To be honest, I wasn’t sure how to start this. Not because I don’t have anything to tell, but I’m not exactly sure how to put this into words. I imagine if anypony else were in my horseshoes, there probably isn’t any easy way to even admit it out loud – let alone write this down. Maybe the best way to do so is to just come up front and say it: no sugar-coating, no white lies, no twisting of anything. I’m just going to come out and say it.
My name is Abila, I’m one of the cashiers at your husband’s store, and I… I had sex with your husband twice a week for the past three years – he pays me.
At this point, I can imagine you probably have stopped reading altogether. I can see you marching down to wherever Filthy is to rip him a new one. Look, if I were you, I would probably be furious beyond belief too. I might have even castrated the bastard on the spot before even thinking of divorcing him. I get it. I honestly do. However, if there is any part of you that’s even remotely curious why I’m even writing to you at all, I’m appealing to that in hopes that maybe you may get an understanding of both our predicaments.
Chances are, you might have seen me before. When I moved from Zebrica, I had sought after for a job – any at all. I won’t lie to you that at the beginning, it was hard for me. Not only was I an immigrant who didn’t know anything except for Equestrian and mathematics – but I came to this land as someone who stood out like a blistered hoof. You may notice there aren’t that many Zebras in Ponyville except for the one who lives in the Everfree. (And before you ask, no, I don’t know Zecora that well, she’s from a different part of Zebrica that I’m not too familiar with.) So needless to say, I didn’t have much to turn to when I arrived. Of course, my first worry was to get a job, and everywhere I went, everyone said that they were full or weren’t interested in hiring me.
No one, except for your husband’s business. I didn’t expect to work at Barnyard Bargains, but it was the only place in town that would take me. After all, being good at math even when the cash registers broke, I could calculate how much ponies owe in my head. In no time at all, I was earning enough to rent a place for me to live in. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting to make so much so quickly to make myself financially stable.
Nor did I expect your husband.
By now, you might be wondering how exactly I went from being a cashier to being your husband’s whore… Three years ago, I had been working at your husband’s store for about four or so months. At first, I didn’t think much about your husband. My impression of him was that he was a strict but fair boss who wanted to make sure that you arrived on time and did your work effectively. And it seemed like that way to me, but I started to notice some things. Like how he would ask how my day was, if I needed help on anything, or even get me lunch. That might not sound like much to you, but I had the feeling I was selected for special treatment as none of my other employees ever got this, even when they worked for years. I also caught him giving lingering stares at me as though I was hypnotizing him. He laughed at my jokes and blushed when I made small talk with him.
One day, out of nowhere when the store was closing, Filthy had asked me to see him in his office. At first, I thought that I might have done something wrong, but I couldn’t figure out what. Of course, I was nervous when I stepped inside, and he asked me to close the door behind me. I thought he was going to fire me for some reason.
Instead, he asked me to pull up a chair and pull out a couple of classes and a flask from his desk. He assured me that I wasn’t in trouble, just wanted to sit me down for a chat. Being after hours, I figured that there wasn’t any harm in drinking with the boss. At first, it started casually, him asking how I liked working there. But then things took a turn when I described the conditions that I lived in. Being a newly arrived immigrant, most of my pay went into a tiny room that was barely left over enough to feed myself. I was living in poverty, I told him. His checks were enough to live, but not much else. He then asked why I was willing to endure this, and I told him about where I came from. About my land that was struggling to live, and that I knew I simply didn’t belong there.
And thanks to the alcohol, I also let slip that I fled here for my safety. Because I’m a homosexual, where I come from, if folks knew that I was one they would have put me to death. Filthy in turn was sympathetic to my plight. He then shared with me what I never expected. He was married, yes, but he wasn’t in it. He had a daughter that he cared about, but he expressed how trapped he was in his marriage to you. For years and years, he endured living with “the bitch” as he calls you. That despite having been married and tried to make the effort to love you, the only thing you’ve done is use you as a blank check. Where affection like getting a kiss is rare, and the only time you go up to talk to him is to complain about what’s wrong.
He also told me this: “Except for my daughter, if I had to do it all again, I wouldn’t have married her. But back then, I didn’t have much of a choice since my daddy arranged it before he could ask what I would have wanted. You see, in a way, I’m like you. That I’d prefer stallions, but I couldn’t come out back in those days… and I still feel that way even now.”
With a small smile, he told me that he liked me. Perhaps we could come to an arrangement of sorts. Simply put, if I would give him some… company every couple of days a week, not only would I get those days off, but he would pay me a good deal extra for it. And yes, even back then I knew what he was asking for – to basically prostitute myself. But understand that I earned just enough to barely eat. I was desperate, and even I thought this would be wrong. Then again… what choice did I have?
I said yes, as long as it was temporary.
Now at this point if you’re wondering if I’m probably lying, here’s some of what I know about you and the mansion I go to every Tuesday and Thursday. Your gate code is 8472. You tend to leave for shopping at eleven and you’re usually gone until four. You enter through the front door where next to it are three copies of Ponies Magazines. The staircase leads up to a window with a view of the garden with an umbrella tree at its center where the stairs split. Your daughter’s room is down the hall to the right, your bedroom is down straight ahead to the left. Inside the bedroom is painted white while the scent of lavender is constantly present, and you have satin white sheets on your queen-size bed.
While you were away with your butler shopping, I would slip in through the kitchen where Filthy would meet me. I started it off with these corny one-liners like, “I knew I would find something extra spicy in the kitchen.” From there, we go upstairs to your bedroom to carry out the affair. Depending on the day, sometimes it would be something quick while other times we would lie there in bed for hours until it was clear that you arrived. Now he never paid me at his place, but I would be in the weekly check I get at work where he signed it with hearts on it. Checks, by the way, ranged an additional thousand on top of my usual wages. He even added more depending on what I did for him such as fifty bits if I finished on his face, and fifty more if I kissed him afterward.
I have a confession to make. During that time, I had liked your husband. I wanted to, but there were certain aspects of him that had rubbed me the wrong way – on top of the whole prostituting myself thing. Not to say that he was a monster, because he wasn’t simply that.
For example, in the afterglow of sex, Filthy can be a total sweetheart. The way he would talk that for a moment made me think he did care. That I was what kept him going. That life is so much richer and wished that he could marry me instead. He would melt in an embrace and treat every kiss as though he tasted the best thing in the world. Filthy would laugh at my playful jabs, and yet cry when I told him about my escape from Zebrica.
Even before we did anything as soon as I arrived, he would give these thoughtful gifts to me. For example, one Hearths Warming he presented me with a gift of a specially made shroud of white and purple – symbols of sacredness and love – that he imported from where I was from. Another time when he learned that I didn’t have any winter clothes, he gave me the best there was, so I didn’t freeze. Before you ask, no, I never once prompted him to do this, he told me that he did so because he wanted to.
Behind closed doors when it’s only us, I felt that I could truly be myself around him, even when we didn’t… you know. For a while, he seemed not just the only pony, but the only being period that I could talk to. Not just for when some days were just bad, and I needed an ear to vent out without judgment. Although, that too. Even when it’s just something boring he paid close attention like a student to a teacher.
However, from my experience, he was as deceitful as he was compassionate. At times when I go to bed at night, I often wonder if you could taste a part of me that had bitter your rare kisses towards him. This is because as soon as we were finished, he would go towards the bathroom to scrub his face and his coat fiercely, trying to hide what we just did from sight. Yet, I don’t think he had ever brushed his teeth, so it made me wonder if you had ever suspected something off just from the taste alone.
What exactly we do, I won’t dare write it here. But I will say that every time I go there, I often wonder if I’m just his personal sex toy to be played with in ways that he couldn’t have in the past. Being “pent-up” as it were from years of not giving anyone, least of all you any hit that he’s something he’s not. Every time he would shower me with compliments and kisses like a desperate worshiper, relieved to finally pay homage. For a while, I was conflicted about how he simultaneously could be seen as a thing of pleasure and an idol to be worshiped. Even now I still don’t know.
And there were plenty of times when your husband had taken it too far. Where I did get angry at him. For example, remember that time he had bruises around his neck, and he told everypony that he got into a bar fight? Don’t believe him! I choked him twice. The first time because he asked me to. The second time he called me his “Little Stripy Colt.” Yes, I did finish. Yes, he finished harder. And yes, he did pay me extra to apologize for it, but I still haven’t forgiven him for that. Because it wasn’t the last time he called me that.
Outside of our hook-ups, Filthy barely acknowledged me at all. He didn’t talk to me or even look at my direction, even while I worked. The whole experience was like a mental whiplash where he’s colder than snow in public yet warm as a fire behind closed, locked doors. The worst part of that is that I knew why – I was his dirty little secret. He may pay me to earn more than enough for a real place to live and never going hungry, but it was disheartening week after week when outside of those blissful few hours, I was nothing but a ghost to him.
Even when we happened to see each other on the street where I would wave at him – he never once waved back. That might not sound like much to you, but to someone who hasn’t even made that many friends to the point where I don’t know who to trust… that hurts. Being ignored by someone whom you got to know and yet pretends that he doesn’t. More often than not, I often feel isolated and ostracized out in public. Where he never gave a hello back, never reached out for my hoof when I offered it, and never even smiled when ponies were looking.
I had endured this for three years. Years that I told myself that this would be temporary; years that I would get more than what my employees get in a month; and years of lying to myself that maybe… he liked me back.
And yet, for all his faults, I did feel sorry for him. One time I asked him while lying in your bed I asked him why he never revealed to anypony that he’s gay. After all, I thought Equestria was more tolerant of homosexuals.
He shook his head and told me, “If only that were simple. Growing up, the only way that you could get ahead was to pretend that you were like everypony else. In school, my classmates taught me that being gay makes you effeminate, weak, and the worst thing you could be besides being a murderer. My daddy, as much as I love him, didn’t think anypony that was gay were even people at all, and he saw me as his good little colt. Imagine if I came out to him – I probably wouldn’t even survive. Then after I married Spoiled, I still had an image to keep. I was the head, if not the face of Barnyard Bargains. A face to rural ponies considered as trustworthy, normal – like them. If I came out now, they probably would have my business boycotted until I shut down. We might have more rights than any other place in the world – but we’re not free from the ponies that only see us as freaks.”
He won my sympathy, but lately, he has not earned my forgiveness.
About a week ago, I arrived at the mansion at the usual time through the kitchen when I noticed that Filthy wasn’t there. At first, I was confused as he never told me he was going out of town or made any changes. I assumed he probably had something in mind upstairs, so I went up, opened the bedroom door… and I found him alright. He was in a… compromising position with another stallion.
The truth is, I don’t have to imagine the betrayal you probably feel towards your husband. You don’t have to tell me how heartbroken you might be; or enraged what he did – because I know… the bastard lied to me. The one I turned to when I felt down or was wonderful behind closed doors… he lied to me. How he said that I was the only one for him, how he can’t imagine life without me, how much he trusts me… He lied. He lied at every step of the way.
I was too shocked to be in the same room and too angry to even speak. I ignored his pleadings for me to stay, that it was a misunderstanding or whatever. No matter what he says or does, I was done. I galloped out of there with tears running down my face, it was too much for me.
Needless to say, I quit my job the same day, both as his cashier and as his whore. I didn’t want anything to do with him after something like that. And luckily for me, I had more than enough to move away from Ponyville. More than enough to start again from someplace else.
I’m writing this to you because I think you and I have come to the same conclusion. He’s a lair. You could say that my letter to you is my final “screw you” to your husband.
Insensitive? Perhaps.
Cruel? Maybe.
Yet, I feel that if this was the other way around, and I found out that the one I’ve married to has not only been having an affair but has paid stallions to sleep with for years… I figured that it’s better to know the truth of it than never knowing it at all.
Signed,
- Abila.
P.S. Now that you know, what happens next is entirely up to you. You could confront him about it, sit down, and maybe talk it over like adults. Perhaps you could get a marriage counselor to work out what you two ought to do next. You could probably divorce the bastard.
Then again, you might not even believe me, which is understandable. If that’s the case, then you keep yourself unaware at your own risk. Try to see who comes to the mansion when you go out, and then come back inside to see what your husband is up to.
The only thing from you I could ask is simply to forgive me. I single-hoofingly killed your marriage without meaning to. I kept this secret for three years and only recently had the nerve to finally tell you. If you ever do see me again, just know that I am truly sorry to you and your filly. I know was desperate at the time, but that is still no excuse for agreeing to go along with it.
I am deeply sorry.