Nothing is as explanatory of human sexuality as a broodmare. Because horses don’t have the usual American complexes about social modesty (what do you expect from a creature that runs around naked all the time?), and because they don’t have the same self-protective walls as people, their behavior is unashamedly obvious. As with everything, an extreme example highlights the subtly of a subject, and the peculiarities of human sexuality become embarrassingly spotlighted as I observe Nic and her two new boyfriends.
A broodmare’s entire purpose in life, the very essence of her identity, is about foaling, and, by extrapolation, that particular event that must occur to ensure there’s a reason for a foaling in the first place. Nicole is the Equus caballus equivalent of a gum-chewing, glitter-wearing, just-stops-short-of-g-string-hot-pants, stiletto-strapped, Hollywood Boulevard club girl, except she’s even more obvious in her intent. As a broodmare-come-dressage horse, Nic naturally tends to forget herself in order to heed that urgent call of the wild—yes, sex is constantly on her brain, evidenced by the poor males who are beside themselves from pheromone-ish delight.
Unfortunately for her admirers, the mare doesn’t quite reciprocate, and instead manifests that subtle cocktail of sentiments that only an American female can pull off: triumphant frigidity swirled with earthy curiosity. Only a woman can successfully stir up intrigues of the Marriage of Figaro variety; only a woman can be as ruthless as Caligula when it comes to passion. Nicole accomplishes both with the unparalleled dexterity of a samurai in heat.
The mare taunts her boyfriends, siren-like, unhesitating—nuzzling them, seducing them through validation, touching noses and blowing into their nostrils (the equine equivalent of kissing), only to wheel around, indignant at the intimacy, executing their masculine bravery Vlad the Impaler-style. For extra emphasis, so her boyfriends know she means business, mister, she adds an extra kick to the walls of her stall, like a can-can dancer on crack.
Rejected, and with horsey egos bruised, her suitors relent, only to fall victim of the 3-second-long equine memory, and begin the process all over again. Rinse and repeat as needed.
