled her through the mud. I hope she's all right.” I recognized that as the other pony's voice; her passionless tone was tinged with a speck of pity. “She's no filly for sure, but why's she without a cutie mark?” the other noted nonchalantly. “Strange.” That I had become their new topic didn't bestow me with delight, but I had neither the time nor desire to intervene. A poster on the wall caught my eye. Brief as my observation was, I did get more than a glimpse. Two distinct frames on a white background. The left side was completely black, with "Can you see me?" in thick, white lettering. "How about now?" was on the right side, except here the darkness was pierced by a few rectangles and curves of silvery white. Beneath these images was a happy pony, wearing white bands around his barrel, knees, and hocks. "Be seen, be safe!" There was something else underneath, but I had passed so quickly I hadn't been able to decipher the small print. I did deduce that the pony was wearing safety reflectors. That was pretty neat. I was thankful I wasn't tripping over my legs, but I feared I'd accidentally squirt out a puddle. Were the muscles that kept the bladder contents contained unlike that of a male's? Something seemed to have become stuck to me and was gently brushing my buns. I looked over my back to see what it was. The realization was almost immediate and my face creased with exasperation. As little use it was, I gave my tail a tiny toss. As if it could come loose . . . We rounded a corner and suddenly I came face to face with a deep blue pony. “Awmh, oh,” I stammered, then took a few small steps back. “S-sorry?” He backed away with a mirthful laugh. “Gracious gail, we nairly bamp'd aisader!” Then the cyan-maned stallion went along his merry way, sending a glance my way before he disappeared out of sight. I was paralyzed, utterly confused by his bizarre vernacular. “Hey?” Embee called, waving at me by a door to the right a couple of paces ahead. “This is the place.” She pushed her hoof into the depression by the door. I sighed in relief as the white door swung open inwards. “Finally.” When I crossed the short distance to her, it truly dawned to me that I was about to enter a place reserved for females! This was a criminal invasion of privacy! Maybe not literally criminal, though. Or maybe it was? On a lark, I looked at the opposite door. An emblem there sported the shape of a male pony. “Well, what are you waiting for?” Embee queried, a trace of confusion both in her tone and expression. “I thought you were in a hurry.” “Yeah yeah, but . . .” If I now expressed preference for the . . . colt's room? “Just feels weird when I'm not really a . . . uhm . . . mare,” I mouthed the last word silently a few times before I got it out. While Embee gazed at me with innocently curious but patient eyes, I deduced that the sign on the other door wasn't going to make me more male. Not physically, anyhow. Maybe not at all? “Never mind. I'm just being needlessly fussy. Fillies room, ladies room. Same difference, right?” Suppressing a nervous laugh I didn't want to hear, I strolled forth. “Ah, not exactly.” Her comment made me balk just beyond the threshold and cast her a shocked look. “Not exactly?” I echoed with a quiver of trepidation. An assuaging look came to her visage. “I know, I know. What's in there is out of the ordinary, but using it shouldn't be a problem.” She cast a furtive look around, evidencing she was going to say something to me in confidentiality. “Vivienne,” she said in a hushed tone, putting on a soft and suppliant smile. For courtesy's sake, I faced her. “Being a pony is no doubt disconcerting, but nothing's changed in that thing there.” She lightly stressed the last three words, followed by a light but ostensibly encouraging jab. “Now go there, relax, and do as you normally do.” I finally gathered a modicum of bravery. “But it's lots of . . .” A few timid words out. Then I groaned feebly. “I'm sorry, I really gotta go we'll talk later okay? See you soon,” I said hurriedly, performing an about-turn. I heard Embee cough lightly, as if startled. Did my tail swipe her in the face by accident? “Sorry,” I half-yelped. A little shaky, I reluctantly ventured into the controversial room. “Okay. I'll wait right here. If something stumps you, or you need help, just give me a holler and I'll be there before you know it.” She then closed the door. Helping me at the simple task of emptying my bladder into where it was meant to? The humiliation would kill me! At first glance, this was a sufficiently cozy and clean restroom with its brightly lit interior and white tiles covering every surface. I didn't see any flowers or other stereotypically feminine accessories or decorations, either. So then the only difference was that sign on the door? My sentiments about going where no man should go were perhaps overblown. A low-mounted sink was in an alcove to the right. Of course there had to be a mirror! I cautioned myself not to look there. Now, the thing that I so desperately . . . Wait, it didn't look quite right. Directly ahead in a nook of its own was a slightly elevated, lengthwise oblong plastic-rimmed porcelain bowl with what looked like a pitchfork or rowlock at its far side. Between this and the sink alcove was another nook, but whatever. I had to do my business into what amounted to a surreal floor-mounted sink? Seriously? This wasn't what I had expected to find here, and I had mistaken it for the regular thing. Oh well . . . I approached the art gallery reject. Then I got cold feet and questions filled my mind: Why was the lid hinged to the side instead of the back? Where was the tank? The water only filled the hole? Did this operate with vacuum instead of water displacement? What if this thing was out of service and Embee didn't know? What would I do if the brown matter collided with the air screw? There wasn't a ceiling fan here, though, but if this thing started regurgitating . . . ? My pressing issue made me wince, clearing my mind from the needless panicking. “This is no big deal,” I said faintly. “It's like a low . . . Well, sort of . . . Maybe?” The proverbial hourglass was on its last grains of sand. But I was dangerously short on courage! “I've done it into a shower drain. Once. This is much better than that, and is designed for ponies, so this should be super easy and not at all stressful or frightening. Nothing can go wrong.” My nearly voicelessly spoken pep talk didn't dispel my palpable trepidation. When I exasperatedly questioned what the hay was I trying to accomplish by dawdling, I finally poked a hole into my illogical indecision. Nonetheless, I spared a withering stare of dejected resignation at the fixture. “Just have to turn around and position myself carefully but quickly,” I whispered breathlessly as I performed. “The tail,” I squeaked tinnily through a grimace. Took a few painstaking attempts to command it just right so that I could hold it securely aside and thus prevent its soiling when I opened the metaphorical sluice. At the last second, I gathered what the rowlock was for: I positioned my tail through it so it wouldn't fall into the bowl. What good was this colorful and hairy appendage, anyway? My hind legs with their seemingly unusual articulation made sitting down slightly more challenging, and motor finesse for squatting had become unavailable. At last, relaxation. Although, I exercised some restraint in fear of splashback. Naturally, I was glad I hadn't wet the floor, and . . . my eyes were turning moist. ‘Why's this happening? That I was disconcerted bemused me. “It's like doing the number two, just more fluid,” I rationalized, closing my eyes. Why I was whispering to myself? Could I make my dysphoria abate with a voice that served only to remind me of it? I didn't know. I had just woken up; exposing the logic from beneath my emotions was cumbersome. What wasn't hard to deduce, however, was that doing the number one sitting wasn't unsettling in itself. I had to do the cleaning all by myself in my own home, so it stood to reason that I minimized making a mess. Hence, eliminating stray torrents meant I didn't need to wipe the seat or clean the floor. Unfortunately, this pragmatic practice had to stay a secret, as I had a hunch that its revelation would be met with jeering. Doing the one and two in one sitting was normal, so what made eliminating the latter from the equation a laughing matter? I didn't get it. I wouldn't be surprised to be utterly clueless to some social customs. I was regarded as a bit of an oddball among my friends, even when they were as sober as a judge. I doubted they'd be so opinionated that being level-headed was beyond them. Anyhow, I hadn't come to this small space of solitude to reminiscence and review. My immediate urgency had been dealt with. Another thing had arrived to the queue, but I had dithered about the issue by thinking about irrelevancies. The matter couldn't be postponed indefinitely, and the perfect solution being directly underneath me contributed to my consent. Never had I imagined to receive such intimate and incontrovertible evidence of females being no different from males in this regard: both had to do the number two. I thought back on how I'd do this natural occurrence at home. I had a small folding stool that greatly helped me get in a stable and comfortable position to do the needs. It was stored between the washing machine and the wall when not in use. Except this wasn't a memory belonging to me. Still, that I . . . she hadn't renovated her bathroom to be more pony-friendly was puzzling . . . because electronics and whatnot had taken priority. Not digging that in hindsight. Although, the cell phone was a relic bought from a flea market. But she was resourceful. Much like me. Or I thought my resourcefulness was hers. Or the other way around? Darn overlapping identity aspects. Done with my business, I began looking for paper. Worryingly, I didn't see any. However, taking paper to not one, but two orifices that I knew to be in close proximity of a third was disconcerting and nauseating. Inadvertent touching of the untouchable, as loathsome as the mere thought was, couldn't make me skimp on personal hygiene. One glance down brought up another obstacle: I couldn't hold paper. Not with hooves, anyhow; I wasn't oblivious of my telekinesis. I had no reason to stay seated or see the truffles ready for donation to the sewage system. To my immediate right was a tile in the wall with a very recognizable icon that told me all I needed to know. Gazing upwards at the wall to avoid sighting my waste, I held my hoof on the edge of the lid as I carefully lowered it. I couldn't feel the lid, though, so I had to peek a few times to affirm it was tagging along with my limb. Depressing the lower half of the button summoned the big flush. As a small detail of curiosity, the lid had a protrusion, presumably to facilitate its raising by wedging a hoof under it. This room was shaped like an F flipped on its head. In the space between my present location and the sink alcove a square panel with a hole. Next to it was a sign that depicted a series of happily smiling pony-shaped figures. Then it dawned on me that these were instructions for the panel. What was this thing? “To use the . . . LadyFresh?” A small laugh slipped into my voice. That name was so ridiculous I spontaneously thought of a hypothetical name for antiperspirant for men: Dudeorant. “Press the button on the floor . . . Five seconds until . . . Press it again to cancel . . .” I shut my mouth; I didn't need to quietly recite select parts of the instructions. The silhouette was applying her hoof to a flat shape on floor, and truly, beneath the panel and offset by an estimated twenty centimeters was a hoof-shaped elevation that I hadn't noticed prior. According to the illustration, I was to . . . “Oh?” The forwardness of the instructions imbued me with mild shock. However, my discomfort was temporary, as I studied the instructions and the device with growing suspicion. It dawned on me that the signs were plastered on a separate panel, most likely concealing the components for this contraption. In any case, the device would disperse disinfectant mixture that supposedly was an effective sanitizer? I wasn't sold on that procedure, most likely because having my intimates sprayed with soap was never part of my routine! I sighed heavily. “As if being a mare couldn't get any worse,” I muttered dejectedly as I depressed the button. A tiny, green light lit up with a soft buzz. I then positioned myself to receive an unorthodox and humiliating hygiene treatment, not forgetting to hold my tail aside. My only solace was a hope that the inventor of this preposterous apparatus was a pony, and had tested it personally. This brought up an old video game-related memory of Captain Qwark being a test subject for the infamous Crotchitizer. Oh, the shrieking . . . Since I was a smidgen worked up—and had something at the very end of my digestive tract—I chose to bow a little. “You fresh me, I fresh you,” I said as I glanced morosely at the wall-mounted joke, soon followed by a sound not unlike that of a raspberry blown through tightly pursed lips. That . . . didn't make me feel like a winner. Should I have abstained from such a juvenile form of defiance? My rumination was interrupted by the sensation of slight moisture beneath the base of my tail. My initial dismay was slowly eclipsed by incredulity. “What? That was it? Just a small burst?” I had been ready for something much, much worse. I turned around, disbelieving that I was actually disappointed. I had to test the machine just to see what actually came out. A small but short condensed cloud of vapors that dispersed into nothing soon after their ejection? Left speechless, I peeked towards what was thankfully unseen. Was it actually clean now? I wasn't going to spread germs and nasty odors around, was I? My solids had been solid, and passed very cleanly. I hoped I didn't have drops of yellow tucked in a fleshy nook. Ugh . . . That thought put a sickeningly graphic image into my head. A faint but sweet scent lingered in the air, which I assumed to be present at the base of my tail as well. I wasn't even feeling any moisture there anymore, so . . . all was good? I shot a glance of uncertainty at the ludicrous device as I began to head for the exit. One press of the button by the door to unlock it, and I had a path out. Embee greeted me with a complacent look. “How did it go, hon?” Her positive attitude was putting a small smile on my face. “Not too badly.” I moved clear of the door; Embee closed it. “After some initial uncertainty, I did my thing quite well, and then I got sprayed in the butt,” I summarized glibly. “You were what?” Embee wheeled to face me, sporting a quizzical stare. My smile warped into a grin that would've benefited from a squeak “Ahhah, you heard me.” A short but awkward moment before I developed a remorseful frown. “I should not have said it like that. Or at all that.” I pawed the floor, unwilling to look at her anymore. “I was trying to make light of the situation.” “It's alright, hon, I'm not mad at you,” she said, and not a trace of disdain was on her features. “Caught me off guard by your choice of words, that's all.” “Oh? I see. Well, um . . . that's okay.” A relative silence ensued as I began to retrieve my sangfroid. “So, you used the LadyFresh?” I could tell that she intended to express sympathy, but the trace of amusement in her tone stood in contrast with that. I managed a strained laugh in return and an aversive glance. “It's, uh . . . a divisive device.” The successive use of two similar-sounding words was mildly funny. “Some are fine with the thing, others hate it.” “Are they in every restroom?” I felt sorry for every pony who was coerced to or coerced themselves to get hygienated. That wasn't a real word. “I don't think so,” she replied. That was good to hear. “This hospital is a test bed for some inventions. Been a boom of them lately now that they're going from diagrams on paper to functional prototypes.” Diagrams on paper? Probably meant blueprints. “Functional prototypes, mmh,” I mused, but a sarcastic remark eluded me. I settled for the next best thing. “Better than nonfunctional, I guess.” “Nighty used the LadyFresh once, and only once.” Mirth tugged at Embee's lips, but not mine. “You should've seen her. She was fuming, claiming it was a bidet with every flaw refined to perfection. I too gave it a try, and in my opinion, it's—” “Sorry sorry, coming through,” a person donned in a dark jacket said indifferently as he hurriedly navigated past us; the intervention roused me from my impassive state. “I must apologize to you, hon,” Embee resumed soon after, recovering from her surprise much faster than I did. “It didn't occur to me that you'd use it, and I'm sorry for the humiliation and anxiety it must've brought you.” “Oversights happen,” I said laconically. I tried to think of something more to say, but I was thwarted by the fear of saying something that'd potentially make her guilt more severe and prolonged. “Anyhow, hygiene's important, so . . . what choice did I have? I just couldn't go dirty,” I defended my decision. I looked around, checking if we were being listened to. We weren't. “I would've used paper, you know? But, um, there was none.” “I understand,” she said consolingly. “Think of the bright side. This might have been the first and the last visit to the fillies room.” I surmised she alluded to that Peachy would help me regain my humanity. I shouldn't hold my hopes too high and believe everything was destined to be resolved in an hour or two. Nothing I could do would expedite things, but Embee's optimism at least gave me a small morale boost. “Yeah, the last time—” Another person walked past us, startling me slightly. “The last time I'll have to endure the LadyFresh, too.” I sighed. Intimate femaleness and the reminder of being a four-legged creature of smaller stature educed a spell of discomfort. “That's really bothering you, is it?” Apparently, my indisposed demeanor tugged her empathy string. “Yeah, it is, but it's not serious. I'll get over it,” I replied, inadvertently imitating Fluttershy's soft intonation. I then raised one foreleg, cast a glance from the corner of my eye toward my back, and saw my tail make a lazy upwards motion before settling to its relaxed state. I wasn't sure why I did this. Some form of pony body language at play? “Would you like to file a feedback ticket?” Embee's demeanor and tone were so affably placid, I couldn't say whether she was serious or joking. Knitting my brows and shooting a gaze to my lower left, I contemplated the proposition. “Well . . . It doesn't seem relevant. I got a shower to take, and soon. Kinda starting to feel itchy again.” I took stock of the row of chairs lined against the wall. A spontaneous thought recommended I rub myself against them. I seemed to be so convinced of hooves being dedicated only to locomotion and support that I subconsciously assumed I had to deal with skin irritations by alternative means. “Let's not dawdle, then.” As usual, I remained by her side, half-a-body length behind as we began walking. ‘My first and last time showering as a pony? I can do that.’ Showering was a necessity that I had to endure, but I wasn't afraid. All I had to do was to act sensibly, and definitely not fuss about. “Hmh,” Embee vocalized a small chuckle as she glanced at me. “Pardon me for bringing this up, but the way you were unsure of going into the fillies room, I want to know if everything really did go well in there.” “Pretty much.” I didn't expect her to request extra convincing. Had I made the impression of pretending things were fine when they weren't? “I was anxious at first, but once I sat down, I started feeling quite okay. I don't need to elaborate my opinion on that silly hygiene contraption, do I?” “No, no need to. I'm happy that you did well.” We passed a few empty chairs lined against the hallway wall. Then Embee cast a glance at me. “Sat down, you said?” “Yeah, sat down,” I echoed, puzzled, but soon chuckled a little nervously. “Well, you don't mean I'd do it standing up, do you? That's uh . . . That's how guys do it.” It was fortunate Embee wasn't looking at me. Else, she might've seen the subtle misery on my face. Had I said that I wasn't a guy, the self-betrayal might've shattered my composure. All of a sudden, a humorous epiphany made me laugh on the inside. “With some training, I wager I'd be in the same ballpark.” More like no training at all! My for-once confident assertion evoked a delighted laugh from Embee. “Confident, huh?” Her encouraging comment introduced a layer of coyness to my bravado, and I had to fight myself not to divert my gaze in shyness. “Well, for mares, it's perfectly normal to do it standing up.” I barely wrapped my mind around that when she resume talking. “But the fillies room I brought you to?” I presented a hum of curiosity. “I thought what it had was pretty close to what you were used to. That's why I decided not to escort you to the closest fillies room.” “What?” I became both irked and confused. “You mean we didn't need to go walk to the other end of the floor?” “Now, don't get frustrated, hon,” she reproached gently, sparking a pinch of shame; was I getting on her nerves? “I know you don't have it easy, and prefer not to do things the pony way. I was certain you wouldn't take it lightly if you had to use a—” The final word did not register, because I was sure she did not say that. “Wait, stop.” To my surprise, she stopped. I, too, halted in my tracks. Albeit nonplussed, I gave her an askance look. “To use a what now?” I did not believe it started with a "U" and ended with an "L". “A marenal,” she enunciated unambiguously. I was so dumbfounded and incredulous that I was left blinking. “A marenal?” “Oh, right. You're not from here.” Shame transitioned on Embee's features and she dropped her voice. “Sorry, hon. I can't believe I forgot there's more to this than just a young woman stuck in a mare's body.” Now it was my ears that drooped. “Yeah . . .” I scavenged a sad smile. “It's a world of difference.” “That's quite poetic, hon.” Her smile was happier than mine, although I could tell that she wasn't downplaying my predicament. Apparently this was such a sensitive topic that neither of us came up with anything immediate to say. I merely stared glumly at a streak of light reflected on the floor. Something in me insinuated that her not knowing of my true gender kept me safe from hardships; to be looked down upon and shamed if or when I behaved atypical to a male was a powerful, compelling fear. “But you know what a urinal is?” Her question pricked my ears despite my rue. “Of course, but I never used one.” I didn't mean to say that much, but considering she believed I was a genuine female, I supposed it was kind of fine. Judging by her reserved giggle, she may've taken my accidental admission as dry humor. “Well, it's like a slimmer and longer toilet affixed to the wall.” She said toilet? Why did I regard that word as exempt from her vocabulary? Maybe because it was too crass for a pony? “You hold your tail aside, back over the lip of the thing. It fits neatly between the legs, you see. Then you do what's natural, and there you go! All done.” I hadn't asked to know that much, but I wasn't revolted. “You make that sound so simple,” I said in astonishment. “Being no stranger to it might explain why.” She let out a small laugh. I was so absorbed in wonder that I didn't immediately notice she was peering at me as if a smidgen sorry. “Did I blow your mind?” “Yeah,” I responded, mental pictures keeping me absent: a urinal, then a horse, then downsize both until the horse was a colorful pony— “If I had led you to a marenal and explained what to do, would you have actually used it?” Embee said in a nonplussed but inquisitive tone. “Humh, would I?” Facing away from a pony-ergonomic urinal, holding my tail sideways, and releasing a golden stream from between my buttocks? That was far removed from doing my business the normal way. The dismaying vision alone drew my eyes toward the floor, but I set them on Embee shortly. “Nah.” I gingerly shook my head. “Too pony.” “It's alright, hon.” As she said that, I cursorily noted we were rather solitary for the moment. “You weren't pleased by the LadyFresh, so, hmm . . .” She certainly looked thoughtful with her hoof under her jaw. “A bidet, then? Would that've been okay?” I assumed the restroom we skipped had a bidet. Wasn't a bidet like a sink one sat on that then discharged a continuous stream of water at the nether region? That would've been acceptable . . . if one of my orifices wasn't erogenous . . . “I don't think I'd react well to that, either,” my lowly response disguised my disgust. Then curiosity produced a question regarding fixtures for male ponies. Before I could voice it, a person walked past us. “Mein Gott im Himmel!” a strained and exasperated, but unmistakably digitized male voice came from his pocket. Embee and I exchanged stunned glances before we set our eyes on the guy. Procuring a phone from therein, he briefly glanced at the screen before answering the call. “Hey, dad,” he said in clearly feigned joy, as if reluctant to talk. As he distanced from us, I heard him continue tiredly. “This place is a big, mostly white building to the left, right after the bridge.” There was a beat. “You missed it? I swear, you'd lose your way putting on a shirt.” “That as a ringtone?” Embee said to herself, chuckling. “Ah, but let's keep going, hon.” Her natural prowess at the art of four-hoof walking caught me unprepared, forcing me to a short but haphazard quasi-canter so as to catch up with her. The two mares from before were coming our way. I mentally coined them nicknames: Mare 9000, due to her monotone, and Cleaved Lemon, due to her cutie mark. “. . . portrays the regal sisters in an unfavorable light,” the latter said, evidently displeased. “How does it concern you? It's only a comedy, and not to be taken seriously. If they had a problem with it, they would've let it be known months ago,” Mare 9000 reasoned just as we passed. Her cutie mark was a pudding bowl filled with . . . liquid fudge? “Hey look, that was the dirty girl without a cutie mark,” Cleaved Lemon commented with a touch of awe. Slightly peeved, but maintaining my pace, I shot her a cross look. The restraint that disallowed me from giving them a piece of my mind didn't extend to my tail; it rapidly flicked from one side to the other a few times before I regained control. “What's her problem?” she said superciliously. “Experience tells me it's your imprudence,” Mare 9000 answered sardonically. My problem was that I was too touchy about my perceived gender. I had to learn how to endure this with dignity. While it would save me a lot of trouble to be seen as my true gender by default, realistically speaking, that was impossible. I hadn't begun to surmount the threshold of telling Embee— “We're here,” she said abruptly, and we came to a stop. “Oh?” A fog of puzzlement filled my mind. “Really?” Seemed like we had only walked two dozen paces and gone around a corner. “That's good.” I glanced back at the mares while Embee opened the door; they were strolling away from us, absorbed in their chatter. So, we went into a square room decorated with white tiles on every surface. To the left was a small bench, a few simple white-painted lockers, and in the near left corner was a single covered socket with an appropriate warning about not touching it while wet. The shower was in the far right corner. A shower curtain was suspended from a curved rail, and the floor was recessed with a drain in the middle. “So, Viv? Can you take care of yourself?” “I guess,” I replied cursorily. The shower head was affixed to the wall about halfway up the ceiling, and the shower controls were on the wall directly beneath. Actually, the controls looked nothing like I had seen before. A large dial, with a blue-to-red gradient crescent above it, paired with a vertical slider. “Figuring out how this works shouldn't be complicated.” I also spotted a sponge on a low wall-mounted tray. “Nothing more complicated than to dial it to warm and then raise that smaller switch to get the water flowing,” Embee instructed with a flair of joyful aplomb, opening one of the lockers. They had large handles. Were they called handles by ponies? She inspected what was inside, then did the same for the second locker. “Now who emptied these?” She sounded somewhat miffed, but there wasn't a sign of it when she turned to me. “Please excuse me for a moment, hon. I must bring you some things, but I promise to be back as soon as I can.” I smiled. “I'm not worried.” Her optimism was enjoyable and improved my confidence. I raised the slider to the top, the artificial rain fell on my back and I had to get out of there and I did with a leap and a vocalization oh that was quick! “You okay?” Embee had rushed to my side, unquestionably concerned. With my mind in a flurry, it slowly dawned that I had spun around and was now staring at the shower with my forehooves to my mouth. “Hon?” “Uhhh . . .” I increased the gap between limbs and mouth so I wouldn't get a taste of hair and hoof. “I'm . . . I'm fine.” My consternation changed to embarrassment, as I realized I had produce a high-pitched squeal that I hadn't predicted I was capable of. “Cold.” I gently placed my limbs back to the floor. “The water, I mean. It was cold . . .” A few chilling drops were taking their sweet time getting off me. “I heard a scream.” A bespectacled, short-haired man was standing by the doorway. He resembled Gordon Freeman from Half-Life . . . “Was it you?” He sounded calm, but had a peculiar accent. Italian? A woman with short black hair popped past the door frame to catch the view. She didn't bring to mind any video game characters, though. I hoisted myself up. Confounded by the audience attracted, I looked toward Embee for verbal advice. I gathered she was waiting for me to open my mouth, and was wholly unaware of the true cause of my perplexity. Setting my gaze on the two bipeds, abashment worked its way to my face. “Hah, well . . . I just, um . . . I made a sound. It happens.” Preferably, I would've denied the obvious, but that was about as pointless as insisting a smooth sphere had sharp corners. “That's right. It was nothing serious,” Embee said to the onlookers collectedly, thankfully taking some of the burden off my back. “It was only cold water, and when it's cold, and I don't expect it, and um, then . . . I yelped, because, you know, suddenly cold.” Ignoring how flustered I had sounded, I took myself close to the shower and stuck out my forelimb to literally test the waters. “And now it's warm. The water's warm, not the cold. But I guess, it sort of is, because the cold is now warm . . .” “Are you all right?” the talkative Gordon asked. The way I was being looked at, I had a strong suspicion my sanity was being scrutinized. “I'm, um, I'm fine . . . uh, just fine,” I stammered. “Hey, no pressure, hon,” Embee said to me, showing me a reassuring smile. She then faced the audience of two. “I'm sorry, being the center of attention makes her nervous.” What a surprisingly accurate supposition. “Yeah,” I affirmed promptly. “I see,” the Gordon look-a-like said, nodding. “Well, you simply think about how you don't have to be afraid, and take it chill.” He had a courteous tone, but his accent intrigued me. After sighing deeply and recovering some of my calmness, I unglued my legs and turned around lethargically. My wits then produced something possibly funny. “But not the shower, since a chill shower is uncool, which in turn is thermodynamically incongruous,” I explained, as if carefully correcting a misconception. The spectating female offered a two-syllable laugh. “You're trying to be funny, but honestly, that was lame.” The anonymous female's words were as thorny as pillows, but accented Gordon gave her a disapproving glance. “Lame as a lime since lame and lime seem same,” I responded spontaneously, albeit awkwardly, doing my best to smile puckishly. “Wonderful display.” With the back of his hand facing me, he gave me the thumbs up. “You're now qualified to not be as boring as dishwater.” Based on his mellow but bizarre compliment, I had helped engender a casual—or an offbeat—atmosphere. “Well, um, thanks!” Now that I had hastily overcome my bewilderment with a sufficiently cheerful response, I was going to ask them to leave. My eyes were relaxed, I pitched my head down a little with a furtive sigh, and maintained my small smile. This was going to be my demurely cute pose. “Anyhow,” I started with a soft croon. “Would the two of you kindly give me some privacy?” My inflection was so exquisitely sweet that I hardly believed it myself. It actually made me feel weird on the inside, like I was both curious and cautious of transcending past variable femininity into behaviorally female. This would be a recurring dilemma beyond doubt. “We have better things to do than peep on a funny mare taking a shower, don't we?” he said to the woman next to him with a touch of humor. She concurred with a nonchalant hum. “Oh, but one thing, Embee—Or two. Is it fine if I call you Emmy? It has a nice ring to I think.” Embee hemmed. “I prefer Embee, thank you.” “A name like Mismysmas rings like a cracked bell,” the female quipped. “That's very flattering,” he replied with benign sarcasm; she curled her lips to the side, facetiously unimpressed before leaving wordlessly. “But, eh. I'm sorry. Forget what I said, Embee. My idea was bad now that I think of it. You like your nickname, and everyone calls you by it.” This guy's parlance was truly activating my cerebral neurons. I wouldn't say he was Russian, though, even if the accent kind of sounded like it. “Don't feel bad about it, Lucek,” Embee said gently. “Thank you, but it's cool. No skin has come off my back.” That wasn't how the idiom went. “So, the one thing I want to say.” He reached into his pocket, retrieving what was most likely a phone. “I found a song that's much like by the band your sister plays in.” Embee's sister was in a band? So much for her being Rainbow Dash. Envisioning her with a Fender Stratocaster made both twenty percent cooler, though. “When you can, you can come and give it a listen.” For how long was this guy gonna stick around? “Hey,” I interposed myself. “You can give me the requested privacy when you can. Such as now.” I still had my sweet tone going on . . . He backed a little, facing his palms toward us. “Okay, okay.” He chuckled amiably. “I'm very sorry, miss.” There was that unspeakable honorific again. Resigned but piqued, a long sigh rolled out my mouth. “Don't get mad, please. You'll get your privacy . . . now!” Never having lost his easygoing decorum, he reached for the door. “Pa pa.” What a strange thing to say; he was evidently off his rocker—or on drugs. Also, what kind of a name was Lucek? Or would it be spelled Lusec? Regardless, he was finally gone! “Way to go.” Embee giggled. “You sure asserted yourself there.” Her compliment colored my cheeks in bashful pink. “Well, um . . . Yeah, I did,” I concurred. “Say, do you think he assumed I'd stay here with you?” she followed with a rhetorical question. “You could go and ask?” I suggested, although joking about two females sharing a shower was tempting. Perhaps Night Light would propose to do that? I didn't doubt she'd again try to get me out of the perceived closet—and then she'd try to get intimate. “I wager he was yanking our tails.” Embee's smile developed into a smirk. “But when you asked them to leave, you didn't say the three of you, did you?” She emphasized the implied omission by placing her hoof to her chest. “Oh, hahah, oops?” I tittered, flustered. “Maybe, uh, maybe I think you're so amazing I wouldn't want to be by myself?” I theorized jokingly as Embee approached the door. “Maybe,” Embee insinuated lightheartedly, opening the door. “Anyhow, you can start showering any time you want. Oh! See that sponge?” Her gaze indicated where to look. Politeness prevailed over sarcasm. “Yes, I do.” The sponge was mostly green, its white and rougher side facing us. “I'm guessing it's clean.” Because if it weren't, she'd advise against using it. “I'm sure it is,” she said without a shred of doubt in her tone. “So, use it to scrub yourself, if you can or want to.” I gave her a blank stare, then looked down at my maladroit hooves before cursorily eying the pliable sponge. Of course, the apparent incompatibility was of little concern when I had telekinesis. However, applying the sponge to myself would mean getting intimate with my physical self, which I predicted to be highly unsettling. “Well . . . I'll try, but no promises,” I said, not even bothering to downplay my trepidation. “Kind of have to go the hands-free way. I know how to spool up this horn on my head, but if I said it's like having disembodied hands . . . Uhh, no, that's not right. Like having a tactile sense beyond my body? Hmmh, that's closer . . .” “Hey, just make it a priority to avoid upsetting yourself. You don't need to use magic if that worries you,” Embee reassured. “Oh, no,” I shook my head lightly. “Using it doesn't worry me. I guess I'd worry more about how I'm using it so well after relatively short practice sessions. But that doesn't concern me as much as my conflicts between mind and body does.” I realized something, and then facehoofed. “Ugh, now it's me who keeps yapping. Okay, asking for your advice on how to cope with all sorts of things and talk things through would be great, but now's really not the time. I need to shower, and I'm wasting precious water.” I felt genuinely bad about all that unused water going down the drain . . . “I'm more than happy to be of help, but you're perfectly right. We can talk later.” She took herself outside, apparently convinced I could take care of myself. “I'll see you in a bit. Just remember: Don't do anything you're not comfortable doing.” Then the door was closed. Her parting advice was simple, yet commendable. The room was becoming humid, and the rushing water radiated warmth. I pictured myself from a third person perspective: discontent was evident on my face, as I had no clue what to do but become thoroughly soaked. That image reminded of my sensitive ears. They'd strongly disagree with the impacts of innumerable droplets. They didn't have to be sensitive, but such was the case with uncontrollable self-image clashes. However, they had been struck by water just minutes earlier, and I hadn't even noticed. “Okay, trial by fire. Er, trial by water.” I took a deep breath, steeling myself, then ventured toward the waiting cascade. But wait! I had an astonishing opportunity here . . .