Rustic's Expeditionary Outfitters was not the place that Sundance was expecting, but then again, what was he expecting? Upon entering, he was left frozen, transfixed to the spot by an enormous display of lace doilies, the largest, most humongous display of lace doilies that Sundance had ever seen. Also, the only the display of lace doilies he had ever set eyes on.
“He doesn’t look very adventury. He doesn’t look like much at all.”
“Shut your suck hole, Rustic.” Hennessy went stiff-legged and his ears stood straight up. “He just took over the Sunfire Barony. Give him time. Sure, he’s green, but he’s already making a name for himself.”
“Yeah, that landing that everypony won’t shut up about. So you’re that bird-brain that braved the storm.” Rustic cocked his head off to one side and the flamboyant unicorn studied Sundance, who was still frozen in place. “Mmm-mmm, somepony is taken with the doilies. Hennessy, you’ll finally have somebody to talk to about your collection.”
It took some effort, but Sundance finally broke the spell that kept him fixated upon the doilies and had a look around. This place had… everything. Quite literally everything that might be needed on an expedition. Overhead in the rafters were canoes and kayaks, some of which had mounting hardware, no doubt to turn them into makeshift airships. Bolts of cloth, boxes of food, crates of rations, canteens, packs, saddlebags, outerwear, survival-wear, and things that Sundance—a city pony—had never seen.
“Give him the discount, Rustic.”
“No—”
“Damn you, Rustic. Some of us are trying to make Equestria a better place. You know, the sort of place you fled to so that you could escape prosecution. So your cock-loving head would stay on your girly, deep-throating little neck.”
“No.”
“No? Rustic, don’t be a stingy asshole.” Hennessy drew himself up to his full height and towered over the outright effeminate unicorn. “I’m trying to set you up with a lifelong customer, you ungrateful limp-bottom!”
“Fine!” Rustic rolled his eyes while backing away. Once he was a few steps back, he stopped, licked his teeth, and then turned an overly-attentive stare upon Sundance. “I’ll do it because he’s cute and with some luck, I’ll get to see him try some stuff on. I bet he’d look exquisite in flannel.”
“Rustic, you sound like a tea kettle. I swear, it’s like steam escaping.”
“Speak for yourself, you lispy power-bottom!”
“Both of you are too gay for words,” shouted a stallion from the back of the warehouse shop. “Get a room, ladies!”
“Flicker doesn’t share,” Rustic whined while fanning himself. “Just thinking of him gives me the vapours. All those… muscles!”
With no warning, Rustic sashayed off, shivering, biting his lip, his tail bobbing, and he vanished through a garish pink curtain behind the counter. Sundance watched him go, then turned to look at Hennessy, and found that his tall earth pony friend had also watched Rustic vanish.
“I swear,” Hennessy whispered, “that’s the only stallion I’ve ever met that’s made me want to be a top. Now I have the vapours. Oh, I fear I shall expire.” Lifting one hoof, the tall earth pony fanned himself while breathing hard.
Sundance took a deep breath. The air smelled—no, tasted—of something floral. There was also the scent of something spicy, something that was almost—but not quite—rum. Even the air was confusing in this place, a strange mix of feminine and masculine. While it was quite pleasant, it was also rather terrifying, as it brought up all of the confusion and doubt that he had suffered in school, the not-knowing.
A well-coiffed unicorn approached, his eyeglasses flashing, reflecting the overhead lights, and he gave Sundance a good once over. Sundance, almost sweating, found that he couldn’t move, and even stranger, he didn’t mind how he was being studied. After a good look up and down, the bespectacled unicorn let out an appreciative hiss.
“This is the best place in all of Canterlot to find a top.”
Confused, a bit alarmed, Sundance stared down at the floor while he replied, “I’m sorry, I don’t quite catch your meaning.”
“He doesn’t know.” The unicorn sidestepped a few times until he stood beside Hennessy. “Bad form, Henny. You know the rules!”
“I thought he knew, honest—”
“Thought I knew what?” Lifting his gaze from the floor, Sundance tried to ignore how his face was burning.
“I’ve made a dreadful mistake.” Hennessy’s voice was quiet, a little squeaky, and nervous.
“Henny, I’m not even sure if he’s gay.”
Sundance felt the floodgates threaten to give way. Suddenly, he was in school again, confused, curious, and trying to be mindful of how he stared—and who he stared at. He had buried all of this, retreated to his room, and had escaped into the delightful fantasy of porn, because nothing about himself had made sense.
“Oh, this… this is bad,” the bespectacled unicorn said, the first hints of panic manifesting in his voice. “Rustic! Quick, serve tea!”
“What’s going on out there?” Rustic called out from beyond the curtain.
“We have a confused sub that doesn’t know his north or south!”
“Shit!” An unseen Rustic practically hissed out the word. “Directional crisis!”
Life had funny twists and turns. Suddenly, without warning, Sundance was having an impromptu tea party with relative strangers, all of whom were as fabulously gay as could possibly be imagined. While he was rather uncomfortable with himself, he was quite comfortable with them, though for the life of him, he couldn’t possibly explain why.
Not a word had been said about his sexual orientation, whatever that might happen to be, and what little that had been said had been small talk. Blessed, comforting small talk that drew attention away from his discomfort. Rustic was a marvellous host, Turmeric, the bespectacled unicorn, seemed okay enough, and poor Hennessy, he seemed to be torturing himself.
Unwilling, or perhaps unable to look directly at his flamboyant companions, Sundance stared at a collection of sturdy pith helmets hanging on the wall. To admit that there might be some kinship here—some strange sense of fellowship—would be too much to bear. Yet, somehow, they seemed to know more about him than he did about himself, even if, perhaps, the initial assumption might be wrong.
When looking at porn, Sundance had always fantasised about being the fronkee, rather than the fronker. It was his shameful secret. Stallions were biologically designed to be the givers, rather than the recievers. Yet, he found himself in the company of receivers, which he only knew existed because of porn. Confusing porn that he had spent too many hours looking at; not even pleasuring himself—just trying to figure out what was what. And why.
“So, did you come to outfit an expedition?” Rustic asked while holding his petite, dainty teacup just beneath his fuzzy chin.
Startled, Sundance drew in a deep breath and every feather on both wings stood out. Yanking his eyes free from the pith helmets, he glanced at his host for a few seconds, and then gazed at the teapot in the center of the table. “I wanted to do something nice for my peasants. They’ve had it bad. I thought maybe having tea every day might be nice for them. The living conditions in the barony are… they are… well, they are horrendous. But with tea, you just need boiling water, and we have plenty of that. It comes out of cracks in the ground, reeking of eggs.”
Rustic licked his thin mustache with his tongue.
“I need blankets,” Sundance continued, his voice almost cracking from the strain. “But blankets are expensive. I found some earlier, but they were really fancy blankets and I don’t think they would hold up. We don’t even have beds… just wooden shelves raised up off of dirt floors and straw. I tossed my straw into the fire, because it was itchy.”
In silence, Turmeric nibbled a pink-frosted teacake.
“A new peasant arrived… I’m still not comfortable calling them peasants. But she has foals. Two of them. And a third on the way. There’s no school. Those foals are dying of boredom. At night, they are cold, miserable, and they cry. I’m several cottages over, and I can hear them. They’re adjusting, I guess, and seem happy enough during the day, but the nights are hard, I guess. I know they are for me. I have to make things better, somehow.”
“Those are expedition conditions,” said Rustic, almost murmuring his words.
“How can the Canterlot Sub Gentlepony Club help?” Turmeric’s face was expressionless, but his eyes were warm.
“I don’t know,” Sundance admitted to his tea-sipping companions. “There’s so much to do. I have ideas, but I don’t know where to begin. Right now, I’m just trying to accomplish the little things that can be done with the hopes that some momentum will help me move on to the bigger things.”
“I got involved when he mentioned crying foals.” Rustic’s eyes darted to and fro and his ears splayed out sideways. “I heard too much of that just before I left home. I couldn’t do anything about it then, but I can do something about it now.”
“You big sissy softy—”
“Oh, stick a cake in it, Turmeric.” Rustic took a sip of tea, another, and then pulled his cup away. “We can help each other, my fabulously feathered friend. Oh gosh… look at me. I’ve just met you, and already I’m proposing.” He made a limp-fetlocked wave, tittering as he swung his hoof back and forth.
Sundance sat up straight, shoved his conflicted emotions aside, and responded with, “I’m listening.”
“You said boiling water comes up out of the ground, right?” Rustic’s hoof continued to swing from side to side, as if it were a pendulum.
“It does.”
“I have clients who would pay handsomely for the chance to, uh, rough it for a while. A little weekend getaway. They have very different standards about what roughing it is, but a luxurious wilderness retreat would be ideal. Especially one with a fabulous bathhouse fed by natural hot springs. Yes, a big gay bathhouse would be especially exciting. Stupendous.”
“All that hissing, sounds like we’re sitting in a bathhouse already—”
“Henny, don’t make me spank you.” Rustic squinted one eye at the earth pony for a moment, and then returned his attention to Sundance. “As a good faith gesture, I will supply your peasants with comfort and good cheer. Every month. As for you and I, a fifty-fifty split on profits seems more than fair. I’ll pay for the costs of building, the maintenance, everything. All you’ll have to do is sit back and collect rent—your half of the profits.”
“That sounds almost too good to be true.” Sundance sat up a little straighter, rubbed the side of his neck with the knuckle of his folded wing, and stared down into his teacup while thinking about what had just been proposed.
“If I did nothing but charitable acts, I’d go out of business in a hurry,” Rustic said, explaining himself. “But I can do charitable business ventures that profit me in some way and allow me to keep my doors open. I just bought a luxury yacht from a tax auction, and now I have a glamorous getaway. I can sell ponies a destination and the ticket that takes them there. Over time, I can keep making improvements to the bathhouse. Perhaps build a resort. The future is wide open. This helps you, but more importantly, it helps me so I can continue to help you.” The effeminate unicorn leaned forwards, smiled a warm, bright smile, and gave Sundance a flirtatious wink.
“When it comes to business, Rustic is a top.” Turmeric waited, perhaps fearing reprisal, and when none seemed forthcoming, he continued, “He started this place with nothing. Quite literally, nothing at all. He somehow convinced a banker to give him a loan. I still don’t know how he did that. Then he went into business and he dominated in a way that subs typically don’t. Now, he’s a Canterlot institution. Every mercenary outfit that leaves the city, every university expedition, pretty much everypony outfits themselves here, at Rustic's Expeditionary Outfitters. Even the Royal Family does business here.”
“I’ll not risk my good standing with the Royal Family to screw you over, so that might be the best assurance I can offer?” Rustic slurped some tea, waved his hoof a bit more, and gave Sundance a pleasant nod. “I can have my lawyer draw up papers but even before ink goes to paper, I can let you leave with everything you need.”
“I accept.” Sundance hoped that he hadn’t just made a mistake.
“A toast is in order,” Rustic said while raising his cup. “In the immortal words of the Canterlot Sub Gentlepony Club, bottoms up!”