//------------------------------//
// Oceans 
// Story: Glamorama 
// by Guy_Incognito 
//------------------------------//

	



Pool.





I’m laying belly up and almost naked in a lawn chair by the pool. I can feel my body baking in the sun, and I’m almost done my third -- maybe fourth -- Vodka Lime. I’m wearing sunglasses, which I think is good because out of the corner of my eye I’m sort of watching -- more so observing -- the pool boy, and have been for the past half an hour.

He’s young, an Earth Pony, his coat is brown and his hair is fair and golden. He’s almost naked, like myself, just a pair of festive shorts with little white flowers against the blank red material -- which, I think is either suede or polyester -- on his hips and some kind of locket linked by a chain that dangles under his neck. His body is toned, muscular and I find him very attractive. 

I watch as he continues to use some kind of net that he gently wades through the deep end of the pool, he pauses for a second when the net hits a snag, drops the net and moves toward what I think is some kind of skimmer or something. Its a circle shaped hole on the side with a silver lid that he opens and dips his right hoof into.

I just sit and watch. His flank is hidden behind the baggy shorts so I only have the chest of this adonis to really admire in my semi-drunken haze. This, I think, is more than a fair trade.

I’ve been here for three days now, at my brother’s villa just off the coast. Watching over his estate while he’s still in The Gryphon Kingdom on a business trip. After whatever it was that happened/didn’t happen to me at The ‘Pony a few days ago, I had to leave Canterlot. I had to get out and away from that city, and my brother is the only pony I know in all of Equestria who has a piece of land far enough away from Canterlot that I don’t have to make a point of avoiding ponies I know in the streets. 

There’s a few minutes where the pool boy just sort of plays around in the skimmer. He looks kind of frustrated and I feel like I should get up and flirt with him under the pretense of helping him fix whatever is wrong with the pool, until I realize this idea comes on only because I’m half drunk and also that if I did, he’d certainly turn me down, and that thought vanishes. I lay back down, crane my neck backwards and close my eyes. 

It’s a perfect day; there’s no wind coming in from the north, the sky is a beautiful blue, peppered with little white puffs that don’t block out the sun and I can see, but not hear, the ocean from my brother’s porch. I imagine the scene set out before me is what artists all across Equestria strive to bring to life on blank canvases, and I’m living in it. Everything about today reminds me that my brother was smarter than a lot of ponies are for moving away from Canterlot.  

I stare back down and the pool boy is staring at me, smiling, and I smile back. Maybe I was wrong about him? It’s possible he’s interested in me, or recognizes me, because a gleam appears in his eye and his smile brightens. 

He’s much younger than me, probably nineteen or twenty, and I realize that even if I’m somehow right about him, there are so many potential heartaches and pains that come associated with banging (Or rather, being banged by.) my brother’s poolboy that it’s not worth it to pursue it. 

Either way I’m watching him as he floats towards me. There’s a melancholy look to his face and I’m almost convinced it’s a flirtatious grin; this gives me some kind of ego boost and I sit up in the lawnchair and just watch as the space between us gets smaller and smaller until he’s right in front of me, his body casting a shadow over mine. He’s almost looming. 

“Mr Toity...” He says, grinning.

“I’m afraid so,” I tease back, almost purring. 

I’m convinced now that, based only on the fact that he knows me by name, there’s some kind attraction to me--or at the very least an understanding of who and what I am--and this makes me some kind of giddy; my blood spikes and I eagerly await what he has to say.

“Yeah,” his grin fades, and he stares down at me with an uncertainty in his eyes. “There’s two dead rats caught in the skimmer, dude.”

“Oh...” Is all I say. 

‘Useless.’ ‘Stupid.’ ‘Embarrassed.’ ‘Ashamed.’ and, ‘Disappointed.’ are all words I could use to describe how I feel at the moment.

“It happens sometimes.” He states matter-of-factly, and, even though I’m 100% certain he’s referring to the dead animals in my brother’s skimmer -- and not my internal monologue -- I feel at ease.

He takes a seat across from me, in another lawnchair separated by a marble table where my half empty bottle of Vodka, a bowl of slowly melting ice and Clemmon’s Lime Mix are. 

“They must have come out of the sticks and gone for a swim last night?” I kind of joke, trying to break some kind of tension that is probably only in my head. The kid grins, reaches into the pocket of his shorts and takes out a pack of cigarettes. 

It’s kind of morbid to think how their deaths came about; I hate to imagine these two gigantic disease ridden beasts prowling boastfully in my brother’s otherwise spotless backyard when I was sleeping. Them, fat, hairy and gross, doing some kind of non verbal communication then deciding to take a little dip in the pool, splashing around in the water, mucking and infecting with their bodies, then just drowning, sinking to the bottom, getting sucked into the skimmer and remaining there, dead and disease ridden, until the poolboy found them.

It bothers me that I was planning to do laps in the pool later today.

I kind of shudder thinking about all this, and the kid lights his cigarette.

“It happens sometimes,” He repeats after exhaling a cloud of smoke through his nose. The way he does it still kind of excites me and I’m tempted, platonically, to ask him to join me for a drink. “I think it was the chlorine that killed them. Rats are like, allergic to that shit... or something.” 

He continues to smoke and I continue to think of something, anything, to say to keep the conversation going.

“This happens a lot?” I muse, he turns back to me and shrugs.

“I guess.” 

“Hmm,” I nod.

The kid, still sitting and smoking, seems to take some subconscious cue from me and reaches into the cooler, pulls out a bottle of Coltrona Lime from a case of six I had been drinking earlier in the day, cracks it open and takes a sip.

I lift my Vodka Lime about to take a sip when the kid chuckles and, with his beer still raised, clinks the bottom of his beer against the bottom of the tumbler. 

“Fuckin’ aye,” He says, and, I feel a sense of comradery with this kid, it might not be romantic, or lustful, but at least he acknowledges me as some kind of equal. 

It feels nice.

“Hot as fuck out, eh?” He states, downing almost half the beer in one long gulp, then wipes the bottom of the bottle clean across his forehead. 

I nod. 

“You here for a while, Mr. Toity?” He asks, finishing the beer and reaching for another. I’m curious why he’s curious, but don’t intend to bring it up. 

“A few days, I suppose.” 

“Good stuff,” He says with a casualness to it. He takes another sip of beer and drops his cigarette in the empty bottle. A few dying trails of smoke rise out from the opening at the top, then nothing.

“You go into town at all?”

‘Town’ is actually ‘Palm Hills.’, it’s a small -- quaint -- town of about four or five hundred, no more than twenty minutes away from my brother’s place. It has a certain appeal to it; like most small towns do. It’s the kind of place I’d never want to live but can certainly visit from time to time when I’m having a midlife crisis induced vacation at my brother’s summer home. 

Again, I nod.

“You should come out tonight,” he urges. “I’m playing a show at Little Rock Cafe, and I’ve got some friends who’d kill to meet you, dude.”

I kind of like the way he calls me ‘Dude.’. It makes me feel young. Hip. Relevant. It’s a lovely counter to being called ‘Sir.’ or ‘Mr.’. 

I finish my Vodka Lime and agree to his proposal with a nod. 

“Killer.” He says. “Show’s at Eight, doors open at Seven-Thirty, don’t worry about cover or anything, just tell them ‘Rip from Oceans said you could get in.” 

‘Rip.’, I imagine is the kid and, ‘Oceans’ his band. Based on the name of the band and the venue, I’m picturing a night of being the oldest colt in the crowd who isn’t one of the band member’s parents, sitting alone at a booth in the back, drinking a local beer or maybe a bourbon, in this cafe that’s filled with colts and fillies who wear glasses without lenses, berets, fedoras and scarfs even if it’s hot enough to cook marshmallows, listening to an acoustic and drum set, followed by an impromptu poetry reading.

Either way, it’s something interesting to do tonight. 

The kid, Rip, looks at his watch then sighs, heavy. He downs the rest of a second beer he’d cracked open, and stands up.

“Your brother only pays me to be here ‘till three.” He says as he stands up. “I should probably take off.”

I know I want him to stay, but I can’t honestly think up an excuse that doesn’t border on creepy or desperate or needy, so I just lay back down. I watch him finish up for the day, with the pool net he fishes out the two dead rats; which look like gigantic, bloated and sopping wet couch cushions. He grabs a garbage bag and just dumps these two dilapidated bodies into it. I can’t imagine where/how he plans on disposing of these bags filled with deceased sewer animals, but, whatever dump takes them is more than an appropriate resting place for them.

I pour myself another drink and cancel indefinitely my plans to take a drunken dip in the pool.





Music.





I’m walking through my brother’s villa now and seething with envy at how fantastic the entire place looks; the living room has an impressive collection of wall sized windows that face the ocean, the floors are all either marble, limestone or granite, and there’s an open-air quality that I would literally kill a pony -- Perhaps, Vinyl Scratch? -- to have at my place in Canterlot. 

I consider getting the name of the designer from my brother, inviting him to stay in Canterlot and have him draw up plans on how to properly remodel my apartment. Then, I realize that I’ve been living in the same Penthouse Loft in The Golden Corral, on Madison Street, for nearly fifteen years. That every time I remodel it just pick a theme and base my surroundings around it. How, I spent three years living in a ‘Gryphon Inspired’ flat until I got tired of the bidet. How, before that, it was a ‘Rustic Urban’ theme with a stone fireplace, an artificial fire I could control with a switch, and a Manticore skin rug in front of it.

Where does the time go?

I collapse in a heap on the couch and pour myself a White Rush-In, One part Vodka, Two parts Khaloua and a dash of milk. There’s a moment of peace and calm that washes over me when I take the first sip. I grind my body into the couch, and knowing no one is around to silently judge me on my manners, kick my hooves up on the table and relax, thinking of Rip; the pool boy.

There has to be a reason he invited me? There has to be a reason why he went out of his way to spend time with me by the pool? I know there’s a reason, I just can’t seem to see it.

Maybe he thinks if I like his music I can take his demo tape back to Canterlot and recommend his band to somepony who cares about music. Maybe Octavia? Maybe he’d prefer Vinyl’s stamp of approval? Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. I keep repeating that word and a thousand rhetorical questions along with it in my head until my head starts to spin and I have to stop and finish my drink, which I do in one quick and long gulp.

I pour myself another White Rush-In, this time going a little heavier on the Vodka, a little lighter on the Khaloua and almost skimping entirely on the milk. 

So, Rip, wants me to see his little hipster band? What do I wear to an event like this? Palm Hills isn’t Canterlot so I don’t have to worry too much about how I present myself, but, I do want to make a good impression on Rip and company.

So, how do I dress for a venue that doubles as a coffee shop during the day? A jacket seems too uptight. A shirt too formal. It’s a million degrees outside and half my wardrobe is still packed into my suitcase. My brother, however, has left a decent closet worth of ‘Islander’ clothes; flamboyant shirts with huge petaled flowers made of silken fibres and khaki shorts of differently bleak colours like ‘Pastel’ or ‘Beige’. 

I take a sip from my drink. 

Casual seems right for the event. Of course, for appearance sake I’ll also wear sunglasses and do my mane properly, but, I feel like cutting loose tonight. I want to impress Rip, and his friends, by showing them a pony at my age can still at least be interesting; I doubt any of them would be privy to hear me rant and rave about their music with my malicious criticism so, regardless of how good or bad they end up, I plan out an eloquent review in my head; something like ‘The whole set had a clear, crisp sound and a sheen of consummate professionalism that really gave your songs a big boost.’

I finish the last few drops of my drink, pour myself another--this time a simple Vodka-Rocks, then decide that, if I’m going to show up, I need to be in the right mood. I leave my drink on the table and glide towards my brother’s record collection. It’s impressive, very impressive; he’s got nearly a hundred records by my count and nearly all of them are first editions, as well. 

Now, all I have to do is pick one.

I brush past ‘Sports’ by Huey Lewis and The Hooves, past ‘Cookin’.’ then ‘Relaxin’.’ and ‘My Favorite Things.’ by John Colt-Train, past ‘Dark Side of Luna’s Moon.’ by Pink’s Floyd, past ‘My Best To You.’ by Slim Whitmane and finally settle on an album I’ve never heard of; ‘The Imperial Army’ by some artist named ‘Zamphir’. It strikes me that this album might be exactly what I need to get into the mood; there’s a picture of a lone soul; a Zebra with solid stripes and matted fur, against a sunset backdrop. He’s wearing a cowboy hat -- Ironically, I imagine -- and stares away from the camera. 

I put the record on, sit back down, lift my drink and listen.

The first track is a ballad to a mare who broke his heart. The lyrics are cringe worthy and cliche. During the chorus of the song he keeps calling this mare a ‘Total bitch.’ for leaving him, and then he rhymes it with ‘She gave my heart an itch’. I just sigh. Music used to be so much more inventive. 

I finish another drink with gusto and keep listening.

It’s almost a ten minute track at this point, and nothing about it seems to capture any imagination in me. I just keep waiting for the next song and hoping it’s better than the first.

Track two isn’t much better; it’s, what I suppose you could call a ‘sequel’ to the first song, about how this Zebra crooner is pining for the mare he just spent eleven minutes calling a ‘Bitch’ to return to him, and I keep wondering  if this is the standard courting process in Zebra culture; to insult your mate, then come crawling back with your tail tucked between your legs afterwards?

It’s close to six when the album finally ends, I don’t feel any more enlightened than I did an hour ago, just drunker, still confused; especially considering Rip’s -- the pool boy -- show is in an hour and a half and all I’ve been doing to prepare for it is fill my mind with worry and work on a decent drunk.

I finish another drink I kind of forgot that I poured, get up from the couch and decide to prep and groom myself for tonight.





Little Rock Cafe.





It’s Seven-Forty Five by the time I make it to Little Rock Cafe. Like I suspected it’s just an unimpressive coffee shop turned into an afterhours bar of sorts. There’s a line of twenty bodies waiting outside the door, and, unlike in Canterlot I realize I don’t know the bouncer to this place (Who’s actually just a young colt taking bits and stamping the backs of pony’s hooves with a smiley face drawn in felt marker.) so I stand at the back and wait in line.

There are two mares in the line in front of me; they’re either eighteen or nineteen, like Rip, and they’re having a discussion about the show that I’m eavesdropping in on.

“I hope they’re going to play ‘Love Me Tender.’ tonight.” the first one says. I recognize the name of the song. I used to listen to it when I was in my teens, and it surprises me that Rip and his band even know it. 

“Oh, I know!” Mare Two says with a gasp. “Rip has such an amazing voice....”

I kind of blush thinking about Rip, the pool boy, getting on stage and breathing new life into a song I haven’t heard in almost five years. In my mind; it’s him alone on stage. He’s still wearing the pool boy outfit; those baggy shorts and the locket dangling gracefully under his throat. The spotlight shines on him, he’s gripping the microphone stand like he’s romancing a mare, and he’s staring at me, winking. 

Then, I realize how stupid this it is to think about and I float back to reality. 

I’m finally at the front of the line now; the two mares have entered and I stare dumbly at the colt taking tickets when I remember that Rip told me I can get in for free. 

“I... um... Rip... from Oceans said I can get in?” I realize I’m stuttering like a moron. My face flushes up and I’m really glad that this isn’t Canterlot and that there aren’t any ponies with cameras around to immortalize this moment.  

The colt handing out tickets’ face lights up with a smile, however. He doesn’t seem to have noticed my absolutely terrifying brush with stupidity; he just keeps grinning.

“Sweet, you must be ‘Hoity’?” He asks. 

I nod.

“Oh, right on!” He continues. “Yeah, Rip’s been talking about you all day. Lemme just give you a stamp and we’re all good, here.” 

He takes my hoof and draws a smiley face on the back of it with a white felt marker, only, it’s a winking smiley face with a tongue jetting out. I kind of find this funny so I grin at him and even though Rip said that I can get in for free, I reach into my pocket and drop a hoof full of bits into a mayonnaise jar with ‘Support Struggling Bouncers’ on it. 

The colt smiles when I do.




Oceans.




I wasn’t far off with my earlier assumptions for the night’s events, the inside of the cafe is dimly lit; there’s almost fifty bodies; almost of them a decade or two younger than me, filling seats in two pony booths with little candles centered in the middle. There’s a young filly -- twenty five at the oldest -- serving wine and vodka at the counter and the entire focus on the room is on the stage; it’s a plain, hardwood floor lifted a few feet off the ground and small enough for maybe a three (four at the most) bodied band.

I’m in the back, sipping a glass of Chardonnay out of a crystal flute, waiting patiently and internally debating what I’m even here for; is it really to see Rip’s little band play a set of acoustic covers of songs I grew up listening too? Or, do I just think if I do it’ll somehow make me seem more attractive and young and I’ll fill the empty void that age has in my life this way?

Hypothetical and rhetorical questions that I don’t have the answers too seem to be the theme of the day. 

I take another sip of wine and lean back into my seat. It’s 8:00, on the dot, and my heart kind of picks up a pace when I realize anytime now Rip is going to walk on stage and he might see me in the crowd, and he might wave, or he might not. 

My heart is like a jackhammer at this point and I try to drown it by sluggishly downing what’s left in the glass and ordering another one; I’ll be damned if I’m going to become a sweaty panting mess in front of Rip (Especially, if it’s not going to be the fun kind of sweaty and panting mess, which I’d much prefer.) 

Silence fills the room when a spotlight lands on the stage, the curtains open and out walks Rip, handsome, charming and dapper in some kind of black cargo jacket, a tie worn loose around the neck, V-neck shirt and sunglasses. There’s a guitar, an acoustic, strapped around his back and the crowd remains silent as he walks to the mic. 

He has this presence, I can feel it even if that sounds ludicrous, but, as I watch Rip silently take a seat on the stool, swing the guitar around his shoulder and just tune it up, saying nothing, I’m enthralled with him. 

He moves his face close to the mike, finishes plucking strings on the guitar and in a soft and gentle voice speaks for the first time that night.

“This ones called ‘To Live Is To Fly.” 

I don’t recognize the song, I don’t know if it’s an original or a cover, but, what I do know is when he plays I fall in love; not just with him but his general presence, his cool--never cocky--attitude, his unassuming attitude, his everything. He’s no longer ‘Rip The Pool Boy’. Not anymore. Now, he’s ‘Rip: The Musician.” and I find this a much better coat for him to wear. 

His set seems to go on forever, not in a bad way, but, I’m so enchanted by the music and the sound of his voice that it feels like a pain to me when he says ‘Thank you, you’ve been great.” And the crowd explodes into an uproar of ‘Whoops’ and cheer. 

I wonder, silently, if I can use my celebrity--even out here--to sneak into the backroom to ambush Rip: The Musician, and just assault him with praise to see, what, if anything, that does to our borderline friendship. 





Backstage At Little Rock.





I make my way to the backstage by pushing past a crowd of younger fillies (and a few colts) who’ve formed a physical wall before the only door to the back. As I brush against flanks and past heads, I keep uttering an almost pathetic mess of excuses; “Oh, so, sorry.” “I’m with the band.” “I like your hat...” 

That sort of thing.

Finally, I’m backstage and there’s only two doors in what you could call the ‘Green Room’--which is really a worn down couch, table, coffee machine and a TV that’s playing a silent black and white movie--the doors are marked “Performers” and “Staff” and so I head to the right door.

There are a few young colts and mares hanging out on the couch in the Green Room; they’re smoking a joint of something powerful that assaulted my nose and I scoff, they stare at me, almost judging, but say nothing and shrug. 

At Rip’s door I feel the jackhammer in my heart get back to work and I stare, dumbly, at the Red Letters to the words ‘Performers” and hesitantly raise a hoof; worry washes over me and I realize that I’ve prepared nothing to say and I’ll most likely end up a stupid, stuttering, obsolete and aged mess of a Colt Cuddler desperately clinging to the thought that this young Stallion admires me.

I knock either way.

The door swings open and I there’s Rip, standing--super casual--leaning against the doorframe with a gorgeous smirk on his face. There’s are two mares in the room behind him that I can hear giggling, and this actually doesn’t bother me, because they’re also lightly touching each other. 

“Hey, glad you could make it.” Is all Rip says as he leads me into the room. 

I say nothing, just try not to act like such an idiot. 

“This is Misty,” He says, motioning towards one of the mares who’s now sitting on the other’s lap, playing with her hair, “She’s my producer, I guess. That’s her girlfriend, Flume.” 

They’re locked in a romantic engage, their staring deep and intent into each others eyes, they’re inches away from locking lips and this doesn’t seem to excite or bother Rip, he just kind of shrugs.

“Don’t worry about them.” He says.

I don’t.

“That was... um...” I’m struggling to come up with something to say as I just stare at Rip; watching him grab a beer and take a seat on the couch. I watch him as he pats the empty seat beside him, invitingly, and I feel myself take it. “Very... interesting.” 

“Thanks.” Rip says as he leans back into the couch. He tosses his arms along the headrest, and one of his hooves, his right one, just gingerly brushes against my shoulder and it takes everything in me not to shudder.

I can’t remember how or when I became an absolute School-Filly when a good looking colt took interest in me. But, I kind of like it.

“Yes, the... acoustics sounded very...” I kind of mumble “Good. They sounded good.” 

Rip laughs. 

One of the two Filly-Foolers, either Misty or Flume (I actually can’t remember which is which.) turns her head towards me and smiles.

“Yeah, The Rock has a great natural acoustic thing going on,” She says, then giggles when her girlfriend nips at her cheek. “Plus, it never hurts that Rip’s got a voice like a Trottingham Choir Boy.”

Rip smiles, sheepishly, then takes another sip of beer.

“I’m really glad you could make it, Mr. Toity.” He says and I sense the most basic twinge of hesitancy in his voice when he says it. 

I want to play it off with casual disinterest like I would do for a million colts back in Canterlot, to just shrug and offer a simple ‘Well, you know; I always do enjoy a good show.’ to boost his ego, but, the truth is I’m more interested in the fact that he wanted me there than anything else.

“Well, you’re very welcome. It was an extremeley impressive set, and I’m not just saying that.” I hear myself say with confidence. “And, you can just call me ‘Hoity’ if you’d like.” 

Rip beams, finishes his beer then leans forward and places it on the table. 

“Cool.” He says. “Hoity’s a pretty stellar name. You’re from Canterlot, right?”

“Oh, well, thank you.” I think? “Yes, born and raised I’m afraid.” 

Flume/Misty’s, attention gets turned to me, she kind of detaches her other half from herself by pushing her off--gently--then takes a very much uninvited spot on the couch.

“Oh, wow!” She says, as she turns my attention to her. I’m torn, because the truth is I want to talk about Rip more than I want to talk about anything Canterlot related, but, I give in when I feel Rip’s hoof brush against my back and I can almost swear this time it’s not by accident.

“So, you must know some musicians, right?”

Here it goes. I knew there had to be some ulterior motive, and, finally the elephant has left the room. 

“Yes, a few.” I utter. Misty or Flume’s face brightens and I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses. 

“Well, Rip is always looking for some kind of representation and...” 

Before she can continue he coughs, and her face drops. I’m almost startled, but I turn to Rip and he’s just shaking her head at Misty/Flume in a way that I think means she’s said too much.

“Sorry, she’s just... excited. You’re kind of a, well, legend after all.” Rip says in her defense. 

I’m more than flattered by this, though, still mildly curious about what exactly I’m doing here? Why am I here? Backstage? With Rip? With his Filly-Fooler Producer? 

“We’re going down to the beach.” Rip says, casually. “Late night swim. There’s no tourists out this time of night so we’ll pretty much have the whole place to ourselves, there’s a few more ponies coming too.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it’d be really cool if you came, Hoity.” 

I want to swoon, but, I don’t. I try to act super casual about being invited to a beach party by a colt half my age who may, or may not, find me attractive and who, in reverse, I find extremely attractive and would do anything at this point to jump his bones. 

“Sounds delightful.” I say, smiling at Rip. He smiles back. Its a handsome smile.

“Killer.” He says. 





Beach.





We’re at the beach now. Its night and, with the bonfire that one of Rip’s friends has started, I can see my brother’s villa from where I’m laying. Rip is here, beside me, strumming a guitar and singing a song about ‘Peace’ and ‘Unity’ to his filly-fooler producer, her girlfriend and two other colts who are giving each other looks that I can instantly tell are deviously smutty.

There’s a picnic basket between me and Rip, at our hooves, and one of the Colt’s, a blue Unicorn with a black mane, reaches forward and pulls a bottle of cheap wine out of it, he twists the lid off and takes a swig, handing it to his friend after, who does the same. They pause,  stare longingly into each other's eyes and when they kiss -- its full of passionate intensity, open mouths and I can even see hints of their tongues battling -- I feel some kind of impulse take over me and I turn to Rip, who’s staring at me with that same kind of look in his eyes.

I’m more than convinced Rip is attracted to me by this point.

The Filly-Fooler couple goes at it next, Flume (I just assume that’s the name of the non-producer one.) climbs atop Misty and then starts gently nibbling her ear while Misty giggles. The two colts are rolling around in a passionate embrace and I feel Rip move closer to me. I get chills up my spine when he tosses a hoof around my shoulder.

“Wanna go for a dip?” He whispers into my ear. I can’t think of a single reason in the world to say ‘No’ so I follow after him as he starts tearing off his clothes and heading towards the water. 

He’s nude, I’m getting there and I noticed he somehow managed to grab the bottle of wine while he was undressing. He tosses it to me as his hooves touch the water, I catch it, take an impressively long swig and throw it back, laughing -- just a light chuckle really -- when I feel the cold water touch my ankles.

Rip takes a swig, stands up and falls backwards into the water, splashing me slightly but I don’t really care at this point. He manages to keep the bottle afloat as his body sinks under the water, then a short second later he emerges; the image of a sopping wet and nude Rip; water dripping down his drenched mane, his head tossed backwards as he chugs gulp after gulp of wine, his body illuminated against the backdrop of black water by the moon, is one I’ll never forget as long as I live. 

I’m up to my knees now, not really caring, I sort of slink -- I suppose like some kind of cat -- into the water until I’m closer to Rip. My lower half is wet, my face and mane still dry and Rip must not like this because he playfully splashes a hoof full of water into my face, then, when I’m about to do the same, I feel his hooves touch my shoulders and Rip tackles me under the water. It’s playful enough that I’m not bothered by the water that shoots up my nose.

When we emerge, Rip’s body is locked against me, his hooves hold me close to him and he’s just grinning. I grin too. He leans his head down and his wet lips press so softly against mine that it almost doesn’t feel like a kiss at all. I feel my lower leg’s want to give out and it takes everything in my power to keep myself from melting into his embrace.

This entire evening is like a chapter out of a bad romance novel; drunk late night skinny dipping in an ocean off the beach with a stallion who is also my brother’s poolboy. There are too many cliche’s about it to count, but, since this isn’t a bad romance novel, and infact my life, I’m far from complaining. 

Rip pulls away, though he’s still holding onto me. 

“That was...” 

I can’t find the words. 

“Fantastic?” He finishes for me with a cocky grin, then, lunges his head forwards and catches me, again, totally off guard in a hungry, drunken kiss. I can taste the wine on his lips and I like it enough to want to taste a little more. I slip my tongue between his lips and he’s into it because he opens his mouth and, before I know it, we’re making out.

Me; a Thirty Nine year old designer, and him, a Nineteen To Twenty-Two year old Pool Boy. I can see the potential heartbreak, the controversy, the headlines scream ‘Hoity caught courting young admirer.’ the streets, I can already see, filled with Ponies, torches and pitchforks, out for my blood. 

I know this won’t end well, but, that’s a problem I’ll worry about later. For now, I just enjoy locking lips with my little musician.