When we love, when we embrace, where do our embraces lead?  To disheveled streets and imperfect connections, longing and hope wrapped in who we want to be reflected in each other’s eyes.  I see those eyes before me, and the mirrors show me so many me-s.

Show me the strength you see
In me when I become your mate and master
Your legs wrapped in dream
And my sunshine holding your starry sky

I am sitting today with mental health, with diagnoses and not being diagnosed.  Madness and genius wrapped up in each other with a sigh, longing for normalacy and detesting the notion in the same breath.  I breathe between tears and fears, and his eyes catch mine.

Forgiveness comes in so many forms
In the bowl of cereal you offer up
Your legs wrapped in steam
And sunrays caught fresh from the shower

And so here I am on the roller coaster again, and the clowns dance by.  I will be your calming force, you will be my rock, and together we are better for it.  Let my eyes help you be the best mine and more you have the capacity to be… for you have so much capacity.

We have so much work and life ahead
In the world at large or tucked away
Your legs wrapped around mine
We will break the molds and build anew

Tijuana Palimpsest

We tear you
Page from page
Layer from layer
And know your skin under a heavy sky

Tijuana Promotion

At 99 pesos an hour
I wonder
At that exchange rate
What I could get for twenty dollars and a smile

Tijuana Zebra

Sometimes
Being a burro
Just isn’t enough
For some people

Tijuana View

How many
Pass over
And how many
Pass back?

It a room lit with candles, surrounded by mandalas, I was joined this Saturday by 12 other souls, 13 of us in total, to explore a new rite- Awakening The Ruby Pentacle.  Honor-Integrity-Discipline-Responsibility-Purpose.  Inspired by Saturday, I share the story of unfolding, and details about, The Ruby Pentacle.

(For those only interested in the details of the Ruby Pentacle, and not the story or other Pentacle Working, scroll down to the topic line “The Ruby Pentacle” below)

I have been exploring Feri Tradition and some of its spin-off concepts for a few years now.  In February 2008 I sat and heard T. Thorn Coyle speak for the first time, and was blown away.  Not only is she intelligent, but she resonated with a cord of what had been working inside me for some time.  That day she introduced me to the Iron Pentacle, and my world was transformed.

Within Feri Tradition, and its offshoots and inspirations, there are many different pentacles that are seen to energetically flow through our astral bodies.  Though, mind you, I am only describing this work from my own perspective, with language that others within Feri might disagree with or find to be far differently phrased then they would describe it.  So be it- Feri is… many things.

As I sat with, danced with, and felt the Iron Pentacle resonate through my body, I was struck by a number of different things.  The first was that my energetic body ran backwards compared to what Thorn was teaching.  I had already had challenges with some forms of Tantra, trying to run energy in specific directions- only to find that it worked better going “widdershins” as it were.  But Thorn, when she asked if others had questions or comments, I asked if it was weird that my pentacle ran down to my left foot from my crown, rather than down to my right.  She looked and me and simply asked “are you from Australia?”  I blinked and answered yes, as my energetic body is very much rooted in New South Wales, and she said “fair enough then- it flows the same direction as water down a drain.”

Secondly, that first day of working with the Iron Pentacle shook me up around the notion of balance, and finding a middle space.  The five points of the Pentacle are Sex – Pride – Self – Power – Passion.  Having any one of these be too small is a thing that is not sought after… nor any one of them being too hyper-manifested.  That notion really took me on a journey into my own work.

So here I am, sitting with Pentacles.  I am sitting with, and called to share my work with Pentacles, as well as to point folks towards resources of other Pentacles beyond my own.  Beyond what I have found within myself and others.

There are many pentacles that have been explored by other Feri, and those who have been touched or affected by the work of Victor and Cora Anderson:

Iron Pentacle (explored in Veedub’s book/download, Thorn’s book, and Storm Faerywolf’s site):
Sex – Pride – Self – Power – Passion

Pearl Pentacle (explored in Veedub’s book, Thorn’s book, and Storm Faerywolf’s site):
Love – Law (I use Order) – Knowledge – Liberty (some say Power) – Wisdom

Blessing Pentacle (explored in Veedub’s book):
Devotion – Truth – Radiance – Grace – Blessing

Amethyst Pentacle (unveiled by Storm Faerywolf, and explored here):
Innocence – Desire – Awakening – Identity – Expression

Quartz Pentacle (introduced to me by a gentlefey named Greg):
Compassion – Harmony – Patience – Forgiveness – Gratitude

Rust Pentacle (explored in Thorn’s book):
Impotence – Shame – Deprecation – Powerlessness – Apathy

Gilded Pentacle (explored in Thorn’s book):
Greed – Arrogance – Egotism – Force – Obsession

Warrior Pentacle (Introduced by Thorn):
Commitment – Honor – Truth – Strength – Compassion

Water Pentacle (Introduced by Awen Stormfool on her blog):
Expansion – Becoming – The Source – Allowing – Guidance

And there are very likely others I am unaware of.

But something had been whispering to me.  I listen to whispers.  I listen across the veil, and I especially listen when cosmic clue-by-fours appear in my world.  The cosmic clue-by-four in this case was Jack Malebranche’s (now Donovan) work, Androphilia: Rejecting the Gay Identity, Reclaiming Masculinity.  I was one week post-hysterectomy, and the book literally appeared on my bed, thanks to a friend who saw of me and bought it at Bookman’s.  Given that this book was a small distribution and is out of print, and that it now tends to retail for around $100 it turns out… I don’t believe in coincidence, we’ll just say that for now.  Mind you, parts of the book pissed me off… but the best cosmic post it notes often do.

I had been exploring my place within men’s community and culture for some time.  Debating that notion about “Boy” identity as compared to “Man” identity as someone on a distinct and unique gender journey.  Where do I fit, within the world of men’s mysteries as a man with a history as a woman, a creature who has walked between, beyond, and through a variety of genders and gender expressions so far this lifetime.  I had gotten a big ole’ cosmic post-it note in the past few months that having trained in my younger years in some women’s mysteries working, I was to acknowledge, thank and let go of much of my emotional and practical attachment to that (though retain the information should I be invited back as a guest, IE if women’s groups need someone to do god-form possession work but only allow in folks with Yonis), so that I could move forward as a man in this chapter.

So I started asking, what makes a “man” in our culture.  I had fantastic conversations across occult, magical and pagan traditions on the topic (and continue to), and really sat with them.  Isaac Bonewitzs’ boyhood into manhood initiatory theories.  Ivan Richmond and Don Jon discussing the notions of verification, creation, and testing to find resonance rather than destruction.  I sat with men in their 60s and guys just coming of age… and then Jack Malebranche’s work kicked me in the ass and I stopped sitting- that in combination with some pretty intense ordeal working and tribal vision working I went through.

The Ruby Pentacle is what manifested out of that working.  And when Slave Caroline asked what I wanted to do at Our Place, the sacred dedicated space at SouthWest Leather, the answer was simple.  I wanted to pass on the Ruby Pentacle, which I also consider the Leather Pentacle.

My personal explorations had found that Iron Pentacle worked resonated with my Vivi/Fetch/Body Consciousness/Physical Soul the most.  Pearl resonated with my Emi/Talker/Mind Consciousness/Mental Soul the most.  But when it came to my Ori/Daemon/God Consciousness/Spiritual Soul, I hit an interesting wall.  The Blessing Pentacle, proposed by Veedub as being resonant… did not resonate for me.  It was Yin, and my body cried for Yang as a base resonant system.  And with the Ruby Pentacle, I found that Yang balance to the Yin- Devotion/Honor – Truth/Integrity – Radiance/Discipline – Grace/Responsibility – Blessing/Purpose.

But here I was, less than a week before SouthWest Leather Conference, and I realized that unlike the Iron and Amethyst Pentacles, that were firmly rooted within my energetic form, the Ruby Pentacle still felt like a theory, a concept, a tingle… a thing I knew to be true but not awake within myself to its potential.  And how can I pass something onto others if I myself don’t believe it?  It’s why I don’t teach a few of my classes anymore, because it’s not honest, invested and true.  It is not from the core of me.  And as a guru and teacher, how can I pass on that which I do not myself have the capacity to stand behind?

So I set aside 12 hours, and cast my circle.  I set my space and did the work I needed to do to traverse within, without, and between.  I did academic research before, I created index cards full of words and resonant concepts, I dived into theory… and then danced into practice.  Because it is not enough to know.  One must feel.  One must experience.  Or else it’s just theory.

I am grateful that I did, because I discovered something fascinating about the directionality of energetic movement.  At least, I found it fascinating and useful.  Mind you, I also said “duh”- because sometimes the simplest truths are the ones we didn’t notice before.

In most of the witchcraft I have done since I was a child, and in my working within Christian tradition as well, the bulk of energetic working comes vertically.  It either roots down through our feet and into the earth, or is reaching up to the heavens.  Or, it comes up from the earth, or down from the heavens.  It is ascendant in nature, or descendant.  It is vertical in one way or another.

Both of the Pentacles that I had anchored in my body, Iron and Amethyst, are vertical energetically.  The Iron Pentacle is pulled up from the iron core of the earth, while the Amethyst Pentacle pulls down from ascendant Gods or Spirits up in higher astral realms.  I tried and tried and tried and could not get the Ruby to anchor from anywhere…

Until I lay down and reached out horizontally.  I found Honor facing me in the eyes of leatherfolk I knew and trusted.  I found Integrity in the form of my mother.  I found Discipline staring me down from authors whose dedication I respect profoundly.  I found Responsibility in the faces of parents whose every day capacity blows me away.  And I found Purpose echoing back in the eyes of other spirit workers and people of faith I admire.

We are all God.  Namaste, I see god in you, is not just a pet saying.  We are all God, literally.  For most Hindus, maya, or illusion, is a thing to overcome so that we can become as gods, be fully energetically ourselves and see beyond the veil that falls over our eyes.  But what if we choose to not fear the maya before us, but understand it as lila?  Lila is the Hindu notion (thank you Silence Maestas for turning me onto this notion) that we can acknowledge that there is maya present, and thus every time we see someone or something new, our beloved, our Divine, our God, is there in a new form.  That we play hide and seek with Deity and Essence.

Thus, I am opened up to a new direction of finding divine inspiration.  Not just from up or down, but side to side.  Side by side.  I stand side by side with the deity in each of you that is each of you.  And if that is the case, you can help awaken divinity in me, and I in you.  And by becoming the most “me” that I can be, I help increase the presence of divinity on this plane, and beyond.

And then I came back, ate a quesadilla, enjoyed some horchata, and did laundry.  Because this is the way of such things.

The Ruby Pentacle

Honor – Integrity – Discipline – Responsibility – Purpose

Within our bodies there are five major energetic centers that root information around the periphery of our form.  The Chakras run down the center of us, from our Root up to our Crown, but we also have a second set, that wraps around our beings in a circle.  If we stand in the form of Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, arms outstretched and legs apart, our bodies form the shape of a pentacle.  Our head is the first point of the pentacle, than a foot, the opposing hand, the other hand, the opposing foot, and back to the head.  Which foot goes “first” is dependent upon the flow of our energetic forms… mine, based down under, flows to my left foot, while most Americans I meet flow to their right foot.

There is an energetic center within each of these five points.  The first is located in our head- for some a spot at the third eye, for others just above the top of their head, and I have met some whose head-point is located at their cranial occiput (that little divot at the back of the scull).

Find here, resonating the focus of Honor.  For those who cannot feel theirs, for it is slumbering, take this piece of ruby that I hold out, or this piece of the leather of my own Pentacle.  I am not a font of this, I am not gifting it to you.  You must still earn it… but sometimes we just need a spark of inspiration to find our own fire burning in the distance.

Honor is known by many names:
Dignity
Character
Nobility of the Soul
Duty
Virtuous Conduct
That which we measure against our conscious
Our social contract
Ethical Excellence

When we are without Honor, we walk in Shame.  When we are overfilled with Honor, we are blinded by Hubris.  Neither serves us on the fullness of our journey and potential.

Feel your Honor beat and pulse, a beautiful ruby red or polished black leather.

Once Honor is rooted in our energetic body, take a line of crystalline structure, glowing deep red, or a leather lash from the polished Honor you have found, and drawn a line down to your foot.  Again, this will be the right foot on most westerners, left on those south of the equator… but follow what your energetic body tells you.

Find here, resonating the focus of Integrity. This may be at the toes, or just below the foot, or at its center, or at the ankle.

Integrity is known by many names:
Consistency of Actions
Following our values, measures and principles
Honesty
Truthfulness
To be an Integer, whole and complete

When we are without Integrity, we walk in Disgrace or Hypocrisy.  When we are overfilled with Integrity, we are blinded by Absolutism.  Neither serves us on the fullness of our journey and potential.

Feel your Integrity beat and pulse, a beautiful ruby red or polished black leather.

Once Integrity is rooted in our energetic body, take a line of crystalline structure, glowing deep red, or a leather lash from the polished Integrity you have found, and drawn a line down to your opposing hand. This will be the left hand on most westerners, right on those south of the equator… but follow what your energetic body tells you.

Find here, resonating the focus of Discipline. This may be at the fingertips, inside the palm, at the wrist, or just outside the frame of the hand.

Discipline is known by many names:
Self-Mastery
Will or Willpower
Order
Self-Control
Contribution
Follow-through
Motivation
Cultivation
Determination

When we are without Discipline, we walk in Negligence.  When we are overfilled with Discipline, we are blinded by Abuse, of ourselves and others, by ourselves or others.  Neither serves us on the fullness of our journey and potential.

Feel your Discipline beat and pulse, a beautiful ruby red or polished black leather.

Once Discipline is rooted in our energetic body, take a line of crystalline structure, glowing deep red, or a leather lash from the polished Integrity you have found, and drawn a line down to your other hand, feeling the line cross over your heart. This will be the right hand on most westerners, left on those south of the equator… but follow what your energetic body tells you.

Find here, resonating the focus of Responsibility. This may be at the fingertips, inside the palm, at the wrist, or just outside the frame of the hand.

Responsibility is known by many names:
Accountability (for one’s actions and decisions)
Obligation (Moral and Mortal)
Reliability
Dependability
Answerability

When we are without Responsibility, we walk in Irresponsibility.  When we are overfilled with Responsibility, we are blinded by Compulsion or Preoccupation.  Neither serves us on the fullness of our journey and potential.

Feel your Responsibility beat and pulse, a beautiful ruby red or polished black leather.

Once Responsibility is rooted in our energetic body, take a line of crystalline structure, glowing deep red, or a leather lash from the polished Integrity you have found, and drawn a line down to your opposing foot. This will be the left foot on most westerners, right on those south of the equator… but follow what your energetic body tells you.

Find here, resonating the focus of Purpose. This may be at the toes, or just below the foot, or at its center, or at the ankle.

Purpose is known by many names:
Ambition
Drive
Desire
Our life’s Mission
Guiding Ideals
Passion
Our Reason for Being
Our “Great Work”

When we are without Purpose, we walk Adrift or full of Apathy.  When we are overfilled with Purpose, we are blinded by Obsession.  Neither serves us on the fullness of our journey and potential.

Feel your Purpose beat and pulse, a beautiful ruby red or polished black leather.

Once Responsibility is rooted in our energetic body, take a line of crystalline structure, glowing deep red, or a leather lash from the polished Integrity you have found, and drawn a line back to your head or crown, where Honor is rooted.

Feel your Honor beat and pulse, a beautiful ruby red or polished black leather.
Feel your Integrity beat and pulse, a beautiful ruby red or polished black leather.
Feel your Discipline beat and pulse, a beautiful ruby red or polished black leather.
Feel your Responsibility beat and pulse, a beautiful ruby red or polished black leather.
Feel your Purpose beat and pulse, a beautiful ruby red or polished black leather.

Follow the ruby or leather lines, again and again, as they beat out with each breath…

Honor – Integrity – Discipline – Responsibility – Purpose

The Ruby Pentacle, awake.

It is not always easy being a monster, but I like it.  I feel good with it.

“You are not a monster” I hear a lot of folks tell me.  Monsters have tentacles and fangs and gore dripping from their pores.  Monsters plague dreams.  But I tell you, no, I am a monster.  For a monster is any creature that does not fit in with the day to day lives of man.  We are the things on the edge of reason, and an Angel is just as much outside mortal ken as a Demon is.  A Pegasus is just as strange to come across at a mall as a Shuggoth is, and the Shuggoth is far more likely to be heading to be heading to the Apple store than I am.

So I tell you now that though I am beautiful, I am also terrible.  I am a thing on the edge of dream, making love with fear as I skirt through the lands called fantasy.  I am a monster.  But it is what I have always known.

Some people say that being a Pegasus is so much better than being a horse, and I have had my own thoughts on the matter.  We who are in the kingdom of the equine, beasts beyond the majesty of their standard four legs and forelock, come in many shapes.  We are Unicorns, Pegasi, Centaur.  We have cousins in the form of Baphomet, of Aquarius with her glittering tail…

I say that Horses are magical creatures.  My mother was a horse, a noble beast who pulls carts and works hard for a living.  Without the horses such as her, where would our world be?  She is the kind of mare who stomps her foot and the world hears.  When a hero takes an arrow in his back, she will ride with all her might back to home, carrying his unconscious body until it can be revived again by the men of medicine and magic waiting behind stone walls.

Unicorns are horses with glitter.  With magic.  With beauty… and carrying a blade.  A Unicorn enraged is a terrifying beast indeed.  Black Unicorn comes out of nightmare, White Unicorn out of dream, but both have the capacity for blood when not rescuing maidens, sizing up purity, or inspiring another generation of dreamers.

Pegasus have great capacity, but we are set apart.  Not at home in the stable, not at home in our nests once full grown.  We can fly and dart, move and inspire, walk through fables and folklore, make heroes out of men who just wanted to farm their fathers’ land.  My wings stretch and I know my purpose, I know my dreams, and I walk out into the world soaring high.

Centaurs are the best of both worlds, horse and man, rising above horses in their capacity for lyre and poems.  They train warriors, they lead armies, they are beautiful and terrible.

I know I stand out, those days when the horses play I don’t often get called… I am riding off for another adventure they say.  But two days ago I had lunch with a Centaur.  I had lunch with a Centaur.

He asked with me to ride with him, to a gallery set aside for the Gods.  I clomped alongside him, though he was so much taller than I, and I so longed to fly.  We arrived at the gallery and took in the sights, until we came to a painting.  He told me he had painted it.

In the foreground was a Unicorn, who was cutting off his own horn.  In the distance, off to the right, a group of horses played.

What a terrible sight I cried!  How could he?  How could this beautiful beast get rid of what made him different?

Because it made him different.  When horses gather, sometimes a Unicorn will come along and ask to join in.  Some are invited in for they are beautiful freaks, awe inspiring.  They bring strange tales of maidens and rose gardens, can entertain.  Horses can go home to their stables and tell their friends how they met a Unicorn today, and you would *not* believe what that they said- Unicorns say and do the darnedest things.

But not every Unicorn is so blessed.  Um, can you take off your weapon, the ferocious stallions say, nervous being unable to protect their own.  No, I can’t take it off you silly thing!   Did you call me silly?  Hooves hit dirt, clods flying.  Hooves hit dirt, Unicorns defend themselves… and blood falls.

I blinked at the Centaur.  No!  No, it couldn’t be… and yet I had seen it a hundred times before.  Horses like Unicorns on their terms, when they add but do not terrify.  Some Horses seek out Unicorns, ask how to become a Unicorn, strap on horns and parade about for the evening then return to their pastures by day, happy to have something stable, something solid.  The Unicorn wanders, sometimes welcome, sometimes not.  Trading his glitter for a bowl of hay, his tears for a place to lay his head.

I looked at the painting and saw the choice.  A Unicorn has a choice, to loose his horn.  Cut off your horn Unicorn, grow out your forelock, and you can be just like us.  Leave behind your maiden claiming ways, leave your rose gardens, and you can be one of us.  You can have a home, have a way of life, have a family.

My eyes wanted to tear, but I fluttered up for a moment and asked him to show me the next.  My eyes went wide as his hands, such strange beautiful hands on long arms above his torso, pointed out the next piece.  A Pegasus, a brother of my blood, whose wings had been torn off and he was struggling to move.

I saw his truth in the pigment.  This truth, gods, I knew it in my heart.  I have a choice too.  Each Pegasus does.  I can try to become a horse too.  I have felt those days in my marrow, gods to just be normal.  To just be normal, please Zeus, grant me this!  But the painting shows the truth so clear, blood spilling out, stumps of wings left.

Even if a Pegasus survives the ordeal of ripping off their wings, they will never blend in, not quite.  Tell me of those bumps, what befell you horse?  How can I ever hold a saddle?  Saddles will always have to be customized to fit on me.  I will always feel the phantom limbs of what could have been, what should have been.

Beyond that, a wingless Pegasus can not do what they were set on this plane to do.  We hear the call of the gods and can not go to Olympus!  I have had my wings clipped and bound before, for my own good they say, and I may have survived by it but that loneliness hit my soul.  I tried to walk into traffic, hoped someone would end my life instead of being able to serve my calling.  There are tales of pegasi who do just that, cut off their wings… but what sort of life is survival?

I did not want the Centaur to show me the last piece, but I know I needed to see it.

The last of the row showed a Centaur holding a sword, cutting himself in half at the waist, where fur met skin.

You… Oh gods, tell me no my friend!  I looked at him and his head nodded, and I knew his truth.

Even if a Centaur were to cut off his arms, he would never be a horse.  Even if he were to hide his lower body, he would never be a man.  The most he could achieve by trying to become normal would be to become an ugly horse, forever ridiculed, forever tormented… and no longer able to defend himself.

Centaurs are gifted hunters, talented artists, ferocious beasts.  They are monsters worthy of respect. But horses only want to spend time with them if they claim horses as theirs, feed them and care for them and put them under them safely, few Centaurs are welcome at pony parties.  Unless of course we have need for a Centaur, find value in them, need to know how to journey into the underworld or fight Medusa… then we might ask one, then leave them be.

The lonely Centaur in the painting had chosen the only path he felt he had.  He cut himself in two and ended his life, because at least in death horses and men alike could partially empathize with the part of them they mirrored.

I nuzzled the Centaur and left the gallery.  I thought on the Unicorns, Pegasi, Centaurs and horses I loved.  We all had hooves, had we not?  We all were born, and all would die.  We all had seen sunsets and sunrises.  Wasn’t it enough?

I left his side and went to the side of a horse I know.  I asked him to come to my home, instead of me going to his.  He always liked me so when I added magic to his world, but coming into my field, not even into my secret grotto… his eyes went wide.  This is home?  How do you not go mad from the wonder of it?  How can you call what you do work?  How? Why? What?

He blinked at me and I nuzzled him.  I was sick of being a monster.  Make me feel like a horse again, make me remember what it is like to feed from troffs and breed like others.  Let me recall this, for a moment, please.  But his eyes were wide.  His eyes were wide and I let him kiss my wings, see parts of me that were there to examine.  Never in my life, such an amazing creature.  I stopped my ears with my own moans, hoping I could believe it, somehow stop myself from flying as he lifted me into the air and without thinking I took flight.

I flew and flew and flew until I reached the realm of a Unicorn I adore.  I landed and approached him on hoof.  I told him the tale of seeing a vision of a Centaur, and he shook his head and said it was a strange vision, but that he adored me nonetheless, and I adored him in it.  I regaled him with other sights I had seen from seas away, over digital waves and frothy foam.  He said I was the strangest beast he had ever beheld, and was blessed to know me.  I loved him and how his beautiful body mounts me from behind, his shape fitting mine so very well.  I ponder what shape we might take if my wings were not there, if I were a horse or Unicorn.  If I were not the most fantastical beast the Unicorn had ever met.

How often it tales of old do we see groups of Unicorns?  It is rare, but when we see them, such inspiration!  Such beauty, and magic.  But they are hidden away from mortal eye.  They are hidden because when monsters host their monster balls, we make magic.  We make magic that causes some to raise their arms against us, makes others doubt their own journey.  Monster balls sometimes lead to a horse realizing the truth of the horn that was cut off at birth by well meaning equine parents, horses who loved their young pony well.

Th next morning, waking from the home of my magical Unicorn lover, I walked outside.  I began to trot.  I galloped.  I lifted my head and soared.  I flew and flew and flew and… saw in the distance a fellow Pegasus.

His head threw about and whinnied a beautiful Pegasus whinny at me.  My heart melted.  He told me of his day and I told him of mine.  We laughed at our friends, equine and monster alike.  We told tales of far off seas and waves and foam, and knew them as a day in our lives.  Neither of us were any more strange than the other, just two monsters taking to the skies and planning our next visit to far off shores.  We spoke of Pegasi and Unicorns we would see there, beautiful stallions and mares we adored who would be in attendance, the few goats and pigs and dogs and cats and werewolves we knew were to be walking those halls.  We laughed and kissed and spoke of Pegasus things, and said goodbye for now, each with different paths to fly before we rest our heads.

I am not a Centaur.  I know few of them, but love many of those I have met.  Centaurs who carry music and wisdom and strength and have no way to be horses or men.

There are beautiful horses and ugly ones.  There are proud plow horses and skittish ponies.  There are hard working ones who live up to their potential and those that would rather wander, dwindle, and fade away.

The same is true of Unicorns.  How many Unicorns have I met who think themselves horses, or think themselves Pegasi, or strive in vain to be Centaurs and feel themselves always lacking?  How many ugly Unicorns I have met, I could cry at it!  How many glittering beasts who create wars with their own kind, who gouge out the hearts of maidens and men alike.

Being a monster just makes us a monster, makes us magical.  Every horse carries magic too.  Every mortal soul, touching on this thing called making the world in our image, the gift of the gods still writ upon our hooves and tongues.

Being a Pegasus does not mean I am guaranteed to do good work on this planet or above it.  It just makes me have different gifts, a different dharma, than most horses.

But I close my eyes and see my Centaur’s friends eyes.  How when he was still small he realized that he was beyond the ken of his parents, who cast him out of their hearts.  The stones that have cut into his skin.  Of all the power and grace he holds back out of fear of yet again scaring away the horses that he wishes he could frolic with.  I wish I could hand other Centaurs to him, but I know so few.  I do not know where they gather.  I do not know the ways of their kind.

I close my eyes and see him.  His eyes wet as he stared at the last painting.  My eyes wet as I stared at him.  I close my eyes and feel his pain, imagining stumps on my back.

I am still a happy Pegasus, happy to be a beautiful freak.  A cherished monster.  A creature on this plane with a purpose.  But now, more than ever, I value the other monsters in my life, all of their power and beauty and pain, all of their hopes and dreams and possibility.  I love them all, even the Shuggoth and pigs.  I now can close my eyes now though, and see the horn half cut, and wonder how many monsters we have lost over the years.

http://tinyurl.com/yg2zh6m

Why are so many queer folk kinky and why are so many kinky people pagan or following their own spiritual path? Lee Harrington offers some thoughts.

There are many spiritual journeyers who experiment with sexual exploration as well. I breathed in and thought on these ideas and found my own truth in the flickering flame within me. It struck me that the thread for me was that the journey involves ordeal, strength, and transgression.

Those who have explored these paths have undergone an ordeal.

Say it loud, say it proud, or at least have someone else point out that you are not normal on some axis. It’s a powerful experience. It is our warrior ordeal. Instead of being handed a blade and told to go out into the world to slay a lion, we are handed powerful desires and taken to the fringes of society. We are forced to leave the nest, leave safety, and seek out our fate and future.

Once you have come out in some way, even if it was to ourselves pining for someone we “shouldn’t” want, we are changed. We step away from society’s ideals and start finding our own. And if we did not “choose” to come out, if we were dragged to the edge of the tribe and thrown out into the wilderness, we have survived.

Ordeals are any severe trial or experience where we come out changed afterwards. They are that which shakes us from our comfort zone and leaves us with a new perspective on the world. When we come out as queer, kinky, pagan or some other form of active spiritual explorer, many of us undergo an ordeal experience. Not everyone- some of us grew up in queer families or in pagan household, but for the rest of us, we know the smell of our own hair smoldering from walking (or being pulled) through the fire.

We have come out bearing our stripes, and know the rest of our tribe by the shared journeys they have taken. They are fellow initiates carrying matching scars to our own. When we have a tribe that values living through experience of the world at large, it is easy to be tempted into knowing more of that world. Opening another door. Being challenged by another fire.

Those who have explored these paths are strong.

In the fire of challenge, we have been tempered into something stronger. By being given challenge we have been handed an opportunity to rise above the mundane world. So many individuals do not rise to greatness because their lives have been too comfortable. For those of us who have gone through ordeal, comfort was stripped away, and we grew strong or died. Too many of us died along the way.

Having survived the fires once, we know we are powerful enough to do it again. If we endured the challenge of embracing being a spiritual deviant, embracing being a sexual deviant is easier to imagine. It is not easier to be. Do not be confused. Because you are already queer will not make the kink journeyer easier, but it does mean you have more tools in hand already.

Tools for communication, personal exploration, and looking at yourself in the mirror. Learning to hold a whip is easy compared to the work it takes to ask if it’s ok for us to want to hold that whip in the first place. We know how strong we are, and can choose to walk through the fires again with eyes wide open.

Dancing on the fringe

Those who have explored these paths are transgressors.

When we have left societies norms on one axis, we have been labeled strange. Not normal. Eccentric. Outsider. Freak. Pervert. Queer.

And there is such power in being given the permission to be the outsider! Once we have been told that we don’t have to fit within society’s expectations of normalcy, we are given an unspoken permission to be strange in other ways as well. Of course the guy in the long trench coat is a bisexual pagan- we already pegged him as Goth, why would we be surprised that he’s into other fringe activities as well?

Our transgression gives the ability to hold ourselves up in the light and see all sides of ourselves. We are not just creatures of the shadow, creatures of the night. We are creatures of the light, of the dawn, of the twilight. We are multi-faceted beings, and having transgressed the perception that we are cookie-cutter humans, we step into being three dimensional.

It is so tempting to choose the path more traveled. We scream out loud asking why couldn’t we have done it some other way, stayed as part of some mold instead of having that mold broken? We look in on white picket fences can feel envy or jealousy. But we who have ventured out can not go back to what we were before. Transgression takes away, just as it gives us an amazing tool.

Dancing on the fringe is a gift from the world. It is a powerful spiritual tool. Yet many of us know it to be a hard one to embrace with eyes wide open.

This is not to say that all kinky, pagan or queer people are any more enlightened than anyone else. It is just as easy for us to walk blindly through the gifts we have been given as others have walked blindly through the opportunities they have had. But for those who are willing to embrace the ordeal, for those who are willing to see transgression as a holy sacrament- the power is there for us to tap into.

The flame is there, and if we did not die in it, we have become possessors of that flame. Tenders of the blazing heart of desire. And that flame is within to light our way, on as many axis of truth we find in life. The power of the flame is to light the way to our authentic self, because we deserve our greatness. Whether our authentic self involves being queer, kinky, pagan, or simply and profoundly, ourselves.

**

Lee Harrington is an eclectic artist, spiritual and erotic educator, gender radical and published author and editor on human sexuality and spiritual experience- including Shibari You Can Use: Japanese Rope Bondage and Erotic Macramé and the Toybag Guide to Age Play, along with his upcoming book, Sacred Kink: The Eightfold Paths of BDSM and Beyond. He has also worked as an anthology editor on such projects as Rope, Bondage, and Power.

Well known for his fun and informative approach to education, he approaches sexuality as yet another art to master, or simply an art to enjoy to its fullest! He has been an active part of the international kink and sex positive communities for over 14 years, and his stories make people laugh while showing you that eroticism can be as serious, sexy, or silly as you make it. Lee’s writings and photography have appeared in numerous anthologies including “Dark Moon Rising: Pagan BDSM and the Ordeal Path” (also under his previous pen name, Bridgett Harrington), and his image has been seen everywhere from PlayBoy TV to the pages of Skin Two Magazine. To learn more about Lee, visit Passion and Soul.

http://tinyurl.com/yg2zh6m

Sole/Soul: The Conscious Art of Leather
by Lee Harrington
http://www.PassionAndSoul.com

With special thanks to Jim Deuder and Hunter Demonachello for putting me on a path towards understanding

They asked me what I got out of boot blacking. What is it about leather.

My gut reaction had always been that I’m not that into leather. I’ve had issues for years with being read as part of the Leather community. I was a pervert, a kinkster, a fetishist of other materials and concepts. I was a sadist and masochist. But leather? When asked if I would run for a leather title years ago I responded that I couldn’t because I wasn’t part of the leather community.

But when they asked me that day what I got out of boot blacking, what it was about leather, that’s not what came out of my mouth. Closing my eyes, I let it fall off my tongue. I stopped thinking, and instead surrendered to experience and emotion. I opened up, and the words tumbled out in a waterfall that washed me clean.

Leather is alive.

The relationship that we have with leather is different because it is alive. The latex dress that clings to your form did not once wander openly under blue skies. It was born. It lived. It died. But I say leather is alive because in embracing it, caring for it, we can still close our eyes and feel the heartbeat that echoes out of the memory hiding in the hide.

Leather to skin is skin to skin. We slip our flesh up against the flesh of what breathed and take on its power. We are inside the body of another being. I can feel myself enveloped in their experience, wear that life force not only as my second skin, but as a strengthening of my own flesh, a magnification of my own flesh. I become stronger, tougher, and yet more supple in the expressions of my desire.

Leather is unique.

Every piece of leather is unique. Each was its own creature and thus each has its own imperfections and traits that tell a different tale. No matter what a tailor does, no two leather jackets can ever be identical. No two boots are the same. Just as every one of us is different and has their own tale to tell, so it is with leather. Each of us has a unique finger print, a unique life story, and so it is for leather. And though a leather crafter may strive towards perfection with the piece of art we have wrapped around our forms, they never truly succeed. Like the humans striving themselves towards perfection, the leather will always be flawed. Because it is unique. Because it lived.

In being flawed I realize that leather speaks to me of my quest towards perfection, and in that quest, my longing to find the only place that can find perfection. I hear the echo of the call to be bonded with the divine.

Leather changes.

When you slip on a pair of boots, within minutes they begin conforming to the shape of our foot. Leather conforms to the demands we place on it. It transforms. It takes on a uniqueness not only through its origins but by its interactions with us its wearer. By its interactions with the world.

Leather is the only material that improves with our sweat. Our blood. Our tears. Our dedication to it. Leather stretches and morphs. It learns how to cling to our curves and to caress us in only the ways a lover can. Denim may stretch and come to fit us like a glove, but with each washing we strip away the fiber of its being until threadbare the cotton strives to hold on. In retaining our scent, leather keeps not only the memory alive of all of the places we have been, all that we are. It stretches, pulls, calls out to be ours. And once it learns our tale, that tale will always stand.

Even if leather finds a second home, a third, a fourth- each tale is retained in its shape and the way it has come to learn those tales. Passing down leather allows for the tales of those before us to live on, for tales to layer upon one another, for me to build upon what came before but never forget.

Leather is armor.

We all wear armor in the world. Under a constant barrage of attention, both positive and negative, we need armor to stay strong, stay resolute in our missions. We build shields against our fears and heartbreaks, and when we slip on leather, we slip into a physical representation of these layers. Each modern highwayman is a knight errant, on a quest of his own, and each of us that don a leather jacket picks up that archetypal impression of the modern hero. We quest, we vision, and we use our armor as a tool along that journey.

But any shield needs reinforced, and each set of armor needs care. Our emotional shields need to be rebuilt, buttressed, strengthened through our connections with other humans, through fulfilling our roles in this world, and through finding power in our passions. When we care for our physical armor, our boots and heels, our vests and jackets, we take a moment in meditation to care for our physical shield in a way that many humans never consciously do for their emotional and psychic shields. We scrub away the detritus and debris of our encounters with the world as the heavy brush loaded with saddle soap and water touches the black hide of our second skin. We wash away the pain of our world and stare at ourselves raw and exposed. We dip our fingers into the leather polish and make a commitment to strengthen our shields in a conscious manner. We build ourselves up to a high shine, exposing the possibilities of power we have buried in our beings. We wipe away the unneeded and unwanted remains, and find ourselves so much better than we were before, even if our core remains identical to what it was.

What happens then when we allow another to do our leathers for us? By receiving a bootblacking in its fullest message of soul, we are letting another human being scrub away the debris from our beings, wash away the pain, acknowledge our core, and build us back up to our full potential. I close my eyes as my lover massages my foot through the leather of my boot, and as I do so, I feel his skin touch my skin through the leather, penetrating not only my physical armor with this act of reverence and attention, but the armor of my being. My lover sees my core, and instead of leaving me as dusty as I came to him, instead he builds me up and makes me into the vision of what he knows I am able to be. He acknowledges my higher self. He builds up my highest shine and through constant reflection helps me stay at that level against all the pain of the world.

Leather is ritual.

Though leather is retooled and reinvented into different items with each generation, the icons live on through the remembering. We invoke through ritual our shared archetypes of James Dean, the Police Officer, the Biker Bar, the Leather Club, the Prada Fashion Model, the Footballer. We slip into the jacket and become the powerful characters living in the history of our culture.

We grant leather through capping ceremonies, gifts of vests, earning of boots. The charge of our kink forefathers is passed on through familial leather, generations of tales living in each hide as we cherish them, care for them. We slip on our club colors with the same reverence each time, polish our boots with the same detail to attention that we were taught by. When we find a piece of abandoned leather, through the rites we have been given we can caress messages out from our past as the conditioner slides over an abandoned hide and is found once more.

What if our messages in leather can be found over and over again, a message in a tanned bottle to the next set of hedonists down the line? In our leather rituals we have the power to awaken our dreams again and again. Our traditions. Our history and our future alike. For leather is not only used to make footwear and tight pants, it is the stuff of parchment and Torah scrolls. We inscribe our lives in our sweat and flesh, and pass it on through that which holds us tight.

Leather is sex.

Slings hang from dungeon ceilings and tongues press to chaps hungry for the taste of all that will come. Glove-clad hands slide over the body, given permission to touch and poke and prod. Bodies bulge and yearn, stretching leather pants into cartoon capacity. Needy groans escape from behind a leather hood, mouths gagged with leather, an association between the two built for life.

Though leather may seem to create a separation between bodies, it only accentuates that space, calls for the connection to be made. Lash to skin is an intimate act, a dance of desire. Leather cuffs are pulled against not out of a need to escape, but a need to be held. We need to be held. We need to be touched. We need to be needed.

In leather we are given this- for our lover’s hands can only be in so many places at once. By lacing us into a leather corset or a pair of boots or strapping us into a straight jacket our beloved holds us even when their hands have moved on. They continue to touch us even when they are gone.

By fucking us in leather, each time we stroke that piece of gear our senses become alive with that memory. Each time we smell our floggers, we can feel their writing body at the other end. We carry our memories in tangible form a gift that leather carries so well, is embodied so well by, by having carried memories of tribal cultures for thousands of years.

Leather is identity.

Strong, tough, durable, memorable. Capable, flexible, iconic, malleable. Unique, powerful, beautiful, tender. Rebellious, intelligent, raw, forgiving. Leather is the traits we long for, the traits that we create within ourselves, the traits we are.

By wearing leather, seeing it, remembering it, leather reminds us how we want to be in the world. Leather reminds us of the transformations in our lives- that which we have undergone, and that which we will undergo in the future. It reminds us of what we want to be when we fully manifest into our authentic selves.

Leather is spirit.

By having an awareness of the material of our beings, we become aware of the path we are undertaking in life. Just as a leather jacket conforms to the wearer, so does our spirit to the path of our lives. This is the truth of leather soul.

If our path does not call to us, as hard as it is to cast aside a comfortable piece of leather, we always have a choice. We can give away our trusty old boots, after debating long and hard about the choice. We can choose a new pair. We can be pushed and challenged as we break them in. Leather reminds us that we have choices.

Leather is love.

In all of this and more, it is love.

So yes, leather can be a fetish object. It can be about dressing up and having fun. And for years, that’s all I took it to be. But there can be more if you want something else. If you choose to live fully. If you choose to live consciously. If you undertake a journey towards the conscious art of leather.

And I have.

In Leather I have embraced that I am alive and unique. I have transformed and continue to transform the lead of my being into the gold of my potential. I am armored yet know how to set it aside. I embrace my rituals and my sex. I hear the calling of my identity and my spirit, and heed the call. And in all of this, I love.

I am a Leatherman. From Sole to Soul.

Blue shroud
I stood before them
and was remembered with a smile
as Thanksgiving came beneath the covers

The night before Hunter had asked
when was the last time
I had pulled hooks from my flesh
and I remembered with a smile

I walked into the mansion
walked past the map
Blue shroud
and walked out of the mansion to the waves

Mermen and dolphins dive deep
I remembered with a smile
pulled hooks from my flesh
under a Blue shroud

***

http://yezida.livejournal.com/172513.html

Today T Thorn Coyle summed it up well in her note to herself…

Do not believe until you have swallowed the truth whole, digested it, and let it seep through your pores. Do not believe until the truth affects the way you walk, talk, sit, laugh, and dance. Do not believe until the truth has shattered and rebuilt your heart and resurfaced the landscape of your mind and soul.

I have a long way to go.

I have paths of personal practice that hone me, shine me. They walk with me and talk with me. I dance in them and scream as they tear me apart and fill me with bliss.

And I don’t do them enough.
I run from them with these things called busy.
Gods love finds me anyway.

Boddisatva of 3am ramblings.
Truths of Dogma replayed.
Peace reflected in turkey and Black Snake Moan.
Breathe… asthma inhaler and truth.
I AM.
Love.

***
29 huh?
I am blessed and baffled.
Still in my 20s? The world speaks in modernity of fearing 30 but I am baffled by not being there yet. But it gives me more time to learn.
And more than that- more time to incorporate, to absorb into my pores.

I woke up today, when I truly woke not the 5am waking screaming that I knew and warned would come with 4 hours of sleep to the smile of Nina H. Flashbacks to cabin laughter and long tales. I breathe in and am loved.

Some days its easier, and the word “ordeal path” slap me like a fish in the face. Its not always easy Lee, remember- its called PRACTICE for a reason.

Love. Love sheep, sheep of love, the laughter echoes.

***

People ask me what I did for my birthday:
I took photos in the sun.
I laughed.
I became a babboon, a badger, and a bra-headed boy.
Jokes erupted from my lips.
I yelled at a good woman.
Miscommunications were had.
I looked at not knowing
I drank uneventful Shiraz.
I watched some very funny TV shows (Big Bang Theory rocks, as does How I Met Your Mother)
I bled.
I felt joy.
Walking alone brought bliss to my face.
I curled up and smiled.
I visited an amazing home with concrete cassueries and winged seahorses
Small dogs were my friends.
Pigs conquered the earth.
I cried.
I took calls.
I thanked mi madre for giving birth to me.
I was challenged.
I stretched.
I tried to grow.

***

I close my eyes again.
I know what practice is.
And yet.
And yet.

Receiving Puja

Its not often in my life that I have an opportunity to view myself in full power, grace and vulnerability, and yet I have been told I have had more of these moments than others do. I am told of people who walk through life blind. I meet souls who have never thought of their own power, grace or vulnerability, except perhaps in how others view them with these labels. I however, do. I wonder how I can pull down my walls and open up. I stay up at nights wondering if I carry myself in a way that puts my in the world I love in a way that allows me to dance with rather than steam roll over life and love. I pour myself a drink and debate whether I a doing enough. Do I live up to what I am meant to do.

But then the gift came.

Its not that simple. I can’t say I was given a gift because I deserved it, because it was meant to be. Two masses drawn to one another as magnets in this huge world. So huge. The world is not getting smaller, she said. It’s just as big as it’s always been. We however are drawn to others who are as big as we are, as ready as we are. And I was ready.

Saturday was the first time I’d received Puja, and the third time I’d invoked my god self. Oh, I’ve received hoochie puja before, taken from when HelasGythia said that she danced with fire and spoke with it, while others just did hoochie mama fire spinning. I raised my hand and confessed that I was a hoochie mama fire spinner. Oh, I’ve been to a few gatherings of tantric folks that they called pujas. But those were tainted. A lust in the air tasting like sweat and desperation. A need that cried out… if I show you how much the world loves you, will you show me? No, this taints it. This is not Puja.

Puja is an offering. It is bowing, kissing, holding heart space. It is you are beautiful and you are perfect mixed in with the divinity of being acknowledged in what is before you. It is not I love you, but you are love. You are loveable is too simple. It is more that this. It is not the passing statement, but taking of your entire being to show the being before you how amazing they are. And it is one directional.

I tried to say Thank You afterwards, and she scooped up the words and handed them back to me nestled between her palms. Please do not taint this, she pleaded with her eyes, and I took the words back.

She told me a tale afterwards of offering Puja to a tree. My brain skipped a beat, words of T. Thorn Coyle and Orion Foxwood buzzing in my brain. The souls of trees. The worthiness of these amazing spirits. Full circle in under a year, as if time were somehow so simple. Louise, the woman in the cottage, lives past and future, smiles and laughs as I pick up this thread again lifetimes later.

8 months ago I first drew down my God Self. PantheaCon is one of those events that even though it takes place in a hotel, the brain lets that fact fade because the magic is so strong. The space becomes more than hotel, more than people, more than rituals- it becomes its own. And here I was surrounded by 200 or more folk in a ballroom, watching Thorn laugh and explain and place theory on the table then walk us into practice. Eyes shut, hands open, and breathe in. Pull in power and love. Breathe in and hold, and as I breathe out fill presence in the space and connect to my beingness there. Her words echo- “there is nothing excluded from the work of self possession.”

Breathe in again, deep breath and hold, and as I breathe out I fill the beingness of my animal soul, my lower cauldron, my lower chakras. Breathe in, fill and hold, and as I breathe out I fill myself and bring awareness to my middle chakras, my intellectual self, the trunk of my world tree and the self that analyzes it all. Finally on the fourth breath, aware of all before, space, animal and intellectual selves, I breathe in, hold, and breathe into my god self.

I breathed up and filled up my being, and as the I AM descended, and I knew it as the I AM, the truth of me, my greater purpose, my god self. Dharma is one of her faces. Purpose is one of his hands. Beingness is writ upon zir chest and Authenticity echoes in every pore. I breathed in I AM, and became the conduit for my eternal self to speak, to know, and in turn, empower me to do as I will. I. I AM.

It amazed me afterwards, and before we actually turned theory into practice, how many times I have let other beings ride me and use my form, when I had not ridden myself. A thousand reasons erupt from my tongue- second hand flesh, not my chosen journey, so many to serve, so little time… all excuses that fell away as I knew. Knew in my being. Knew my being.

Since that February evening, full of rose poems and Feri delight, I had only drawn myself down one other time- locked in a circle with a heavy metal circle locked around my neck and in the solace of solitude I spent forever in an hour with my God Self. I have tried other times in between and not truly succeeded. I have called I AM on the phone energetically speaking, and had me even visit during office hours… but the attempts at house calls have not worked. Oh, I certainly told myself it worked, or bathed in the high of the trying, but it was energetic wanking: calming, self loving, but not necessarily helpful for being fruitful and making life change. Fair, I could go on about the idea of masturbation as a tool for life and world change, but for now we’ll work with a standing metaphor.

She and I had been playing hard. Ropes and hands and hearts flying in a generic hotel room lit with the light of us. Switching at its best with both as Top, both as bottom, both all there. But those walls, right. Dive deep but come up for air my fear kept saying. They can’t handle it… an excuse for you can’t handle it.

But my gills itched and as we walked into the bathroom she caught my eye.
I would like to offer Puja to you…
Have you ever had Puja?

A wave of words that never crossed my lips. Oh, fuck, hoochie puja… oh no, she means it. I’m not worthy! Why am I not worthy? What do I need to do to deserve this? How can someone see me as perfect. She’s just being nice. Its not a big deal. This is a huge fucking deal. If divinity is tapping into universal love like being plugged into the source, is she using me to reach that source? Am I using her? Am I already plugged in? A I allowed to? Will I be allowed to stay? Can I do this? What if she starts and finds me unworthy once she looks? What if I find myself unworthy. What if I cry. Run. Breathe. BREATHE.

So I breathed. I nodded yes, and when she began, I breathed.

As she touched my feet and gave thanks to all I am, I let myself truly go there again. Go back into the truth of my being and open wide. Open to being there with every pore. Open to being primal with every pore. Open to being intellectual with every pore. And once I was there, truly there, I opened up wide and felt I AM descend.

I laughed. The damn burst and I laughed. I see her face and know my path. I feel his hand pulsing inside mine and can act on my purpose. I feel my chest rise and fall filled with the core of my beingness and my skin sings with the authenticity of all I AM. I AM. I.

I am worthy.
I am deserving.
I am beautiful.
I am perfect in this breath.
I am loved.
I am going the right way.
I am capable of all of my greatness.
I am magnificent.
I am.
I AM.

I laughed. And laughed. And glowed.

I breathed in my grace, power and vulnerability… and was not afraid.

And saw myself.

Its not often in my life that I have an opportunity to view myself fully, and yet I have been told I have had more of these moments than others do. I am told of people who walk through life blind. But I am not they. In each day I see and meditate on all I AM, my universal will, my power line to God, my God Self, the Cauldron of my Beingness, my Gaurdian Angel, my Higher Self, my Truth… I continue to have more opportunities to be blessed.

And I am blessed. Thank you world, thank you self, for showing me I was ready for this.

A Pony Away
A true story of Human Equine Play
By Lee “Bridgett” Harrington

When I arrived at Leather Retreat on Thursday afternoon, unloading roller bags of rope and toys, I eyed the ponies being dressed into their tack.  Beautiful mares and stallions, young and old, some in corsets and heels, others in jeans and tank tops, leather straps crossing their faces, harnesses pulled around their torsos, the occasional whiney or grunt.  I eyed them and shook my head, and continued pulling bags into the cabin, trying to put the desire to be amongst them out of my head.

I had flown for 8 hours from Portland, Oregon all the way to Maryland for the event, and the whole way had hauled my Kaysers pony boots with me.  In the back of my head I was daring myself to go join pony camp, but the excuse I gave was that I had a photo shoot as a demon I was going to be doing in DC, and that I was still talking with the folks at House of Gord to do a pony photo shoot with them on my way home from my trip to the East Coast.  I never actually expected to become part of pony camp though, let alone have it be one of my most inspirational weekends in the 8 years I’d been involved with the alternative sexuality community at that point.  Now, almost four years later, the story still inspires me, and I hope it titillates and touches you as well.

The sun had peeked out from behind the clouds as I threw on a short dress and coat and headed over to watch the ponies and their trainers.  Young Toltec was pulling a cart, beautiful stud of a horse, his red-blonde hair pulled up high and his jean shorts framing his ass well.  His eyes were focused as he was strapped in, arms strong as he pulled a beautiful woman up the hill, still muddy from the rains the night before.  To his side ponies I’d seen in the magazines were being brushed down and prepped to pull a six-pony cart- ponies like Solitaire, Gypsy Mist, SpellBound, Sierra…

I knew Trigger, the Human Equine, was going to be there Friday.  We’d met in DC a few months back during a pantyhose fetish shoot, along with pony Mischief from DC and her owner.  It was with the three of them that I’d seen the rough cut for a video they’d been part of about the pony scene on the East Coast- and here I was meeting the ponies I’d seen on the film- Red Hot Pony (minus his roller blades) and so many others.

It was like walking into a dream… and then came out Buck.  Buck is the owner of WaterHole Productions, and not only does he make some of the best pony tack out there, he’s also one of the best known Stallions in the Human Pony scene.  His gray beard was trimmed tight as he pulled his black cowboy hat over his head and adjusted a high leather boot, then went over to wipe down one of the ponies.  It was like walking into a dream- but that’s all it was- a dream.

It wasn’t just the ponies either- it was the variety of trainers there too.  Big men with loud laughs from the Midwest, charismatic women from the south, lithe young women who were once fillies but fell for the other side of the lead.  One of the trainers that grabbed my attention the most was a bald-headed and tattooed gentleman in a wheelchair from the North Central area whose chair had been converted into a cart for a filly named Golden Pony to pull.  Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a tight tail, and her black corset framed her form perfectly… but his eyes were huge, happy, amazed.  I later found out that his name was Erich M, and that he’d always dreamed about having human ponies- but this was his first time being hitched up to human ponies in his new rig.

As I watched the two of them head up the hill I laughed- they hadn’t perfected the rig yet, and her height and high gait made his chair dip far back, his eyes almost facing the sky, as her strong arms pulled him up the muddy terrain.  He’d later perfect his cart so it wouldn’t have that problem… but for that time, it was hilarious to watch.  But he didn’t care- he was just happy to be there.

As I’d been hanging out around pony camp for about an hour by this time, a few of the pony trainers and ponies started talking with me… did I want to give my hand at being a trainer?  Did I have any experience with human ponies?

That’s when the confession came out- I’d been a human puppy and pony on and off for years in the privacy of my own home, and a few times when my partner and I were art events like BurningMan… but I’d never been part of an event like this.  Nor did I expect to.  Why?  Well, when Lady comes out, my human self vanishes- and I didn’t know anyone at Leather Retreat.

Lady is a Morgan, a strong willful pony who is better suited for tasks than show.  Lady gets confused around loud groups of people.  Lady gets scared.  Lady loves grapes, loves showing off for those she claims as hers, loves cold water on a hot day and loves to flirt with the stallions and fillies alike.  Even if she is a bit shy, and quiet at times.

As I was talking with the person beside me, explaining that I didn’t want to go into pony mode without a trainer who I knew could handle, well, a horse.  I’d had a few negative experiences in the past with folks who though pony training meant a girl in a pony outfit who wanted to be beaten.  They didn’t understand.  You don’t beat a horse, especially when they haven’t done anything wrong.  When I’m a pony, I’m just that, a pony.  Same applies when I do puppy play- I’m a Husky, not a girl with a butt plug that has a tail coming out of it.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Gypsy Mist.  Beautiful Gypsy Mist with her long red mane and tail.  Beautiful Gypsy Mist with her tack crossing her nose… and she was trying to get my attention.  She stomped her left hoof against the ground and threw her head up to her right, up at her trainer and owner, Sir Gary.  She threw her head back and let out a whiney, left hoof stomping against the ground again, and I understood.  Ten minutes later Sir Gary and I were having a conversation about pony head space, pony play vs. SM, desires, willfulness… and 30 minutes later I had my hooves, corset and loincloth in hand was getting into tack.

Each layer of my tack I put on, I let go of a layer of my human self.  As I pull my long auburn hair back into a pony tail, I remind myself that I don’t need to worry about checking my email, doing human work, or finding out where I need to be next.  I let go of human obligation.  As I pull my under bust corset around my torso, and lace it tight, I remind myself of transformation.  I let go of a human body and sculpt it into what I want to become, something better than human, and something more majestic.  As I pull my knee-length loincloth around my waist, buckling it into place, I smell the leather, feel the suede against my flesh, and remind myself that that is what my skin is, something thicker… that water rolls off the backs of horses better.  It reminds me to let go of some of my ego, to not worry about what someone I don’t know cares about, to focus on those that matter- my trainers, my owner, myself.

Then I unlaced the boots.  I and my partner acquired our boots about 2 years ago from Kaysers in Australia.  He does theatre and one of his favorite characters is a Satyr.  I enjoyed being a human pony.  We happen to have the same shoe size- men’s 9 ½.  We split the cost of the hooves and had them custom ordered.  The challenge with Kaysers boots is that they have no heel at all, and have a very high incline.  As a fetish model in my day life, I’m used to wearing high heels… but having it shod with a metal shoe at the base, it makes balance when not moving challenging, and going downhill on concrete incredibly stressful due to a lack of traction.  But when you’re in them on grass, or hay, or pulling carts around a ring or up a hill… they feel divine.

As I slipped my foot into the hoof form, pulling the leather tight around my ankle and calf, I let go of my gypsy need to be on the move.  My need to go go go.  I let the moment take precedence over the future.  The boots also cover my brandings, and in doing so, they take away my reminder of my human markings of a life that’s been hard, and transform me into the young life I lead as a horse… a young Morgan still exploring the possibilities the world has to offer her.   The sensuality of the leather and satin pulling from foot to breasts washes over me and I close me eyes, and open them with more calm, more composure, and more desire to live in the moment.

I looked up at Sir Gary as Gypsy Mist watched.  I looked up into his big eyes and pepper gray beard and trusted him implicitly.  Gypsy Mist handed him the facial tack I’d be wearing for the weekend, smooth black leather that went from chin to the top of head buckling in place, then a band across the forehead that buckled in place at the back of the head, and a rubber bit that ran through my teeth and buckled behind my head under my pony tail.  As each buckle was adjusted he brushed his hand across my chest and back, calming his new pony that he’d been entrusted with as a trainer.  As the last buckle with the bit was tightened down, I flicked my head back and stomped my right foot in place… hello Lady.

The next few hours were delicious.  We worked on a lunge lead, with Sir Gray training Lady in how to step higher, walk in circles, heel, turn left or right by reign pulls, to start and stop by reign pulls.  Then he watched intently as he handed Lady over to Solitaire in her pony trainer mode… what a woman!  Her eyes flashed brightly as she taught Lady to lunge, to trot, to come when called, to move around simple obstacles.  Her eyes flashed bright and Lady was in love with this bright star of a woman who I had seen as a bright star of a pony.  Solitaire handed the reigns over to Sir Robert, her owner, and he worked with Lady in turn.

A word on Lady.  Lady is a horse.  She does not understand English except those tones and words she had been taught to understand.  She also does not have arms and can not pick things up.  She tries to please though, tries so hard, but when she gets confused… she doesn’t do the best.

These came up a few time when she was being trained by Sir Robert.  Words like “step higher” made no sense to poor Lady, nor did him trying to have her to sit on a bench.  Sitting on the ground though- Lady understood that!  Oh, and having her knees lifted for higher stepping… that made sense.  Remember- pony girls are not slave girls.  They cannot get you tea.  They cannot explain their questions in words.  At least, this pony girl can’t.  Poor Sir Robert- he was trying so hard, but he was used to pony girls that could do these things… and Lady can’t.

Solitaire took over again and fed Lady- ah, how a horse understands big eyes, a wide smile and food!  She handed the lead back to Sir Gary who led Lady up the muddy hill back to the stalls where Lady was tied, watered, brushed down… and eventually her facial tack was removed, and slowly Lady left.

My eyes were almost watering as I hugged Gary and nearly stepped on his feet in the excitement of me saying thank you to him.  Thank you so much.  And as Gypsy Mist came by I hugged her too.  I was so overwhelmed, thankful, about ready to burst.  But it was time for dinner and other Leather Retreat activities- remember, I hadn’t planned on being a pony that weekend, so I had boys to tie up, women to chase, and good friends to hang out with under the open starry sky.

Or so I thought.  After dinner I was heading back past pony camp (my own cabin was just 1 building down from pony camp), warm coat pulled around me as the cool air settled in for the evening, I saw a group of ponies and trainers gathered together.  The point up for discussion was the idea of giving pony rides down by the pool during the Luau party.  Seemed like a great idea, everyone said, but was there enough space to really pull 2 carts down by the pool in the dark, especially with all the people around?  I listened intently, and when Her Royal Highness Susan called for ponies for the rides, I approached her and offered.

Sir Gary, luckily, came along as well.  He knew better than I that Lady was a slightly skittish pony, and he foresaw what ended up happening.  Lady was rigged up to the cart, with a crew of folks admiring her form and step, and she pulled the cart down and up the hills over to headquarters and into the pool area.

There was not, in fact, enough room for 2 ponies to pull carts in that area.  And this was Lady’s first time pulling carts too.  After a lot of trial and error, HRH Susan led Lady in some circles and eventually Sir Gary said No, it was time for Lady to go back to the stables.

“Does Lady have an owner?” HRH Susan asked as Lady was being led back down and up the hills back to the stables.  It’s an interesting sensation when you can hear the question but have no way to answer- ponies you see do not have the ability to speak English.  Yes, Lady has an owner, but he isn’t here, I thought to myself.  I’m just a pony away from home.

Sometimes, as in the case of my first cart-pulling experience, eagerness does not pay off.  Luckily, Friday I had a chance to try my hand at cart pulling again, and fell in love.  Lady indeed is a work horse, and I spent the rest of Thursday evening engaged in other sensual and sexual adventures.

Cart pulling is not for everyone.  Traditional “pony-girl” cart pulling is usually shown in magazines and adult films as being done by pristine ponies on flat ground with custom made governess carts.  However, the makers of these images forget that for every style of pony, there is a different style of cart pulling.

The first is Single Pony carting.  The classic style of course is the governess cart, with a pony decked out in plumes and boots pulling their lord or lady around smooth cobbled lanes around an English manor.  Others exist though, from converted wheelchairs to Classic donkey carts from Ireland.  I had the joy of pulling all three over the course of my time at pony camp, and I have to say I enjoyed each style of carting for a different reason.

Some carts require the pony to be tethered in at each side, hands chained back and out of the way.  I enjoyed these immensely for they took away my hands, a key part of my human self, and transformed me.  However, they did not give me as good of an ability to keep my cart steady on uneven fields, or when going up or down hills.  For these I preferred the classic work horse style of cart… a lot like a backwards wheelbarrow in function on the ponies end, it allows the pony, at their drivers command, to pull with more arm strength instead of torso power… and in doing so allowed me as a pony to stop and start with less fear of toppling myself in my 4” heel-less pony boots with hooves!  It also meant I could use my upper arms to lift one side or another should we reach uneven terrain, keeping my rider upright instead of tilted, thus keeping me looking all the more regal.

The second category of cart is the paired pony cart.  Again the styles here involved either being tethered into your place as a pony, using your torso for strength as the belt was attached over your corset or around your waist, or using your arms to pull a bar in front of you.  Once you get a pony cart going with two pony girls, it is a delicious site to see indeed!  However, your ponies must be well-matched- in height, in length of stride, in stamina, and in strength.  For example, I was paired at one time in a two pony cart with Golden Pony, a delicious palomino whose blonde hair fell around her face like a halo, and whose waist was pulled tight in a satin corset, much like mine.  We were evenly matched in height and stamina… but her stride was shorter than mine which was quite long in my very high hooves, and in strength… in strength I had to pull every single push on the cart for fear I would topple the palomino by my side.

But once we got going?  Oh, I could hear our hooves matched in step echoing from every direction!  I could smell the hay kicked up under our feet in time, could feel the pride of our rider, could feel her heat next to me and I was drunk on the excitement.  Everyone watched as Golden Pony and I pulled Sir Gary up and down the hill, sometimes by road, other times over wild grassy hills.  I was drunk with the attention, my tail (a gift from pony Mischief) twitching with every step, my muddy hooves clacking on the concrete in time with her heeled boots, and huge smiles from everyone as we returned.

Is dealing with the challenges of pairing ponies worth the trouble.  Yes.  Yes it is.  And blessed are they who find their pony match.  I saw that match that Sunday at the pony show in the form of Solitaire and Piper.  Blessings on such a pair.

Why else do I enjoy pulling carts?  I let go and Lady takes over as she snorts up the hill, her hooves digging in as the goal lies ahead.  He’s behind me with the leads in hand, and with a hard snap Lady is on her way, knees high and pulling with her might until she falls into step, the step by step that echoes through the bones.  He’s behind me with the leads in hand, and with a hard pull to the right then another snap Lady turns with even steps and stays on the path or with another snap charges up the hill with such grace and might pulls with her strength my strength a man or two up a hill and I ride her power through my mind body cunt and feel the surge of what it is to be a proud beast of burden.  Lady holds her head high and I fly off and become something better than human, something more dignified, more stunning, more powerful.

I can hear the echoes of her hooves on the concrete on the gravel on the hard mud and grass on the wood and feel the power in her body my body and I fly away.  The drool streams down her face and I don’t care.  Beauty isn’t in the delicate images of makeup and perfect smiles.  Beauty is more pure.  Lady is beautiful in the purest ways- in the strength of her legs, in the power of her torso, in the determination of her soul.  She is proud, she is true, and as I pull the cart up the hill under the streaming sun I can feel it all and I fly away.

The 3^rd category of pony carts is of course the multi-pony cart.  This category involves anything with more than 2 ponies, but usually consists of an evenly paired series of ponies, often with the “grandest” in appearance at the front of the cart, and those who are least experienced near the rear.  This is done so the newer ponies have someone to follow for timing of their steps, as well as not having the newer ponies pull quite as much weight.  The same issues arise as in two pony carts with pairing of ponies… and here I had even less luck in my experiences for I was paired with an pony who was much smaller and less powerful physically than Lady.  I literally had to pull my bar for pushing *backwards* to keep from pushing her back into the next pony in my first time out.

But the sight!  6 majestic ponies pulling 4 beautiful mistresses around a field?  Hooves in step with Spellbound’s right hoof bell keeping us all in time.  The majesty made jaws drop as we went past.

Lady got scared though.  They wanted her, in her tall hooves, to go down a steep concrete/gravel incline, and her metal hooves slipped.  Sigh.  Remember, if in Kaysers boots, stay off downhill inclines that don’t have traction!  Luckily the four grand ladies finally realized what was happening up amongst the ponies, between the whinnies and the grunts, the confusion and frustration, and backed the team up back onto the road, turned us around, and led us back towards camp.  Led us back to the hay.  Led us back to the water and grapes waiting for us as we were all untethered from the cart and wiped down.  It was truly delicious, and the fear that had washed over Lady minutes earlier was gone amongst the safety of trainers and handlers that cared about her… cared about me.

Every pony camp has a pony show.  It’s just how things work.  It gives the uninitiated the opportunity to watch pony boys and girls at the height of their skill and majesty, and gives ponies and trainers an excuse (just in case they needed one) to practice their gaits, their cart pulling, their riding skills, and more.  I hadn’t planned on being part of the pony show- Sir Gary and Gypsy Mist were paired for the event, and I was a pony away from home without a trainer to prepare her for the show.  So I resigned myself to other adventures, from bondage performances to sensual escapades with friends from New York.  But one afternoon on a whim I decided to spend an hour or two as a human puppy… and it changed my life as a pony forever.

Unlike human pony play which I had only been doing in private for a year or two, I can remember back since I was a child playing fetch, or making my own comfty pile of blankets to curl up in on my bedroom floor.  So I painted my face like a Husky, put my hair in puppy ears (you may call them pig tails), lubed up my butt plug with a fluffy fox tail protruding from it and slowly slipped it in… let human me wash away and puppy me come out to the forefront- complete with bone for playing fetch.  And I bounded off to pony camp to chase ponies.

When HRH Susan chided the puppy for barking at the ponies, she found security curled up at the feet of Erich M.’s wheelchair.  He made sure she had water.  He threw her bone for her.  He even egged her on to go bark at the ponies again, against HRH Susan’s wishes.  He and I developed a deep animal/caretaker rapport, and after I came back to human space, we began talking about me becoming his pony for the pony show.  My knees and feet tops were trashed from bounding around on the hay, but my spirits were soaring- I had a trainer for the show.

Then, the butterflies hit.  My stomach turned into a ball, worrying how I would do, would I let him down?  Would I make a fool of myself?  Would everything really be okay?

But Erich’s smile and joy at the fact that he had a pony- it made all the butterflies fly away.  His eagerness, his pure joy, his light heart and that look of pride in his eyes as he looked at me at the front of his cart- it made it all worthwhile, all perfect.  And with his smile as my inspiration, I undertook the challenge of preparing for the pony show.  For those who have watched a pony show or seen pictures from it… you see the finished product.  You see the high plumes, the high steps, the high energy of the ponies and trainers.  You don’t see the sweat, the tears, the frustration the ponies endure trying to perfect an understanding of what their trainers are asking for, the curt comments that pour from trainers lips as they try to make their vision of pony beauty come to life.  The time over coffee where ponies out of tack and trainers away from their lead lines debate about what might inspire the audience, what might look good, and debate what is just plain impossible to do in hooves on the slick wood floor of the pavilion where the show would take place.

Sunday came too soon.  Between practicing late in the evening with Erich, play parties with other sexually adventurous friends, meals, and an hour or two of sleep… it came far too soon.  But there it was nonetheless.  We decorated Erich M.’s wheelchair in orange and red tapes, wrapped parts of my tack in orange and red… he wore a black and red leather vest and leather pants while I was laced tight into my corset, my hair pulled up high and wrapped in orange vet wrap, my wrists and ankles wrapped in orange, my high arched boots clomping along the planks leading up to the pavilion as my leather loin cloth brushed against my thighs with each step.

I was glad that I’d sent human me to the background of my mind and that Lady was riding high in all her fidgety pony energy.  Scared pony energy that almost bolted from the pavilion three of four times before selling down onto the floor in front of Erich’s cart.  Terrified pony energy, twitching at all the loud whinnies and burying her head under her forearms hoping no one would step on her.  I was glad she was at the foreground- because human me was nervous of making a complete fool of herself.  I’ve done theatre for years, hell, I work as a fetish model and Dominatrix… but this… this was different.  And I was glad that I could immerse myself in being Lady, even if it meant jumping at every loud noise and ignoring half the pony show, being far more entranced by grapes and the flashing tack of passing ponies.

There were cart ponies, show ponies, ponies doing tricks, a donkey comedy show, a transvestite on a stick pony, paired ponies doing tandem cart pulling in matching corsets and tack, new ponies, old ponies pulling women in colorful costumes… ponies of all shapes and sizes- even a pony on roller blades.  Then it was our turn.  I felt the double tug on my reins and I raised the cart up standing with style and grace.  I tossed my head, grunted, and pulled our cart to our starting point.  The music began, and I felt a slight tug on my reins, followed by a flick that started me moving with a “Hyea!”

It seemed to be over in a flash- circling first to the left in a spiral, then backing up, then circling back to the right at a trot, then a series of forward and backwards pulls, until we found ourselves in the center of the pavilion.  The plan had been that Erich would unclip my rein on one side after turning me around in place, pull me forward, then feed me a grape as a finale to our show.  Sounds simple enough?  Ha!  It turned into a complete comedy show, as he tried to spin me ½ turn and I turned a full turn, then he tried to reverse me and I found myself back in my original position with the reins twisted around my neck.  The audience was howling with laughter as I tried to reach the grapes Erich was holding, and after a minute we succeeded, and Lady buried her face in Erich’s hands to gobble up the green orbs of decadent sweetness he held.

After the rest of the ponies performed, it was time to award ribbons.  One at a time the Mistress of Ceremonies called people forward and the judges announced the 3^rd, 2^nd and 1^st place ribbon for each category.  Everyone got a ribbon.  Even the transvestite with the stick pony.  Everyone got a ribbon- except Lady.

I broke down inside.  Erich had been awarded with a handling award, and later I found out that the judges believed that we had come to camp as a couple and thus the award was meant for the two of us… the had no idea that I was a pony alone.  They had no idea what fears I’d had to overcome just to approach Sir Gary to talk.  They didn’t remember how skiddish I was as a pony down by that Luau I had been, and how much I’d had to overcome my initial pony nature to even compete in the pony show.  They didn’t know, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.  It cut me to the core, and it took all my strength to keep from breaking down in tears at the moment the pony show ended, hoping, somehow hoping, that maybe they had some stupid special award just for me.

There was no special award.

As the audience trickled out of the pavilion Erich released me by taking off my bit and bridle, and I ran.  I ran first behind the pavilion and tears began to trickle down my cheeks, cheeks that were fresh and raw human cheeks now trapped in pony tack.  I kept running.  I ran down to the lakefront, still in my hooves, leaving hoof prints as I fled.  Fled from failure.  Fled from disappointment.  Fled from a broken heart.  Fled until I found a clearing in the brush and fell into my tears.

An hour or two later my tear ducts had run dry and I finally felt able to face the rest of the universe again.  I slowly walked out of the forest and there was a very dear friend of mine standing in the clearing, my leather Uncle Boymeat.  For the uninitiated it may seem like a silly name, but he is one of the kindest men I have ever had the chance to know.  He had been waiting at the point where the path from the pavilion met the lakefront, waiting since he’d seen me bolt like the wild hurt pony I was.  He and I talked for but a moment, then walked back in silence to our cabin.  Back at our cabin, he turned and faced me.

“Get out of that tack.  You need to get dressed for dinner.”

“I don’t want to go to dinner,” I want to curl up and die of shame I thought, “I’d rather just stay here.”

“Get dressed.  It’s dinnertime and you’re going to throw on your best latex dress and high heels.  Get out of that tack- take a nice long shower.  We are going to dinner.”

We did just that.  I stripped out of my mud-caked loincloth and Kaysers boots, shedding the weight of my heart as I did so.  I unlaced my sweaty corset and sighed, pulling in a full breath of fresh air.  I tore off socks after unwrapping vet wrap and welcomed the bare wood floors beneath my toes.  I welcomed becoming human again as much as I had thrived on becoming a pony throughout the week.  I let the warm water wash away all the drool, the sweat, the tears, the fears… let it wash away the grime from my spirit and build me up anew.  I slipped into my tight black and white latex dress, strapped on tall white platform stiletto heels, rimmed my eyes in kohl and covered my lips in deep red, pinned my hair back and presented myself to Uncle Boymeat who nodded his approval, took my arm, and led me up to the dining hall.

Dinner had already started as I joined the rest of my friends from New York at our table and listened with amusement to the announcements as one at a time my New York comrades informed me how horrid they thought it was that I hadn’t gotten a ribbon- they were proud of me, proud of Lady.  I bit back tears.  During the dinner I received an award from the camp at large for something completely unrelated to pony play, and I went to the front of the room and I gathered my little pink ribbon.  I smiled, and out of the corner of my eye I caught Piper, Gypsy Mist and Solitaire looking at me with eyes full of concern.

After dinner I ended up having conversations with each of them.  Gypsy Mist and Sir Gary spoke of how proud they were to have seen my transformation over the week from being a lost pony away from home into the majestic beast that had held the entire audience with her presence.   Solitaire gave me a huge hug and whispered words of inspiration into my ears.  Piper, beautiful Piper Pony with her whinny more real than that of most biological horses, stunning Piper who I’d appreciated from afar came and found me to tell me how much I’d infused her with a renewed appreciation towards pony play by my spirit.

I couldn’t help it, the dam of poise broke and the tears ran free again, as whispers raced through the dining hall of what had happened during the show- how I had been the only pony not to get a ribbon, about how inspirational I had been- how much of a pony.  Not a pony girl.  Not a girl in a pony outfit who wanted to be beaten.  Not some crazy woman in a costume… but a pony.  And a damn good one.  The tears flowed freely.

And then I saw Erich.  He had been sitting in the back of the hall watching as one at a time I talked with folks from pony camp, tears streaming down his face as well.  I walked up to him with a great deal of apprehension, and got down on my knees before him, my latex dress brushing the wheels of his chair as I wrapped my arms around his neck and we just cried.  His words flowed out in a river of apologies- so sorry he had let me down, how as a trainer he should have done better for me, so sorry I hadn’t gotten a ribbon, how he couldn’t have done it without me, how the award wasn’t for him really, it was mine.  Please, take it.  Please.  Please.  Those bright eyes of amazement at his new pony were gone, replaced by a man who was truly fearful that he had lost a friend.

We talked for quite a while.  We cried.  We talked some more.  Soon more folks from pony camp joined us after we made it clear that we’d gotten our private words out and reinforced both of our egos, speaking words of praise and encouragement for each of us- many folks amazed that we weren’t a couple, that we had only met a few days before… many had in fact assumed that because of how our show had went and by how much time we’d spent together practicing that we must have been old friends or lovers.  It was inspirational, and late into the night I passed out in bed with the demons purged in a true cathartic release.

Monday was the last day of camp.  Tearful goodbyes were being said everywhere, but pony camp ends in its own special way.  Gathering around an old tree in the middle of the grazing field the two older male ponies sang a song and played the harmonica as we held hands or held each other.  HRH Susan presented everyone who had been a part of pony camp with a certificate speaking in jokes about each of them.  And then she called out “Lady” from her list of pony certificates.

She began to cry.  Stories of the saga had reached her ears and as the Mistress of Ceremonies she felt horrid that I hadn’t received an award.  She presented me with a white special award ribbon, her eyes filled with tears.  I didn’t cry.  I’d let all of the tears out the day and night before- but I did appreciate her gesture.  Not anywhere as much as I appreciated those words I’d received from Erich M., Piper, Gypsy Mist, Sir Gary, Solitaire, Spellbound, Sir Robert, Uncle Boymeat, Lolita Wolf, Neptune, or any of the other pony boys, pony girls, trainers, or members from the audience who had sought me out Sunday evening to speak with me.  But I appreciated the gesture as a nice closing to a week that had changed my feelings on pony play.

I am Lady.  I am a Morgan, a strong willful pony who is better suited for tasks than show.  I get confused around loud groups of people.  I get scared.  I love grapes, love showing off for those I claim as mine, love cold water on a hot day and love to flirt with the stallions and fillies alike.  Even if I am a bit shy, and quiet at times.

Pony play is part of my life now.  I’m out of my hay-filled closet of a stable, out and proud, my hooves stomping on the hard earth.  I am Lady, and I am a proud beast, whether at home with my owner, or as a pony away from home.

Epilogue:

Almost a year later, I received a box in the mail.  Eager as a schoolgirl, I opened it up to see what my friend, Erich M., had sent me from his hospital room in the Midwest.  Inside the brown cardboard box was an envelope, and underneath it, something wrapped in nondescript newsprint.  The words were simple as my eyes poured across them:

I know the reason I feel the way I do, and I know I will feel this way until the day I leave this world. I, of course, am talking about my first Ponygirl…. [cut]

The beautiful Lady, the regal Lady, the proud Lady, the stunning Lady, the vulnerable Lady and for that very short evening and afternoon, an honor I can hardly find words for, My Lady.

As I opened the package from FedEx, the first thing I found was a small, simple, blue ribbon that simply read “1st Place”… and my eyes began to wet. As I re-read the letter I began to cry. As I opened the package and found the plaque, tears were streaming down my face and my eyes lit up with pride, love, joy…

The plaque is black and gold on a deep brown wood base. A horse in mid-stride is drawn on the left side, and on the right side it says:

I love you too Erich.

And thus ends the tale of a Pony Away.  Still a pony, still proud, who will always remember her first handler.

So today I didn’t try.

Today I just put on a bra and tank top and tried not to care at all. I discouraged myself from looking in the mirror and made lots of jokes at the bazaar along the lines of “Why do they assume that if I own breast I want silver jewelry?” I bought myself a pair of brass knuckles and avoided going near toilets anywhere in public. Today I went body numb, but at least I didn’t go violent again.

It’s the 30thof December, 2006, and I find myself in Peru. Mi padre had convinced me to go with him out of the country for new years when my gig as the super high fetish fashion diva MCing a fetish ball fell through. I figured, why not, and packed my bags. It was going to be my first trip with my father since I’ve come out a second time as IDing as male (I did so when I was 14-17 before, but decided at that time I couldn’t do surgeries if they couldn’t give me the cock I wanted), but I felt good about how my binders fit, the cut of my clothes, how I was being seen as the me I wanted a fair amount. It was being hard to overcome 12 years of being “The” Bridgett Harrington, reclaiming myself again as Lee, but it’d been going ok, comparatively. Mi Padre was calling me Lee, it was all ok.

But then I landed into Lima. Within 24 hours I’d gone nearly suicidal, obsessive phone calls to my partner in Australia saying that I hate myself and what the hell was I thinking- no one would ever see me as a guy. It’s amazingly challenging to be in a country where everything in the language has a gender- el tigre (male, any tiger), la revista (female, any magazine). When your chair has a gender, your shirt, your shoes, even your book has a gender, trying to explain a body that does not match your identity ideally, or worse yet, being in any way a gender radical, feels nearly impossible.

After three days, in Lima and Cuzco, I was going crazy. I was binding, packing, hell, at one point I shaved my face and at another I put on a bit off fake stubble… none of it mattered. I looked in the mirror each morning and saw the dapper yuppy gent that I am, felt good about myself, and then I’d walk out into the outside world. Señora? Señorita? Would you like to buy Señora? What would you like for breakfast Señorita?

I started getting angry. Furious. Day in and day out the constant reminder that I am not what I want to be. The rational voice in my head kept arguing- with 27 years living as a woman in the world at large, why did this bother me? With 12 years of being active in group sexual identity dynamics, with 7 years of being an adult film actress, why did being seen as female hurt so badly all of a sudden?

Then it hit me.
It Hurt Because I Tried.

When I’m out in public in lipstick, corsets, heels, I am purposefully messing with self perception and gender identity and enjoy being a gender fucker. When I spent years not caring and going partially numb, I would let it fall off me like water off a duck’s back, I’d wear whatever and be happy hearing whatever. It told me how people perceived me, and often times that was as a woman, no matter how neutral I looked, because I have a 38D rack…

But I had TRIED. I had bound down until I had, from my eye, gotten rid of most of my breasts that confuse and confound me so often. I had my packy down the front of my men’s 501 jeans. I wore a button down shirt, heavy boots, masculine jewelry, a very short masculine haircut, shaved face, square edged glasses… and none of it mattered. It hurt so badly because I had spent SO MUCH time and energy creating an image that would not only be pleasing to my eye, but would get the world at large to see me as me.

And none of it mattered. I was in South America, and none of it mattered.

Binders are not comfortable after many days of wear- they mess up my hips as mine falls over them and compresses them forward, and my lower back complains after a while. Hot sweaty days in Peru with a silicone soft cock down my y-fronts meant sweat and more sweat, adding to the sweat I’d had already. Shaving is a pain, even if it’s just to get rid of my peach fuzz… and I was doing it all for nothing. No one saw, noticed, or cared. No one saw me as the me I wanted to be- I was just another Señora to get their tourist dollar out of. After 24 hours mi padre even forgot, as I’m standing there with a flat chest clad in tight spandex and a noticeable bulge, getting changed into a fresh overshirt, he just stopped noticing me as me after he too had heard all of the Señoras.

So today I didn’t try. Today I just put on a bra and tank top and tried not to care at all. I discouraged myself from looking in the mirror and made lots of jokes at the bazaar along the lines of “Why do they assume that if I own breast I want silver jewelry?” I bought myself a pair of brass knuckles and avoided going near toilets anywhere in public. Today I went body numb, but at least I didn’t go violent again. I didn’t try to walk in front of a car again, like I had my first night in Lima.

I don’t know what the new year will hold. I have my first consultations for my chest surgery, with two different doctors, all by April. I can’t afford the surgery just yet, but I need to talk with each and figure out who I actually want to use so I can have a goal to work towards. I’ve chosen not to go on hormones until post-surgery, to maybe reduce scarring, keep my skin elastic, and because aesthetically the idea of body hair and breasts turns me off. I want to make every last penny of these breasts that offend and confound me before I get rid of them.

I don’t know what the new year hold, but I long to be back in a world where my magazines, chairs, and tennis shoes don’t have genders, and where I can be seen as the gender I am.