I am not yet ready to tell you the one about a horse. I start with horses because there are so many references. Equus, Zoo, the passions of my sister who drew horses obsessively. Little girls, their genitals rubbing in time to a gallop. I understand the appeal. A horse is all warm breath and sweat heat and muscle. They smell good, strong and sharp and healthy but with a pungency that reeks of sex. Soon I will tell you the one about the horse because it will be a good one, visceral. It will be full of words that mimic the pace of a canter. It will be arousing. I won't tell you yet because it will not be a true story. I must see the act. I must immerse myself in it. I must feel as close to the horse as any little girl or grown man who clambers up on a ladder to find his comfort and release. I must think about stallions mounting one person or another. The size and shape of it, the livid pink. For this true story I must be closer to the subject.
As a child, I was not so into horses. I prefered the dollhouse, the spaceship, the cave.
This then will be something new.