The Prettiest Ponies vs. The Angry Cute Girl Army
So despite Friday afternoon crankiness, my weekend was a big festival of fabulousness. So big and fabulous that despite sensible bed-times all around, my voice was slightly hoarse by Sunday evening from all the excited chattering and exclaiming. The face of happiness is a weekend of champagne-bubbles, sunshine, and passion.
Saturday I went for a spontaneous brunch with a new friend I am becoming extremely fond of (she declared, many drinks and hours later, that I was truly a friend now, because she had shown me all her photo albums). We ambled around the city, stopping for a carafe of mimosas here, picnicking leatherfolk there, blue cocktails and a shared ice-cream cone somewhere else. And perhaps because we got started so early, I was home before it was truly dark, exhausted and satisfied. I needed nothing else from my Saturday for it to be perfect.
Sunday was the leatherfair, for which a beautiful femme (pony Tulip) and I (pony Strawberry- much with the flora?) had recruited two handsome masculine types to form a show-pony team:
Are we the prettiest ponies in the whole wide world, or what? The look was intended to be carousel-pony, but had definite overtones of 1930's carnival whore. The other pony, Tulip, was in possession of a cart, which perfected the scene.
It was different for me, to be a pony submitting to a masculine authority. So much in the past, pony-ness has been about stark feminine authority (the lady's pet). Being in a team, rather than a simple duo, was also a new experience. I am so used to being able to channel my energy and experience through the one person, the handler, who becomes a glorified being, adored by the pony.
Our outfits were covered with bells, and our shoes were taps. You could well and truly hear us coming.
This time I was a pony interacting largely with the pony beside me, and with the humans only in as far as having my needs for food and water and grooming met. We took directions, of course, but the nature of moving through the crowd with the cart meant a lot of independant movement and not much time for praise and reinforcement from the humans. It was wonderful, being able to move so instinctively into pony-ness, and able to interact thus with the other pony in the team.
We did some cart rides, and a lot of simply moving around, some grooming, some performance, some well-needed resting. We stayed in pony-space for at least three hours, which was amazing.
The day was hot and crowded, so crowded that in some places movement was impossible. I'm told crowds were down from last year, which makes me quietly grateful (had the crowds been any bigger, we would have been unable to be there at all). I noticed a fair number of 'human animals', some of them doing very human things, like smoking, drinking beer, or speaking human. These scared my pony-self much more than just the confusing mass of people- apparently talking dogs spook ponies quite effectively.
Once the pony-ing was done, we headed back to base. The beautiful femme and I decided to retain our outfits, with only slight changes to shift us firmly from pretty ponies to true carnival whores- bits and tails were removed, bells, tapshoes and ribbons left on, pearls added to outfits. Not all of my face-jewels had survived the day, but many had.
We went out to paint the town, if not red, then some intense sparkly shades of pink. It's surprisingly fun, frolicking about on a Sunday evening in lacy bloomers, tap-shoes, and with bells on your ankles (try it sometime and see!). We declared that we would be the most fabulous thing wherever we went, and proved ourselves correct.
We kept marching up and down the street, clattering and jingling in time, chanting: "Cos we're the Angry! Cute girl army! And we're angry! Cos we're cute!"
The end of the night wound up at the big leather men's bar, the way every night should wind up in my opinion: with a wild lesbian orgy on an outdoor bench. The men surrounding made good their apparent duty to commentate the proceedings. I was the only one of my team who took part, and that was largely because a stunningly beautiful woman (I had met her before on the East Coast and been instantly smitten) picked me up, wrapped me around her waist, and deposited me in the middle of it. It was short, silly and sweet, with wicked grins and bite-marks all round.
And just like that, it was over. I was at home with a cup of tea and a big, pleased smile, some bite-shaped bruises on my breasts, and a camera full of pictures. There were other cameras with more pictures, I shall bring them to you as I retrieve them.