right hand pointing


  Stella Brice



The stable is unspeakably narrow.  There is a smell to it:  huge penises &
piss & mare juice & oiled leather.  I am 12 & not yet bleeding but this
smell will coax the reluctant menstrual out of me, eventually.
Here is an ordered sense of manualized flesh.  Walk, trot, canter.  Saddle.
Stable.  To be stabled.  I can name the hundred parts of the horse.  When we wash
them down after our riding lesson, we push at their massive shoulders.  MOVE!
we roar & they obey us skinny girls!  They obey us!  I am mistress of all this
Beautiful tangy muscle.  This ripple, this sensitivity, this weight is mine
to command.  In my Jackie clothes, I look good on top of it with my whip.  On
top of my rich animal.  Power. Power.  Power.
Strapped in & led & urged



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