They hadn't gone to the barn for any reason except to groom the horse, check its eyes for discharge, see how the hoof that balled ice under it was doing. The horse was fine, if cranky, so they returned it to the paddock to romp and graze on snow with its buddies.
And as they packed the picks and combs and brushes back in the tack box, a ladder caught their eyes, ascending into the sun leaking through the barn's slats. Without saying a word, they grabbed a horse blanket, and climbed up. Into the spicy, sneezy domain of stacks of baled hay, the light bursting through the barn and zebra-striping everything.
Shrugged off their clothes, lay down on the horse-stinky blanket, wrapped it around their shivering, goosebumped winter skin, and got acquainted. No-one else was around -- they could hear the odd truck drumming along the side road, pigeons flapping and fucking in the rafters, the horses whinnying and nickering out in the paddock.
This was a totally impractical place to take their organ-beasts for a walk, when they had a warm bedroom waiting minutes away. But it was so sexy -- the faint scent of horse dung and pee below, the peppery whiff of the hay, the dust motes rising like tiny astronauts into the slanting sun, their fingers and tongues insistent on each other. It was good. And had that slight tang of the forbidden that raises sex from friendly to frenzied. Just when their assorted concerti were reaching their peak, and it seemed like coda was around the corner, the sun sank low enough in the west that the exposed parts of their bodies lit up, electric, and they were alight. In the loft.
Causes John Oughton Supports
PEN International, Amnesty International, League of Canadian Poets, POR AMOR, Greenpeace