I don't think it's presumptuous to go ahead and divide my life into two distinct periods: before-HBO and after-HBO. Before Nate Graziano received HBO (yes, I'm writing about myself in the third-person. You wanna go?), he dreamed of writing great books; he valued things like family and friends, and was said to enjoy reading a good novel on the occasional rainy afternoon. All that has changed. Now, after receiving a year free of HBO and Starz as part of a cable package deal, Nate Graziano has abandoned the novel he's been working on for a couple of years, stopped reading altogether, and spends his time trying to catch up with the back episodes of Entourage before the new one airs Sunday night at 10 p.m.
However, the point of this blog isn't necessarily about HBO and how I've become a slave to the Home Box Office. This morning, while our kids were in daycare, my wife and I decided to abandon our plans for the day (we were going to paint the living room, and I was supposed to work on the novel that I've stopped writing anyway) and watch Real Sex 36 on HBO ON-Demand. To say this show is bizarre is a lesson in understatement. It's like describing The Iraq War as a small tactical gaff. The episode we watched began with a segment on "Pony Play."
Most of us would probably call this behavior...oh, slightly aberrant. No. Poor choice of words. How about fucking insane! The gist of Pony Play is that one partner pretends they're a horse. And this isn't just a horsey ride into the bedroom. I mean, who doesn't do that, right? These people take it to the next level. They bray; they allow themselves to be saddled up (see picture); they're chewing bits, pushing carriages and sometimes having their partner ride them bare back and feeding them carrots. They get brushed, washed, and praised for temperate behavior (I mean, who wants to ride a wild stallion) with comments such as, "That's a good horse, good boy." And the horse-man/horse-woman brays and allows themselves to be pet. Sometimes, the whip comes out. And here's the coup de grace: they have blacksmiths who fit these people for horseshoes!
They're being fitted for fucking horseshoes!
Now, I'm a pretty open-minded guy, and I could care less what gets you off in the bedroom. To each their own, you know. If you can't climax unless you're partner is wearing Bozo wig, break out the wig, baby. But there's something about Pony Play that just strikes me as creepy. They claim that it dates back to Aristotle. Apparently, in between chapters of Poetics, his wife throw a saddle on the back of his toga and go to town, giving him a carrot then smacking his ass red with an ancient horse whip. I wonder if he ever pretended to be the Trojan Horse? Think about that one. I don't know. I guess I should go easy on these folks. They're getting their nuts off and all is well on the Animal Farm, I suppose.
But they're being fitted for fucking horseshoes!
However, the point of this blog isn't necessarily about HBO and how I've become a slave to the Home Box Office. This morning, while our kids were in daycare, my wife and I decided to abandon our plans for the day (we were going to paint the living room, and I was supposed to work on the novel that I've stopped writing anyway) and watch Real Sex 36 on HBO ON-Demand. To say this show is bizarre is a lesson in understatement. It's like describing The Iraq War as a small tactical gaff. The episode we watched began with a segment on "Pony Play."
Most of us would probably call this behavior...oh, slightly aberrant. No. Poor choice of words. How about fucking insane! The gist of Pony Play is that one partner pretends they're a horse. And this isn't just a horsey ride into the bedroom. I mean, who doesn't do that, right? These people take it to the next level. They bray; they allow themselves to be saddled up (see picture); they're chewing bits, pushing carriages and sometimes having their partner ride them bare back and feeding them carrots. They get brushed, washed, and praised for temperate behavior (I mean, who wants to ride a wild stallion) with comments such as, "That's a good horse, good boy." And the horse-man/horse-woman brays and allows themselves to be pet. Sometimes, the whip comes out. And here's the coup de grace: they have blacksmiths who fit these people for horseshoes!
They're being fitted for fucking horseshoes!
Now, I'm a pretty open-minded guy, and I could care less what gets you off in the bedroom. To each their own, you know. If you can't climax unless you're partner is wearing Bozo wig, break out the wig, baby. But there's something about Pony Play that just strikes me as creepy. They claim that it dates back to Aristotle. Apparently, in between chapters of Poetics, his wife throw a saddle on the back of his toga and go to town, giving him a carrot then smacking his ass red with an ancient horse whip. I wonder if he ever pretended to be the Trojan Horse? Think about that one. I don't know. I guess I should go easy on these folks. They're getting their nuts off and all is well on the Animal Farm, I suppose.
But they're being fitted for fucking horseshoes!
1 comment:
my friend showed me that once, and also one of girls fucking dolls! messed up....
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