Glamorama

by Guy_Incognito

Thirty Nine.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.