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Rated: 13+ · Preface · Biographical · #1201352
A possible opening to my collection of reflective essays.
         I'd hold the strap attached to his ears and mouth, and lift myself onto the cracked, white, leather saddle. One remaining glass eye shone out of the right side of his head; his mouth, once bright-red and smiling, had chipped away to a faded half-pout. His nose resembled a bruise, with gashes for nostrils. He had a brown and auburn mane which, extending from the crown of his head nearly to his waist, was made up of my grandmother's discarded wigs glued to the wood with Elmer's multipurpose glue.
         Wrapping the dog-leash reins around my fist, I'd slip my feet into the stirrups that hung from his hips. Bouncing up and down, I'd set the runner skidding across the floorboards before sitting up, leaning forward, and pressing my lips to the back of his neck. Infantile and naive, I'd exhort him, thinking I could talk to wooden animals. I'd wrap my arms around his neck and kick my legs back and forth in the stirrups. Laying my cheek against the side of his head, I'd press myself to his curves. When he pitched forward, I'd scoot up toward the base of his spine, and when he swung back I'd let go of the leather strap and lean back as far as I could, so I was causing his motions at the same time as I was trying to get in rhythm with them. I'd clutch him, make him lurch crazily toward the far well, jerking my body forward, squeezing my knees into wood. Then I'd twist my hips and bounce until it felt warm up under me. Bumping up against the smooth surface of the seat until my whole body tingled. I'd buck back and forth until it hurt, in a way, and I could ride no longer. By the time I aged into the double digits, my parents had removed the homemade hobby horse into the attic, believing me too old for such childish toys. Without him there was something missing from my life, a feeling I had until my early teens when I discovered the back rows of movie theatres and the wandering hands of randy boys
         Who would have guessed? One of my very first memories is of myself, on my front porch, surrounded by sunlight, trying to get off.

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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1201352-Preview