Hi Ho, Silver! Awaaaaay!

People--and by that I mean folks who barely know me--have an unnerving and unfortunate tendency to confide in me. I don't know what it is: maybe because I'm gay (therefore a minority or "oppressed" and likely to be sympathetic) and outspoken (and relatively openminded), they mistakenly think that I am also a nice person.

This is a mistake. I am not a nice person. Oh, I am staunchly loyal and protective of my friends, but that just makes me loyal and protective to a group of people I have stamped with my approval. And I generally live by the "live and let live" maxim, but I don't like people as a rule, can't be arsed with them most of the time and would just as soon live as far removed from society in general as possible. I have utterly no investment in the continuation of my species whatsoever. I have more sympathy and tenderness towards "dumb" animals than children, and while I think that most people should be able to do whatever the hell they want most of the time (providing it does no harm to the nonconsenting, children or animals), I certainly don't want to hear about it. Most of human existence is either painfully dull or a train wreck.

And yet, people--essentially strangers who have the most tangential acquaintenceship with me--repeatedly and unfailingly disclose deeply personal information about themselves to me. This invariably alters any embryonic friendship we might have in such a way that, many times, I cannot pursue a relationship with them thereafter.

Take, for example, this woman at work. I'll call her Hip E. Dippy. She's older than I am and has clearly been around the block a few times in terms of general experience. You'd think her social skills would be more advanced, but apparently not. It's amazing how much people get away with.

Anyway, Hip inhabits the cubicle behind me, and one day last week, I noticed that she was in late. I teased her about getting a booty call. This was my mistake, I admit it fully. But most people laugh and say something like, "Yeah, right!" and move on.

Hip emphatically denied a booty call and said that she had instead been waiting for a delivery. She was very, very excited about this delivery, which had come all the way from New Zealand. I want you to know right now that I did not ask for details. I was obviously quite prepared to let this whole matter drop. I don't actually care for what other people get in the mail. I know from experience that it is usually really personal or really mundane. The only mail that concerns me is my own.

Hip, however, did not pick up on my subtle physical cues, like turning away, staring fixedly at my monitor and responding in vague monotones. Hip went on to tell me that it has always been her dream to own this object. She never had one as a child, you see, and the desire to have it is so great that she dreams about it.

There was just something too intense about the way Hip approached her subject: I felt all ooky about it. Trepidatious, even.

Hip told me that she had searched long and hard for someone who would make this object for her. She even ordered plans from the States, but couldn't find anyone locally to build it for her. "There are no craftsman, anymore," she said with a dismissive sneer. "Just carpenters." That's why she was forced to order it from New Zealand. And she spent thousands of dollars on it.

Gentle reader, I know what you're asking: what is all the excitement about? What the hell did Hip E. Dippy get in the mail all the way from New fucking Zealand?

An adult-sized rocking horse.

And then she said, "And I can hardly wait to get home and ride him!"

So, at that point, my skull exploded and I was stuck with a visual image of this lumpy, shapeless old hippy in thigh boots (white fat oozing over the tops) and a leather corset (more fat oozing over the top), crop in hand, riding this poor rocking horse to a furious and explosive orgasm, as all the while the Wm Tell Overture blared in the background.

Although I must have visibly blanched, Hip just kept waxing rhapsodic about her new acquisition ("I've even named him!"), detailing why she chose an English saddle over a Western one ("I was afraid I wouldn't fit a Western saddle"), how big it is (36 inches from nose to tail), and how she made her daughter promise that when she dies, her grand-daughter will inherit it.

The last part squicked me right out: I mean, is a child ever really old enough to get the keys to Grandma's tickle trunk? And, I've checked this with several of my friends--there's NO WAY this thing with the rocking horse isn't sexual. I'm not sure Hip E. Dippy understands that, but it is.

My friend, B., collects carousel horses. That's not weird. And I'm sure there are lots of people out there who have rocking horse collections, too. That's not weird either. But an adult-sized toy? That rocks?

That screams "FETISH!" to me.

And I'm afraid that, knowing that and being saddled (pardon the pun) with the visual of Hip astride her mount, we cannot be friends. That's just Too Much Information.

Eww.