The summer I was ten years old my mom signed me up to take horseback riding lessons.  I have no idea why.  Maybe it was because my parents wanted me to be considered good at a ”sport”, any sport.  Since I have the hand eye coordination skills of Helen Keller I wasn’t good at softball, flag football or even thumb wrestling and they had simply reached their last resort of athletic activity, riding domesticated animals.  Or maybe it was because we were a middle class white family from the suburbs and my parents had finally decided we better start acting like it. 

At first I was hesitant about taking lessons because I thought it would interfere with my summer of being fat and laying on the couch like a hedonist.  Also a part of me couldn’t help but feel a little afraid of those giant clopping animals, well not them, but their penises.  Like most ten year olds who aren’t Heidi Fleiss I was terrified of giant swinging animal genitalia.  The year before on the playground an older boy tried teaching my friends and I about the birds and the bees.  Being the gross, naive children that we were, their were soon hushed whispers about people having sex with animals.  “Happens all the time,” the boy told us with a knowing smile.  ”It’s the number one cause of death for porn stars.”  I believed every word, “Oh those poor women and their stretched labias!” I would ooh.  The thought revolted me even though I wasn’t entirely sure what sex was at the time.  For some reason I pictured a naked woman wearing a top hat seductively spanking a horse.  That image alone was enough to forever traumatize me.

So when my mom first told me I was required to take lessons my immediate response was, “I’m running away!”

“You really don’t have a choice in the matter Stephanie!” she said while pointing her finger ominously at my face.

“Fuck that noise!  I’m not going!” I responded.  I’m sure I didn’t actually respond that way because I had just read the Diary of Anne Frank and feared my parents would send me off to a concentration camp if I ever swore.  I probably said it in my head and responded audibly with sobbing and wails.

In the end I was forced into going to the lessons.  Surprisingly enough I found I was really good at riding a 1,000 pound animal.  I wasn’t sure, but I felt these lessons were helping me prepare for any future sexual encounters I might have with Marlon Brando.

Every lesson I always picked the same horse to ride.  Her name was Graceful, but I called her sprinkles because my favorite food was, and still is, ice cream.  Sprinkles and I understood and trusted each other.  When the instructor said to gallop I would steer Sprinkles over to a patch of grass where she would gorge herself and I would zone out and replay the most recent episode of Saved By the Bell in my head.

“This is nice,” I would say while nibbling on a piece of hay like a real cowboy.

“Stephanie what are you doing?” the instructor would mosey over and ask me.  She hated Sprinkles and I.  We were the horseback riding degenerates of her group.  I even gave us a nickname, “The Renegades” after my all time favorite band Styx.

“Listen,” I would try and tell her.  “Sprinkles and I really aren’t feeling up to that today.  I think she’s dealing with a major bout of depression!”

The instructor would look at me for a moment like she was trying to come up with a nice way to say, “Get you fat ass over there and gallop now!” but when she couldn’t come up with one she would sigh and walk away.  In her eyes we were worthless.  It didn’t matter to my parents though because as long as I sat on that horse without falling off Christopher Reeves style they had visions of me winning the Kentucky Derby.

“Look at my little jockey!” my mom would say with pride as I’d ride past her on Sprinkles while eating an ice cream cone.

“Where did she get that?” my dad would ask.

“I don’t even care!” my mom would respond happily. 

One day I arrived late for lessons and some other girl had already claimed Sprinkles as her horse for the day.  I was in a complete uproar and wished I had brought my sniper rifle with me. 

“Sprinkles is my horse soul mate!” I tried telling the instructor.  “She’s like my lesbian horse soul mate and will get extremely jealous if I ride another!”

My instructor smiled deviously at me.  She was finally getting her comeuppance after all the pain and frustration I had caused her.

“Don’t worry Stephanie,” she said evenly.  “I have the perfect horse for you!”

She led me and my dad into a part of the barn we had never been to before that I always assumed was an old glue factory.  She took us to a stable that I swear was covered in so many chains King Kong could have been trapped inside.  She opened the door and there stood a Clydesdale horse.  I don’t know if you’ve ever been ten years old and stood in front of one of these animals but they are large and in charge.  They are like the horse version of a 1980’s buff Arnold Schwarzenegger.  His name was Captain.  He stood three stories tall and had a penis so big my vagina literally folded into itself and imploded like a dying star.

I was in such a state of shock and fear that I couldn’t even respond.  Before I knew it the instructor had gotten a ladder for me to climb up the animal and I was perched on top of it.

“Look at you!” my dad beamed. “Such a big girl!”

The rest of the lesson went by in a blur, but I think Captain and I did some good work together.  Yes, riding him was like driving a semi truck drunk, but he was very sweet and I learned I should never judge a book by it’s large penis.

After we were done riding we dismounted and stood by our horses as the instructor made her rounds sharing praise and pointing out where we needed improvement.  While I was imagining Captain and Sprinkles getting married, Captain took this moment to casually lean over and step on my left foot.  I have never been pregnant before, but I imagine the pain I felt at that moment to be on par with child birth.  It felt like my foot was giving birth.  I felt a mixture of pain and betrayal. 

“Why are you doing this to me Captain?” I asked looking up at my horse. “I loved you!”

I wasn’t sure how to get 2,000 pounds of raw muscle off my foot, but I thought maybe a horse would fall over if I pushed it kind of like cow tipping.  I pushed against Captains side, but all that accomplished was me pulling a hamstring.  I was panicked now.  I had images of them having to put Captain down and us being buried together.  I calmly raised my hand in order to get my instructors attention and immediately turned into an eight year old British school boy.

“Miss! Miss!”

“What is it Stephanie?”

“There appears to be a horse on me foot!”

“Well get him off!”

How the fuck did she want me to do that?  Did she want me to hit it with a rolled up newspaper?  Throw it down a flight of stairs?  I think the instructor took pity on me when she saw the pain and confusion in my eyes.  She came over to us, clicked out a few noises and miraculously Captain removed his frame from my battered foot.  Relieved, I immediately fell to the ground into a fetal position.

“Stephanie are you OK?”

“Tell my mother-” I breathed. “Tell my mother I love her!”

Surprisingly enough Captain didn’t break my delicate foot.  It was badly bruised and I was forced to limp pathetically around the house like Tiny Tim for a few days.  Sprinkles and I remained in close contact over the years and last December we had a commitment ceremony in Massachusetts and today I can proudly call her my wife.