#even though its neither a penis nor a fish

[montereybayaquarium]

Would you still love us if we were a worm? 🥺👉👈

What’s cuter than sharing? Sharing is caring, after all, and no other muddy buddy does that better than the fat innkeeper worm (Urechis caupo). These seafloor superheroes burrow in the soft sediment of estuaries and earn their name by providing shelter, food, and even running water for their fellow members of the muck, like pea crabs, ghost shrimp, scale worms, and arrow gobies. They’re also a source of food for many other animals including leopard sharks and sea otters!

[mbembhele]

The World of Ayanda Mabulu: Obscuring Race – Mbe Mbhele

If I was not a frequent reader of newspapers and an occasional visitor of the pornhub site I would have thought Ayanda Mabulu’s series of paintings on Jacob Zuma were amazing works of art. The work of Ayanda Mabulu betrays the polemical stance of art towards society in that it refuses to be neither the conscience of society nor critical of the structure of society. It is preoccupied with the same questions as mass media and thus ends up entangled in liberal propaganda or even becoming propaganda. This is not to suggest that art always has a responsibility of fulfilling a specific socio-political role in society but where an artist places such a burden on his work then there is a reasonable expectation that the work should be critical. As Theodore Ardono would say, art works do not simply criticize society by containing within them straightforward expressions of opinions. A lot more is expected, especially from an artist who has taken the Jean-Paul Satre approach that art has to have a clearly defined purpose in relation to society, which is the trajectory that Mabulu has taken.

The latest from the Mabulu series is a painting that has Nelson Mandela sitting on top of Jacob Zuma with Zuma’s penis deep inside Mandela’s anus. They are sitting in a regal red chair and there is an ANC flag on the far left corner. Jacob Zuma is laughing and Mandela’s countenance suggests that he is worried but not in pain. In short the painting depicts Jacob Zuma fucking Nelson Mandela in the asshole while laughing. I am not interested in the technique or the size of the canvass that Mabulu used for now, this is because I am increasingly starting to appreciate that no amount of technique can save a work of art that lacks content and context. I extend this logic to politicians also, oratory skills are meaningless if they are devoid of an analysis that speaks to the core of the problems that the people are facing. As I will attempt to show throughout this essay there is something analogous between the oblivion of Mabulu’s work and the popular political discourse in South Africa. The metaphor in this particular painting is that Zuma is fucking up Mandela’s legacy. There is no display of struggle in the painting between Zuma and Mandela. There is something that suggests consent even though Mandela does not seem to be as elated and involved in the act as Jacob Zuma. Could Mabulu be suggesting that they both participated in the ruining of the country or the ANC but Mandela was less conspicuous about it? Possibly. What strikes me the most though is how Mabulu has managed to depict Jacob Zuma as the enemy that ruins everything he touches, fucks up everything, even Mandela’s legacy, which is most revered and celebrated. This depiction is the motif in his entire corpus, which is a misdiagnosis of the problem in South Africa.

In his other work titled ‘Lucky Star Blue (Zuma)’ he paints the face of Jacob Zuma on a Lucky Star canned fish tin. In this painting Zuma’s mouth is covered in blood. The depiction presents Zuma as a savage who might even be a cannibal. This depiction undoubtedly plays into the racist notion that black people are savages who might as very well eat each other. It is interesting when a black artist, who claims to be speaking for the people peddles such a narrative. It begs the question, is the artist aware of the implications of the ways in which he represents or misrepresents the people? Beneath the face of Zuma there are words ‘this is the enemy’, here Mabulu makes his point quite clear. The problem is Jacob Zuma, the embodiment of a black politician. In this painting I assume that the intended audience is black South Africans and that is why he decided to paint the face of Jacob Zuma on a Luck Star canned fish tin, which is a popular household brand that is mostly consumed by poor South Africans. The backdrop of this painting is laden with profanities that enunciate his hatred for Zuma and of course his obvious obsession with the phallic. Again in this painting Mabulu’s work fails to appreciate the complexity of the history of South African politics. Jacob Zuma may very well be the enemy but Mabulu refuses to present his work contextually and thus exonerates white people from any sort of liability for their transgressions from slavery, colonization and apartheid. This has dire implications.

There are quite a number of Mabulu’s paintings that continue to represent black people particularly political leaders as the cause of black suffering. When it is not Jacob Zuma it is Desmond Tutu, Cyril Ramaphosa, Mugabe, Obama and sometimes all of them in concert. He is also not averse to using monkeys, bananas and sometimes black men with horns as symbolism in his paintings. In doing so he faithfully reproduces the racist imago that white people have of black people. The preoccupation that Mabulu has with the penis also plays into the notion that always reduces the black man into his enormous penis. These representations carry the baggage of history and if used without historical context in mind become anti-black even when used by a black person. It is important to note that the problem in South Africa still remains a race problem. This is to say, the technology of apartheid did not end in 1994, it merely shifted. To appreciate this means that practitioners across disciplines cannot practice as if there has been a paradigmatic shift in how power is structured in South Africa. White people still control the economy, the arrangement and distribution of desires and pleasure at the expense of black people. Mabulu does not seem to appreciate this and if he does he has no interest in expressing it in his work. This is an ethical concern especially since he claims to be speaking for and to the people, black people as it were. How can anyone create work that speaks about the black experience, which is an experience of perennial suffering as if colonization and apartheid never happened? Even when he does paint white figures, they always appear in the backdrop laughing or blurred. They are never the protagonists or the antagonists, they appear as extras, this exonerates them as the sin-qua-non of black suffering.

It is this obscurity of the problem that concerns me about the work of Mabulu. Blacks are still subjected to living in cramped spaces like sardines inside a Lucky Star tin because white people still own most of the land in South Africa. People are shot in Marikana because there is a group of white people that continues to make super profits even if it means that blacks have to be exploited all the way to the grave. The legacy of Mandela was fucked by white people who fed us an idea of multiracialism and the rainbow nation while they ensured that wealth remains a preserve of whites. Apartheid was the biggest and longest corruption case in the world and if we are to speak honestly about our abhorrence of corruption we should pursue all the old white men who were involved in oiling the machinery of apartheid and its sustenance. This is not to say that corrupt black leaders must be impugned but we should not continue as if corruption is an inherently black disease. The vigour used to persecute black people who are corrupt must be applied even in the persecution of white corruption. Athi Joja reads the work of Mabulu as militant and as grappling with the restlessness of the masses. This might very well be true but who does the work militate against? Toni Morrison taught us how racism uses distractions to sustain itself. These distractions sometimes come in the form of pitting black people against each other while whites continue to plunge our resources and live comfortably. We must therefore be critical and refuse to be obedient to the rhythm of the cruel system of racism and anti-blackness.

As Huey Copeland suggests, race is a persistently problematic subject for artists of various inclinations. It begs us to interrogate what blackness means now, in the wake of a ‘post’-apartheid South Africa. We need to interrogate if we have trumped race as the prime site of social schism and if not how do articulate it in our various disciples. One of the essential elements of art is that it ought to be autonomous, thus rejecting everything that attempts to prescribe how it should function. But this does not mean that artists should get away with murder under the guise of being autonomous. For Saidiya Hartman the threat of blackness (blackness as a site of unending oppression and also as a site of potential liberation) is always heightened visually and that is why it is important that we pay attention on how it appears on the visual grid. It is undoubtedly difficult to represent race outside of an existing the ‘visual schema predicated on the ‘fungibility of the black body’ it is not impossible. This then means that black artists, particularly visual artists, need to start thinking seriously about how blackness is represented and the various implications of misrepresenting it.

[wwjacksparrowd]

1) I don’t understand the point she’s making about “drag queens” reading to children in public library. How is one’s anatomy in any way relevant to their clothing? Why can a biological male not wear heels or make-up? What’s the difference between a male wearing heels and a female wearing pants? Should women in pants also be forbidden from reading in public libraries and other such community activities? 2) While I do find some drag queen names rather distasteful, it doesn’t seem like her problem with them is their names. She’s saying that they and their choices should not be exposed to children to “accommodate the 0.001% of the population.” Years ago, this might have been said about women who wore pants. So few women wore pants! Why did children need to know about women wearing pants? Well, nowadays, more and more women wear pants. That’s not because more women want to wear pants; it’s because less women feel like they will be targeted or singled out or even assaulted for doing so. By spreading awareness, more men will feel comfortable wearing articles of clothing that are traditionally considered feminine. I fail to see a reason why they should not. 3) Very few people actually use the term “LGBTQQIAAPP.” Those who do rarely attempt to convince others to do so as well. I can’t speak in defense of those who do. However, it’s unfair to categorize all LGBT+ (which is what it’s normally called, incidentally) individuals and allies as being ridiculous just because a select few individuals want everyone to use the aforementioned mouthful. 4) I’ve met plenty of transgender individuals. None of them have gotten offended if/when someone uses the wrong pronoun. Meanwhile, I know that you know that there are an abundance of swear words in my everyday vocabulary. However, when I am around Christians, particularly when I’m in their houses – in fact, even when they’re in my house, I go out of my way not to let a single swear word slip, sometimes taking a few minutes to think of a decent substitute for whichever swear I might be inclined to use. Even though I have no issue with swear words personally and am naturally inclined to use them, I still take care not to offend them by avoiding all of them. It’s not difficult to slightly alter your vocabulary for someone else’s comfort. In terms of curses, it’s considered common courtesy. I don’t understand why it’s so hard to replace one set of pronouns with another set for the same reason. 5) No one with any knowledge of language calls you racist for using the wrong pronouns. That’s an entirely different issue. 6) Someone identifying as agender, bigender, or any other gender identity you’re unfamiliar with does not have any impact on your life. It doesn’t hurt you. It doesn’t change your lifestyle. Just theirs. That is their choice. If you don’t like the way they dress, don’t look at them. 7) Yes, Caitlyn Jenner is a biological male. Also a woman. It’s important to her and other transwomen that you refer to her as a woman, and it’s important to transmen to be referred to as men. Again, this doesn’t hurt you. They’re just words like any other words and it’s not like you have to go very far out of your way to use man instead of woman or vice versa, or to refer to someone as a person instead of a man or a woman when it causes them discomfort to be called either. The same goes for her name. If she wants to be called Caitlyn instead of Bruce, just call her Caitlyn! It’s not a big deal! Prince changed his name to an UNPRONOUNCABLE SYMBOL and people still didn’t make a fuss THIS big! But when a biological male changes their name to a feminine name, it’s the end of the world. 8) If you can find for me a scientific study proving that having a penis forbids you from using certain words to describe yourself and wearing certain clothes, please point me in its direction. I would truly love to read this study. 9) No one’s asking you to “celebrate” LGBT+. All we’re asking you to do is accept that other people have other lifestyles that you may or may not agree with but ultimately don’t affect yours in any way. We’re asking you not to try and change people when they don’t need changing. 10) Oh, my favorite complaint! “…I’m not gonna celebrate your mental disorders…” Excuse me? A mental/psychiatric disorder is, and I quote, “a clinically significant behavioral or psychological syndrome or pattern that occurs in an individual and that is associated with present distress (e.g., a painful symptom) or disability (i.e., impairment in one of more important areas of functioning) or with a significantly increased risk of suffering death, pain, disability, or an important loss of freedom.” The government article I am quoting (a link to which can be found at the bottom of this comment) goes on to say that “Neither deviant behavior (e.g., political, religious, or sexual) nor conflicts that are primarily between the individual and society are mental disorders unless the deviance or conflict is a symptom of a dysfunction in the individual, as described above.” So let’s review. A mental disorder can only be categorized as such if there is distress or disability caused by it, or increased risk of death, pain, disability, or loss of freedom. Obviously there is no disability there. Unless they’re referring to the risk of murder or assault, no increased risk of death, pain, disability, or loss of freedom either. As far as distress is concerned, admittedly, there is some distress when someone who identifies as a woman is forced to live as a man, or vice versa, or if they identify as neither man nor woman or as both a man and a woman or any of the other gender identities out there. However, that distress fades when they’re allowed to alter their lifestyle in the ways they want to which, incidentally, don’t cause any harm whatsoever to themselves or those around them! Imagine that! So if you want to call being trans a “mental disorder,” then changing their name, pronouns, and/or wardrobe is the cure! https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3101504/ SCIENCE TIME! I didn’t find a good place in the video to comment on the science behind being trans (yes, it exists!) so I’m putting it here. 1) The amygdala is the part of the brain responsible for emotions. The hypothalamus is responsible for our essential hormones. Together, they make up the bed nucleus of the stria terminalis, or the BNST, which is in turn responsible for our survival instincts. One of these instincts is reproduction. The BNST in a man’s brain is twice the size of a woman’s BNST. Notice that I said “man” and “woman,” not “biological male” and “biological female.” That’s because I’m not talking about male and female. In fact, regardless of biological sex, men have larger BNSTs than women. Even if a woman is biologically male like Caitlyn Jenner, they have a small BNST like other women do. Same goes for men who are biologically female. This is not because of sex reassignment surgery or hormone therapy. Trans individuals have the same size BNST before and after these treatments. Similarly, the number and size of the neurons in one’s hypothalamus, along with the size of a person’s putamen (another part of the brain), which are different for men and women, reflect one’s gender identity as opposed to their biological sex. 2) Phantom limbs! Have you heard of them? If not, here’s a quick explanation: when someone who is born with two arms and two legs loses one of those limbs, they can still feel pain in the limb afterwards despite no longer possessing it. This phenomenon is referred to as having a “phantom limb.” Now, when men have penile cancer, sometimes it is necessary to surgically remove their penis to help them recover. In one study, 60% of men who had this treatment claimed to feel pain in their penis, just like someone who has a phantom limb. However, when a biological male who identifies as a woman has their penis removed during sex reassignment surgery, they don’t report this feeling! Almost as if the penis was a part of their body that shouldn’t have been there to begin with. 3) Humans are not the only creatures whose genders are too complicated to be defined at birth. With clownfish, a female is at the top of the food chain, and when they die, the most dominant male BECOMES FEMALE to take their place. With reef fish, if the only male dies, the females adapt by becoming more and more masculine until they are able to produce sperm. With one species of lizard, the central bearded dragon, the males become female when the temperature rises significantly. Deer can be intersex. Male kangaroos can have pouches. You say being trans is “unnatural?” Nature disagrees. Finally, I would like to address one last argument that many people make, particularly (but not exclusively) Christians, among other religious folks: “If you weren’t born with a penis, you aren’t meant to have one. If you were born with a penis, you’re meant to have one.” I hear variations of this argument exceedingly often. According to this argument, you are meant to have the body parts you are born with, and no others. I can only assume that proponents also contest that those born without two arms and/or two legs should be forbidden from getting prosthetics. Perhaps they also believe that those with genuine mental disorders should be forbidden from receiving treatment in the form of prescription drugs. After all, if you’re born with bi-polar disorder, presumably you’re meant to have bi-polar disorder. It doesn’t matter if it causes you to sleep less. It doesn’t matter if causes you to lose your appetite. It doesn’t matter if it causes you to have suicidal thoughts. If you were born this way, you are meant to be this way, and you’ll just have to deal with it. That’s what you’re telling transgender people when you dismiss their gender identities. If you have questions or objections (or even if you don’t!), while I am more than happy to provide answers or engage in debate with you, I encourage you to read Becoming Nicole by Amy Ellis Nut, which describes the true story of a pair of biologically male identical twins, one of whom is a transwoman, the other of whom is a cisman. It provides fascinating insight into the experience of a transwoman, as well as her brother and parents’ perspectives. (In case you're wondering, I found the symptoms of Bi-Polar Disorder right here: https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/bipolar-disorder/index.shtml)

[3one3]

The Sequel - 793

The Wounded Swallow

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s

(okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

The “Erotic: Passion & Desire” preview exhibition was understandably weird. Most of the cocktail attendees were not actual, interested buyers, but still art regulars. They were comfortable with the theme of the works on display. The others, less so. There was a lot of whispering among those folks, while the relaxed group spoke freely and conversationally. The quiet group moved from lot to lot in pairs or threesomes and wore shocked or aghast faces. The less awkward people seemed to be having a better time, and seemed to enjoy discussing the various pieces with unabashedly presented penises, vaginas, and butts, and the activities portrayed. Christina and Juan were in the middle. They kept their voices low but discussed the art freely too.

Christina even got a nearly incurable case of giggles when they arrived at the penis table. It was too ridiculous for her hold on composure. Supposedly delivered to Catherine The Great, the round table featured a cross-shaped base with four erect, veiny penises reaching up and out from the center, each with its own pair of balls adorned with nipples, and grounded in gold painted swirls meant to look like pubic hair. The tabletop itself had random hard penises and balls glued every 12” or so around its border- some with their bulging red mushroom heads pointing up and some down, and interspersed with the spread thighs, vagina, torso, and chest of a female. Neither the rider nor the player could imagine a room or circumstance that would call for a baby blue and gold table made out of and decorated with erections.

Works by Picasso, Klimt, De Kooning, and Howard Chandler Christy garnered a more scholarly response from the duo of friends. They pretended to take them in analytically and try to appreciate them as important art. Mostly, they discussed how surprisingly low the bid estimates were. They thought it should cost more to own a sketch by Picasso. Another prospective buyer who overheard them butted in to suggest that “he made so much art, everyone in London could have a Picasso”. That statue of the two lovers that Christina reacted to in the online catalogue was among the more expensive, at £180,000-220,000. She told Juan that she really liked it because of how real it was, and she was very real herself in telling him, in a whisper like those awkward and uncomfortable people, that it made her think of being with him. The equestrian with the husband and the sort-of-side-boyfriend assured him that she would never want to own such a thing though. The Helmut Newton print she did want wasn’t what she thought it was. It was part of a portfolio of 9 silver prints and a CD of the photoshoot in a fancy case, published by Volkswagen. They were all photos of naked women with a Beetle from 1999. She only liked the one of a woman on her back holding up a TV screen with a front view of the car with two other women sitting in it. It was shot from between the naked woman’s legs but cropped to exclude anything more explicit than her breasts.

“Now you have seen all of the lots- which one do you think I was talking about the other day when I said I want it?” the Chelsea man asked her after they got their second glasses of Chardonnay and returned to the “scene” to people-watch.

“Well that’s a cumbersome way to ask the question, so I’m going to assume you don’t want it now that you’ve seen it,” she posited thoughtfully, scanning the pieces that weren’t obstructed by other people. “Otherwise you could just ask “Which one do you think I want?” yes?”

“No, I still want it.” Juan smirked a little and then shifted his eyes side to side, as if to make sure he didn’t accidentally lock onto the piece in question and give it away.

“It’s the dick table, isn’t it?”

“No,” he laughed.

“Umm....is it the painting of the girl’s butt and thighs and arms with her hand kind of over the middle? The girl with the tattoos? I kind of like that one. Probably because it’s only 30 years old.”

“Nope.”

“One of the 19th century watercolors with the dick sucking? You know, I kind of always assumed oral sex was a more modern invention. Threesomes, too. There’s that ivory box thing with one woman sucking the guy’s dick and one licking his butt. That’s even older!” Christina truly marveled at the sexual habits of significantly older societies. “How long ago do you think it was when someone first figured out that putting his penis in a woman’s mouth can be as nice as putting it in her vagina?” she whispered.

“However long ago Adam met Eve. And no. You have two strikes. One more chance to guess.”  

“I’m going to Google it.” She took her phone out but paused for one more quick glance around the room for a final guess. “I have no idea what else here you might like. The pin-up girls?”

“The angel.”

“Really? I didn’t know you’re a sculpture guy.” Christina looked up from her phone to locate the white marble angel in the nude. She was a little more than 2’ tall and sat on a rock with her lengthy wings hanging down behind it. The piece was buy a French artist who lived from the middle of the 19th century into World War I. Christina didn’t have any special feelings about the work when they stood in front of it, and she didn’t have much special interest in Juan’s interest in it either. He articulated a very specific interest.

“She’s you, cariña,” he told her, a hand at the small of her back to steer her back to it off to the right side of the room. She was already rolling her eyes. What’s his deal with angels? Are religious people really into them? “L’hirondelle Blessée,” he read from the information placard accompanying the sculpture. “The Wounded Swallow. She’s a beautiful angel who has hurt her ankle.” Indeed, the angel was sat on the rock to assess an injury to her lower leg, which was lifted up for inspection. Her head was tilted down to look at it, and her left hand gripped it to palpate the painful area with her thumb. She had strong looking thighs, a narrow waist with clearly defined abs, round hips, and ample, pert cleavage. The muscle in her neck even stood out proudly from her posture. The only obvious thing differentiating this “Swallow” from the player’s friend was her short hair. And perhaps her height. The angel looked as if she’d be a bigger person than Christina. It was the wrong ankle too.

“I didn’t even notice that she was injured before,” the latter mumbled as she took the sculpture in for the second time, her tone a little absent because she was surprised and still trying to understand the parallels. It was a little shocking.

“I’m going to make a bid on her before we leave.” The Spanish midfielder wore a fond and slightly excited smile while he too studied the figure. It was his muse’s turn to get shifty-eyed. Anybody looking? No? K. She leaned over to smooch his cheek in a way that was just naughty enough to need privacy. An innocent peck could be seen by anyone. A momentarily lingering kiss was for no one’s eyes. “You like her?”

“I like that you think she’s me and duly want to bring her home.”

“I want to bring you home too, but I want to eat first.” Juan chuckled in her periphery. I can’t tell if he liked that I just did that, if he didn’t even really notice, or if he’s ignoring it because he doesn’t want anyone else to notice, she thought. I also don’t know if I care which it is. Also, I’m starving. “Have you seen enough? Should we go find out how I make a written bid and get moving for dinner?”

“Yes! Where are we going?”

“Walking distance is Bellamy’s, Hakkasan, Wild Honey, and Sexy Fish. French, Chinese, British, or Japanese?”

“Hakkasan doesn’t serve dinner after like 7, so that’s out. Bellamy’s has approximately 10 items on the menu and 9 of them are fish or veal, so no Bellamy’s. Wild Honey is boring. I vote for the long walk to Sexy Fish. I haven’t been there since you got that red card and made me go there with you,” Christina sniggered, remembering the match and how silly the sequence of events was that led to the Spaniard’s dismissal. “I want a grilled rib eye steak with Asiany flavors, and fried spicy noodles, and-“

“Your eyes are so much bigger than your stomach.” Juan watched her drink the wine and lifted his brows questioningly when, mid-sip, her eyes narrowed deviously. She was on to something.

“Juanin, you’re always complaining that I eat all the food and don’t share enough with you, or hog it all to myself. Now you say I order more than I eat. You can’t have it both ways,” she reminded with her nose in the air.

“I can. You order a steak the size of your head and eat three bites, and instead you eat all of my food. Or you say “I want this, this, and this, so will you eat some so I can order everything on page-2?” and I say okay and order the things I really want, and then you eat those things and tell me I should eat the ones you wanted.”

“Not true. Not true at all. You’re going to get some icky fish thing I won’t eat anyway.” The German rider stuck her tongue out and marched toward someone with a nametag, assuming that person could help the player set up his bid for the angel auction.  

After a long and enjoyable Asian-themed dinner, he asked his real live angel if she wanted him to bring her home to his place or hers, with the understanding that they were spending the night together either way. Christina told him that she still needed to go home even though Lukas was in Germany with his dad, as she had two dogs waiting for her to let them out and needing her there to feed them in the morning, and because she wouldn’t be able to spend her whole Friday in bed if she woke up the wrong one. Juan was welcomed to stay though. He earned that, with his attraction to the sculpture and with his always-charming company throughout the night. She wanted him to stay. She wanted to finish her night with him. It was again a situation in which she hadn’t seen him in about a week and missed him. The Spaniard was becoming the thing that felt like normal in her life. Spending time with him was the constant that she returned to after every competition, work trip, Dortmund visit, etc. Having a normalcy to come home to was something she valued and needed. While doing the same thing day after day and living a “normal” life by any average person’s standard clearly proved many times not for her, having at least a sense of a normalcy was still important. It was for that reason that she wrapped up a decent day and a fun night tucked under his arm and on his chest, watching TV and talking about big picture current affairs, personal current affairs, and nonsense, and not because they’d spent some enchanted evening together and she fancied a romantic or sexy nightcap. The denouement of their evening was anything but sexy, as they were both overfull, overtired, and overrun by Toy Fox Terriers thrilled to score a second consecutive night of bedroom access.

One of the most satisfying aspects of this new normal was that it felt like maybe Juan thought of it as his constant too. Sometimes when Christina needed a person to snuggle with and unwind on, it was like he was doing her a favor. He made some sacrifice to listen to her troubles when she and André couldn’t stop plucking at each other’s last nerves. It was something he had to endure. He tolerated it. In truth he seldom said or behaved in a way that should have made the rider think that, but still, the belief persisted, perhaps because of her own propensity for labeling herself a burden on others, and for feeling like a victim. That was no longer the case. Juan was there on equal terms with her. And if the previous week were an indication, he wasn’t just there and wanting to be because he thought it was an opportunity to get some ass. The two friends hung out twice during her last quick London stopover and there was no hookup of any kind. It seemed like just spending regular time together was his constant too- that he sought it too, and relaxed in it too. He gave off no sense of waiting or expectation.

For a few minutes that Thursday night, while they were talking about the cultural differences in late night talk shows between the US and England, Christina thought of Jill. A Monday afternoon playdate for shopping, a great dinner out, and many hours vegging in front of the TV with her best friend was what she came back to after horse shows. Sometimes Jill was at the shows too, and sometimes she wasn’t. It didn’t matter. The first order of business after coming home, and after working at the barn in the morning, was using her free time to let down with Jill. Monday was pretty universally accepted as the day off in Long Island equestrian culture. Trainers didn’t do lessons and nobody really came to ride. It was by design because usually everybody went to a horse show on Sunday and tired out the horses, or everybody had lessons over the weekend when off from school and work, so the barn-owned lesson horses were tired from that. The grooms had much of the day off too. They had to feed and clean stalls in the morning and throw the horses outside for the day, but then they were free until evening feeding time. Simon never showed up on Mondays. Christina went in to help the guys make sure all the horses were okay after traveling, and to check legs and feet unwrapped and unpacked, and deal with anything that happened while she and her boss were away. Then she had the rest of the day off too.

That was her normalcy for much of her adult life. Then she moved, and got married, and grew into a whole new career, and André was normalcy. He was it for more years, actually. There wasn’t a set thing like Mondays with Jill. It was everything. He was there and whatever they did was the constant, even though whatever they did varied a lot. That had been gone for 7 months and it took probably 6 of them for Christina to adopt a new tether- a new thing that grounded her at home, that she could point to as a pillar to give her life structure. In some ways it was the only scaffolding- the only point of reference. Even her riding schedule when she returned home was different all the time, or nonexistent because she had to go somewhere else after a show instead of home. So there was just Juan.

“How do these little dogs not get cold out in the stable all the time?” he asked absently as Spencer pawed at the top of the black satin duvet- a request to be let under it so he could burrow next to a human. “Their blankets only cover a small part of their bodies. Don’t their feet get cold?”

“When it’s really cold I put their fleece shirts on under the blankies,” the animal expert explained. It definitely wasn’t cold in bed. She had half of Juan’s body as a heater, and the blanket covering most of hers. “They even have little hoodies, but I kinda bought those just to take cute pictures. They can’t actually wear the hoods so they don’t really make them warmer. Actually, I meant to look online today for square beds for them. The barn builder guys did a clever thing for them in the tack room at the new place. There are two open cubby-type things under the shelves and cabinets and they’re just a couple of inches off the floor, so you put their beds in there and then they have private, out of the way spots to nap, and they’re up off the cold floor. Their barn beds now are round though and I hate the idea of round bed in square cubby. Also I think I should probably get ones I can stick some Velcro on so that they don’t slide out of the cubbies when they move around or jump into them.”

“That’s smart,” her friend nodded. She picked up her phone from where it was sitting on his chest with one of his two phones, and tapped to open Chrome so she could look for cozy puppy beds.

“There’s this company in the US that sells stuff for outdoorsy people but like classy, WASPy outdoorsy people rather than redneck hunters. So think fly fishing and canoeing and a lot of subdued plaids instead of camo and neon. My mom always got the catalogue and used to buy weird and random things from them, like pencil sets. I don’t know. Anyway, they opened an actual store near one of my favorite diners and their dog beds were like the featured section. So I want to look there for- Oh, I forgot I was trying to find out about oral sex before,” Christina chuckled. The Wikipedia page for that subject was already open in a tab. She scrolled through impatiently to find the answer to her original question, which was when oral sex became “a thing”.

“What does it say? Did ancient Egyptians do 69?” Her small Spanish pillow yawned and removed his left arm from behind his head to put it around her back again. Her Googling included lifting her head off his chest and leaning away from his side just a bit. That wasn’t allowed.

“Oh my god Wikipedia actually references “facesitting”. Shocking. I’m not seeing anything about like origin though, or history. Oh wait. “In Ancient Rome, fellatio was considered profoundly taboo. Sexual acts were generally seen through the prism of submission and control. This is apparent in the two Latin words for the act: irrumare, to penetrate orally, and fellare, to be penetrated orally. Under this system, it was considered to be abhorrent for a male to perform fellatio, since that would mean that he was penetrated, parentheses controlled, whereas receiving fellatio from a woman or another man of lower social status such as a slave or debtor was not humiliating. The Romans regarded oral sex as being far more shameful than, for example, anal sex”,” she read from the phone.

“See! Even ancient Romans knew anal sex is great!” Her friend was triumphant and giggly.

“No, they knew it was not shameful. My objections are not about objectification though,” Christina argued. “It’s just literally disgusting. Not morally. Whoa this is cool. So primates sometimes get into oral sex, which is understandable I guess, but did you know fruit bats do it? It says mating pairs spend more time copulating if the female first licks the male. I find that weirdly cute.”

“I can’t stop thinking about the Valencia bat mascot getting head in the costume now.”

“This other fellatio-specific article says the Kama Sutra talks about it, and that’s form the first century AD, so I guess it’s been a thing for a long time. But the author didn’t really endorse it. How can you come up with all of those sexual positions and not think blow jobs are a good idea?” The rider put both the phone and her head back down on Juan’s chest. The device was turned sideways so that she could get a better view of the oral sex depicted in a picture in the article. “There is this plate or bowl or something with a dude blowing another dude, labeled “Depiction of fellatio on Attic red-figure kylix, circa 510 BC”. I don’t know what that is but I guess it means dudes have been blowing dudes since at least 510 BC.”

“I look forward to your in-depth written report and presentation about the history of dick sucking, cariña,” the player told her. He, like most of the people close to her, knew that when she had a question, she dug deep to answer it. She had that curiosity and that thirst for learning and knowledge.

“That’s so sexist. I would report on the history of oral sex, not just fellatio. Hindus thought cunnilingus was a means to transcending old age and death, and could lead to a state of nirvana.”

“I can believe that. I know how it feels to find a kind of nirvana between a woman’s legs.” The Chelsea man’s non-serious comment earned a non-serious eye roll. His expression then turned defensive. “What? You don’t believe me? I don’t understand why you’re always so skeptical that guys really, truly, honestly like to eat pussy. You American girls are conditioned to think guys only care about themselves in sex. Taylor is completely the same. She argues that guys who like to eat their girls only do it because they like the way the girl reacts and it makes them feel like even better lovers, so it’s like a selfish thing, and has nothing to do with us wanting to give girls pleasure too and just feeling good about it.”

“I agree with Taylor. You like giving girls pleasure because it’s you who gave it to them, because they’re reacting to you. Maybe you don’t realize that that’s what it is, but it is. You’ve even said that to me before- that you love making me orgasm because you know it’s because of you.”

“No, I’ve said that’s one of the reasons,” Juan corrected. “I have also said that I just love your reactions, and how beautiful and free and happy you look.”

“Uhhuh.” Christina was still dismissive. And more interested in shopping for dog beds than arguing. “Orvis has a dog bed selector thing, like when you do a Buzzfeed quiz and it tells you something about you. It tells you which dog bed to get.”

“Exciting.”

“Is Lucky using you as his dog bed right now?”

“He’s between my knees, and the other one is right below him. They want to make sure I can’t move.”

“It’s what they’re good at. Okay, rectangle or round, rectangle. Side bolster or no side bolster? Side bolster. They like having walls.”

“Like my knees and calves.”

“Yes. Polyester fill or memory foam? The fill probably gets lumps, but I don’t know if they even weigh enough to sink into the memory foam enough for it to be comfy. What do you think?”

“I have to shake out my featherbed all the time to get rid of the lumps. No one is going to remember to take their beds out of the shelf to fluff them up for them. Go with the memory foam.”

“Good call. Can you...” Christina paused to arch her back and wiggle about. “Can you scratch right above where your hand is? Quickly.”

“Emergency itch?” Juan did as asked and scratched a big area between the rider’s shoulder blades. She twisted into it some, and pressed her forehead into his left pectoral muscle, experiencing the intense satisfaction of having a sudden and urgent itch tended to. She even opened her mouth and kind of closed her teeth on him as she then tried to nod in affirmation. The iPhone was abandoned face down on him, and she let go of it to squeeze some of both his t-shirt and the satin quilt in her hand. Her scratching servant tugged her tank top up so he could get to her itchy skin directly, as it was evident it wasn’t just a momentary ailment. “You have a little bump, cariña. Like a hive.”

“My skin doesn’t like the amount of time it spends covered by a sweaty sports bra. I always pay extra attention to that part of my back when I shower, and I use a salty exfoliating soap, and then if I don’t moisturize after, it gets dry and itchy. I was too lazy to lather myself in lotion this afternoon. Ahh, that’s good. You can stop.” The player’s grateful appendage sighed and relaxed all of her tensed muscles, and he reverting to rubbing the small of her back instead of the previously itchy part. Having her tank pulled up meant the tips of his fingers slid just under the wide waistband of her underwear when his palm moved back and forth there. “Thank you,” she said contentedly upon returning her cheek to his shirt.

“Dog beds.”

“Oh yeah.”

Orvis didn’t have any acceptable beds on first look. In the photos of the products recommended in accordance with her selections, even large breed dogs weren’t making any kind of impression on their memory foam. It didn’t absorb them. They simply rested on top of it. Christina had to abandon the selector and just look at all the beds. There was something called the “Deep Dish Couch Bed”, and it was as plush as it sounded. It had tall bolsters on three sides, double-stacked cushions, and a water-resistant, removable microfiber cover. She left the tab open so that she could order them in the morning. For the low cost of nearly $400, Spencer and Lucky could have small-size beds in slate gray with their names embroidered on the front shipped to their future home. Their mom just couldn’t remember the address of said new home, and didn’t feel like getting up to fetch her bankcard. She did feel like browsing Instagram though while Juan was in the bathroom and she was supposed to be looking for something to watch because they were out of DVR’d episodes of Criminal Minds to not really pay attention to. André posted a picture of her and naturally the app ensured it was the first thing she saw because she liked all of his pictures and it’s designed to show you content from accounts you engage with most. The photo made her smile with happiness at first at its surface merit.

Dirk is so cuuuuute and I look okay too, she thought. It was a picture of her braiding her favorite stallion’s forelock and winking at her husband, who was obviously taking a photo of her. Christina sort of remembered thinking he was making a video, but it was from three summers back so the memory was fuzzy. It was the beginning of Dirk’s post-WEG vacation and his owners were on a sunset walk with their new puppies, very much entrenched in the kind of happiness that comes from surviving a kidnapping, bagging some silver medals at WEG, and trying really hard to get pregnant. I think I might have already been pregnant then, the rider realized. She knew when it was thanks to clues in the picture. The grass was green, the horse had his darkest and most shiny summer coat, her skin was bronze, and she could see the ties of a bikini top in a bow at the back of her neck. Their evening walk took them out to the paddocks to visit with each of the horses just turned out for the night, and the animals were all disappointed that the humans didn’t bring any treats. Christina remembered that she and her husband each had to carry one of their three-month-old puppies home from there because they were too tired from the first leg. And she got a bit lost in that memory as it became clearer, until she read the caption with André’s post.

Is he a psychic like Juanin is sometimes? This is so...so. “My North Star and her compass”, the expat read for the second time. You look for the North Star to know where you are...and you use a compass to figure out...where you’re going? Does he mean I’m his point of orientation in life, and that D-Money shows me where to go? Is he deep enough to come up with something like that? I kind of love it. He must have stolen this concept from somewhere. He’s not usually so thoughtful, and certainly not in public. Aww. This is so close to what I was thinking about before, in terms of structure in life. Awwww. Christina’s insides turned to mush and she hurried to comment on the BVB player’s post. She could have texted him, or called him back again even though he said he was going to bed when they last spoke, but she wanted the whole world to see her comment too. She wrote “I love you” and added the space rocket emoji in hopes that he would get that she meant it like a vehicle to the stars, like a vehicle he could take to get to her, his Polaris. Because of her profile’s popularity, her comment went straight to the top.