Kissu Kissu
Oh Trixie! What heights and depths you have thus far sailed and soared and sunk to! What ignoble lows you fell to, yet what redemptive highs you now see fit to dwell upon. And who, pray tell, should be your mate? Who shall be the one beside you in this ineffable song called life? Who, we thus ask, shall be your special somepony?
Enter Starlight. Oh, Starlight! You too have seen such contrary states of being in your life. You who have both saved the world and destroyed it. Lucky are you that you live in a realm of friendship and not a land which punishes collateral damage, that you are now the princess’s protege, rather than in jail. But let us not dwell upon that. Neigh, let us consider the happier parts of life. Let us consider: you are in love!
Love, oh love! What an illustrious emotion. Many a book and song and poem and other heartfelt outpouring has been outpoured regarding this most wonderful sensation. And now, now! Now it has come to you!
Yes Trixie, yes, Starlight, yes, love! Look back, look back upon the past, and observe your similarities. Observe the bonds of outcastyness and sly rebellion that hooked your hearts as one. Observe though too, the balance twixt the cocky Trixie and the remorseful Starlight, betwixt the sly Lulamoon and the daft Glimmer. Observe how they complement and complete, and how now they live for each other. For that is love, for the whole to become wholer, and the two souls that were complete to become even fuller. How wonderful. How lovely! Oh I am so happy for you. When’s the wedding?
But no! Oh no! Oh no, the powers that be do declare: their love must remain chaste and sororal. What woe befalls you, that you must be victims of the world you live in. And what a cruel world it is, that lofts up the traditional establishment, that lofts up as ideal and paradigmic the pairing of filly and colt, mare and stallion, wife and husband. What haughty domination do the restrictive views of heteronormativity still press upon animated mediums intended towards young child consumption. The old guard weakens, but still grips within its thrall the standards for whether ponies can love each other in the carnal sense or just be, like the ever popular Lyra and Bon Bon, merely “best friends”. Oh narrow minded gatekeepers, release your inhibitions, and recognize as good and proper that a mare can love another mare!
Oh Beatrix! Oh Glimglam! Poor souls, how I weep for thee, for thine fiery passion that refuses to be snuffed out must nonetheless smolder beneath the smothering bell jar of conservative gender norms. What injustice you are served. You only want to make out, to feel each other’s horsey hot breath and sweet pony spittle roll down each other’s throats. Will this ever come to pass?
Yes!
Yes, I declare! Yes! For look about you, my little ponies. No longer are you constrained by the censorious constrictions of children’s television. Rendered as words on a page, transmogrified by the authorial pen, you are now free! No longer are your machinations visible to the viewer’s eye. Neigh, here within the blessed realm of fanfiction, you can truly express yourselves!
And where have I, the humble author, deigned to place you? Look about and see! Now mares, you reside in Trixie’s wagon, beyond the persistent watch of those who forbid mare-on-mare action. Ladies, express your love. Be passionate, be free. Kiss!
And thus, propelled at last by unseen forces, Trixie Lulamoon and Starlight Glimmer stare into each others’ eyes. Deep into the orbs of understanding, they gaze—dreamily, passionately, and lustfully. Words of desire are exchanged, and then heads tilt forward and eyes close. The mares lock mouths. The mares enmesh muzzles. The mares dock lips.
The mares kiss.
I am not a man prone to hyperbole. I dare not claim this to be the most passionate kiss of all time. The one at the end of The Princess Bride is hard to top. But this is still a kiss that shall go down in the annals of history. This kiss is the culmination of so many months of awkward stares and cute blushes and fidgety hooves and furtive glances and too-long hugs. So much pent up desire is at last released and received. So much longing at last realized.
Puckered lips give way to open maws, and Trixie and Starlight explore each other’s mouths at long last. Tongues twist and slither over each other like hot and bothered epileptic eels. Forelegs wrap around bodies, and bodies fall horizontal upon Trixie’s stained and tattered futon she probably found while dumpster diving. But it’s a comfortable futon full of character, and the two characters it supports are currently in the throws of passion, throwing passionate whinnies about as they writhe and roll. Truly a make out session for the ages.
But what is this? Where doth the bold hoof of the emboldened Beatrix stray? Lo, it reaches beyond her lover’s barrel, onto the butt. She touch the butt!
Does Starlight protest? Neigh! She is startled, flush upon her cheeks, but soon draws Trixie deeper into embrace, their fur melting together. Her hoof too roams, and it slides ever lower like a thirsty vine, seeking the quenching waters of—
Oh.
Oh my.
Dear readers, it appears that the itinerant magician and the friendship student are doing a lot more than just kissing! More than even heavy petting! Yes, dear readers, I do believe the peripatetic pony prestidigitator and the enervating equality equine are doing the nasty!
Grunts and sweet nothings fly through the air! Freaky deaky bodies brazenly bounce upon the squeaky creaky futon! Limbs entangle and erogenous zones collide! These mares are down to go down downtown!
Beans are flicked! Canoes are paddled! Horns and hoofs are inserted into holes horns and hoofs do not usually call home! Donuts and tacos and lustily consumed by greedy tongues!
And as breaths become ragged and jagged and sharp and fleeting, a tingling warmth builds betwixt thighs, and the invocations of deities deepen in intensity and steepen in pitch, and the tribadistic mares thrust and pound the country of Netherlands: slap slap slap slap, slap slap slap slap, Slap Slap Slap Slap Slap SLAP!
And I do hope, dear readers, that you—many a time in your life—are lucky enough to experience the ineffable bliss that occurs next. For self-pleasure is good and well, and heartless fornication fine, but truly, there are few closer glimpses of the divine, few sensations in our collective experience so sacred and profound and otherworldly as the consumption of love.
Trixie and Starlight come together as one.
Life, as I have noted many a time, is fleeting. We are born, we grow, we work, we live, we laugh, we love, we age, and we die. For billions of years, this has been the way of all life, and, Celestia willing, for many more millennia shall it continue to be. We may wreck our world, we may expand far beyond it, or we may ourselves perish in human hubris and tomfoolery. The universe cares not either way. Time caries on coldly and indubitably. The sun may expand and explode, and the earth may be rendered a barren husk. Stars and galaxies collide and combust and dance about the cosmic backdrop of infinity. And in time these celestial creations shall too drift apart. From dust, all things came to be, and in the end, to dust all existance shall return. Yet long after all has withered and died, and the universe has melted away to infinitesimal nothingness, shall still Trixie Lulamoon and Starlight Glimmer forever illustrate the most eternal of truths:
Lesbians are hot.