The Horse Man

I have another story for you, but first I need to explain something about me you may not know. Not me now, but me back then. Once you know this, it might explain why I did some of the things I did back then. Once you understand that, then maybe you'll refrain from saying, "What were you thinking?"

My brain was hardwired to believe that 1) I must be a good girl, and 2) I must have a man to be complete. That seems simple enough but it was much, much more complicated than that. What does good mean? Good defined by the preacher at the church I used to go to but refused to go back to once I found out he was doing the nasty-nasty with the choir director? Good as in all the fairy tale books I had read where the sweet, innocent, non-confrontational, hardworking girl gets trapped in a castle, curse, or worse. The only thing that could save her was, you guessed it, the strong, masculine, handsome prince. So what did good mean as it related to me finding my prince? It meant my behavior needed to follow all the rules of good I'd been taught since a small child: Sugar and spice and everything nice, sweet, innocent, accommodating, non-confrontational, hardworking and seeking a man to rescue me because without a man, I was doomed to the castle, curse, or worse. Without a man I was nothing. There you go. Now you know. So, when I tell you this next story, please don't ask me, "What were you thinking?" You already know.

I'd left my flying lesson one day when a mile down the road, I saw a sign that read, "OWN YOUR OWN HORSE."  I always liked horses. There's something strong, masculine, and handsome about stallions. I stopped to get some information. There was no one in the stables so I walked out to the coral where I saw a man about my age holding a rope with a big stallion on the other end. The horse was huge and beautiful, and it didn't like being controlled; it didn't like the rope; it didn't like the man. But the man wasn't taking any crap from this creature eight times his size, and evidently the horse settled down long enough for the man to throw reigns and a saddle on him, jump on his back and take off across the field.

I watched for the longest time this man and his horse. Eventually, they came back to the stables. The man won the battle over who was in control. The man was. I waited until the man was done with the horse and ambled over to where I stood. He was about six feet tall, slender yet muscular. He wore tight blue jeans, muddy cowboy boots, cowboy shirt, and a belt with a big horseshoe buckle. His face was filthy and his hair was oily and straggly and he had a couple of missing teeth, but yet I found him to be handsome in a rugged sort of way. (Think Matthew McConaughey in Dallas Buyers Club.)

"What can I do for ya?" he asked, not looking at me. He was busy with the reigns and saddle he'd just taken off that big stallion he'd just mastered. The sugar and spice and everything nice part of me put my best foot forward. "I saw your sign out front about owning a horse; always wanted to do that," I said raising my voice several octaves to sound like a precious eight-year-old girl. "Yeah, got one left. It's your lucky day," he said. Oh, happy, happy day, I thought to myself. I get to see this man again.

You know the rest of this story, don't you? What you don't know is that no one ever owned one of his horses. He rented them. I owned, I mean rented, an old female horse because the man said she was better suited for someone without horse experience. I'd ride her around the field for a half an hour before she'd head back to the stables on her own. I paid a monthly fee and anytime I wanted to ride "my" horse, I'd go to the stables, ask the man to saddle her up, and hope he'd show some interest in me. For the longest time, he never did, so I'd keep coming back to ride my old horse, until one day...Bingo! The day he showed interest, he looked exceptionally bad. Maybe he wasn't that handsome after all. But yet, I was still attracted to him. He said he'd slept with the horses the last two nights. No shower. He called himself The Horse Man. He preferred horses over people.

Run, Carol Louise, Run

I refer you to the second paragraph of this story. I didn't run. You knew I wouldn't, didn't you. I knew the Horse Man wasn't right for me--in fact he was bad, very bad-- but I went there anyway.  Good girls don't kiss and tell, so don't ask 'cause I ain't telling.

One day, he took me out back behind the horse stables to show me his acre of marijuana plants. Good girls don't do drugs or hang out with people who sell them. I never saw my horse or the Horse Man again.