High Horse Bastard

by Smart, Kit

  “Get your coat Sinclair.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going on a field trip.”

  * * * * *

  Thirty minutes later, I was ensconced at a table of the local cocktail lounge down the street from my flat. A glass of red wine and a basket of chicken wings laid before me as camouflage. Who are you kidding about camouflage? You barely had any of that tea. You need these chicken wings to prevent yourself from sliding off this stool into a puddle on the floor.

  Snagging a wing, I dipped into one of the mystery sauces that had accompanied the wings and swirled it around as I studied the scene laid out before me. I had never tried speed dating—the very prospect had always filled me with the kind of horror you feel in the face of job interviews and appointments at the gynecologist. Ten men, ten women, six minutes per interview—er, date, and a bell to signal when it was time to move along to the next candidate. I popped the chicken wing into my mouth experimentally and took a bite. Not good. I dropped the remainder of the wing into the reject pile and contemplated another sauce choice. Nothing appealing.

  The starting bell rang and I traded my wings for my glass of wine and notebook as the men and women began, with unnerving obedience, to interview one another. Can anyone say Pavlov?

  From where I sat, I could see Hastings from his starting position at the beginning of the first row. As the men where the ones expected to move with the chiming of the bell, he sat with his back to me which allowed me to see the reactions and movements of the blonde he was with, but nothing from him aside from any information I could glean from the set of his shoulders and movements of his head.

  As I watched, like the spy I was, the blonde leaned forward her artfully curled hair brushing the table as she laid a hand on my collaborator’s forearm. Eyes wide, lips open slightly. So much for your theory Hastings. Relieved that I might not have to rewrite the entire opening of the manuscript, I dropped my pen and picked up my wineglass. As I lifted it to my lips, the bell rang signaling that it was time for the contestants to switch partners, and this drew my attention back to Hastings and the blonde, just as Hastings, now on his feet in preparation for moving to the next table, reached for the crutches that he’d stashed in the corner next to the table.

  She hadn’t seen them. I realized as I watched shock suffuse her face. The shock was replaced, almost as quickly as it had appeared, by a polite smile that was the antithesis of the ‘come hither’ gaze she had been giving him earlier; and I spared a moment to wonder if Hastings had seen the shock. Had he known that she didn’t know? I set the wine down. He’s not an idiot. Even if he’d missed the shock he’d have noticed the cooling of her regard. I picked up my pen as I watched him make his way to the next table. The woman at table two, a brunette this time, looked briefly at the man she’d just been with—now escaped to table three, then straightened herself and offered Hastings the same politely distant smile as the blonde from table one. This is what you’ve brought me to observe.

  I watched this play itself out for the better part of an hour and twenty minutes. As objectively as any writer, I took notes on the mechanics of the situation. After about table four, I noticed from my observations on body language that once they had observed him walking, the women stopped trying to engage him—no head tilting, leaning forward, flirtatious touching or asking of questions. They were, I realized, making it as clear as possible without actually verbalizing it, that they were not interested in him. Ouch. Although, I didn’t feel anything approaching empathy for Hastings—our relationship was too fraught for that—I was able to appreciate the ‘suck’ of it all, which made me wonder if I were in danger of softening toward the man.

  With a mental shrug, I searched his head and shoulders for a reaction to the negative body language, and could detect nothing. He soldiered on, moving from table to table, engaging women who were reluctant to be engaged, carrying the conversational weight almost entirely. Proving his point. A snippet of our earlier conversation came back to me: ‘A disabled body requires work and accommodation that an able body does not. There are not many people eager to sign up for that.’ But you’re the one doing the work here.

  I tried to put myself in the mind-set of the speed dating women. I was speed dating because I didn’t want to waste time going on ten separate dates. Why? Because I want…. A partner? Marriage? Kids? A night of hot sex with some guy? No. Scratch that last one. Speed dating doesn’t work for that. There are apps for that.

  Okay, so I want some kind of efficient way to establish a committed relationship of some time whether long-term dating or marriage so I choose speed-dating and here I am speed-dating and the next candidate comes over only he is disabled—on crutches and although he’s handsome and fit he is out because…

  Here I paused to jot down my train of thought in my notebook. He’s out because he requires extra work? Extra effort? He’s not sexy? Sexual? I jotted all of the reasons Hastings had given me earlier down, studied the man of the evening. Objectively speaking, Hastings is a good looking man—sexy even and we all require extra work at some point. I thought. The only difference is that you can’t usually tell it from the outside. You don’t need to address it from the get go.

  I watched as my collaborator’s current date, failed to hide her stricken panicked expression. Maybe that’s the problem. I recalled my own squeamishness as I had broached the subject of collaboration with him earlier in the evening. ‘You’re going to have to overcome your discomfort with that and learn to look directly at it.’ Once again his words reverberated through me. That kind of discomfort is a lot to overcome in six odd minutes.

  I had felt squeamish because I hadn’t wanted to offend—to tread into dangerously and potentially politically-incorrect waters. It was easier not to talk about it—to ignore it. It’s just easier to ignore and or not date the disabled guy. The sheer suckitude of that hit me and I signaled at the waitress to bring another glass along with another bottle of wine as the speed-dating session wound up. As post-mortems go this one is probably in need of a little wine to ease it along.

  When my erstwhile collaborator finally rejoined me however, aside from looking rather more tired than he had earlier in the evening, he seemed otherwise fine. “One match.” He told me as he dropped into his seat and laid his crutches across his lap. “Most likely because she didn’t see the crutches.” He added as he reached for the wine I had poured him.

  “The blonde?” I hazarded then realizing there had been more than one clarified: “The first one.”

  “Most likely.” He took a long swallow of wine.

  “So—how was it?” I asked cautiously. I had very little desire to enter the land of feelings with this man, however, I was here for the research.

  “Tedious.” He set the wine glass down and eyed the very, by now, cold chicken wings.

  “I can order something else?” You haven’t eaten much.

  “Nah.” Another sip of wine. “I’m good.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “And right.”

  “Right?”

  “About—” He jerked his head over his shoulder in the direction of the speed-dating people.

  I laughed at his apparent satisfaction. “Yes, okay, you’re right. I totally concede the point.” I picked up my glass and tilted it in his direction. “Don’t wallow too long in your victory though” I warned. “This means more work for us.”

  “Us?” The sardonic eyebrows were back. “You’re the writer Sinclair. I’m just the consultant.”

  “Nice try Hastings. If you think that you’re going to be a strictly “reason why not” type consultant, think again.” I leaned forward slightly. “I want some how-to’s.”

  “How-to’s?” It came out slightly slurred around the edges and I took a closer look at his face which was now lightly flushed. Definitely not enough food in you to counter that paltry bit of wine. I waved the waitress over. “French fries.” I told her when she came over. I used the American term because that’s how they were listed on the menu boa
rd above the bar. “Lots of French fries.” When, with a nod she wandered off, I turned back to Hastings. “How-to’s.” I repeated. “How, for example, does a person with a disability find someone to fuck?”

  He tilted his head back and regarded me from along his nose; the shadow of something crossed his face as he stared at me for a long moment. Then he laughed. It was not, strictly speaking, an amused laugh. “Damned if I know Sinclair.” He lowered his head and shifted forward, emptied his wine glass. “You’re the writer—the creative half of this team—figure it out.” He reached for the bottle of wine. “And when you have, let me know.”

  8

  “The meet-cute is believable now.” Hastings peered at me over top of the pages in his lap. “The mechanics of the first kiss need work however.”

  “Work how?” I grabbed my pen and note pad from the table in front of me and prepared to take notes.

  He tilted his head back slightly. “You haven’t adequately factored the hero’s crutches into the equation for one thing.”

  “Okay.” I jotted that down. Looked back up. “And for another?”

  “You’re going to have to make some concrete decisions on the extent to which the hero’s legs are affected by CP.”

  I frowned. “Is that really necessary this early in the story?”

  “Yes.” He quirked a smile at me. “It affects the mechanics of things like kisses.”

  “Is that why my first kiss needs reworking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ok,” I tapped my pen against my note pad a couple of times thinking. “Tell me.”

  “It would be easier to show you.”

  * * * * *

  A few moments later, I stood across from Hastings wondering how my life had come to this. Kissing lessons from the High Horse Bastard. I forced myself to look up at him because I was suddenly feeling too shy to do so. Get over it girl. “You’re tall.” I blurted having just noticed.

  “I am.” His eyes glinted with humor. “Nice of you to notice.”

  “Yeah. Okay I’m an idiot.” I muttered as I felt my face heat. “Can we just get on with the kissing thing?”

  He did laugh then. “You’re a demanding date I take it Sinclair.” He leaned forward on his crutches and adjusted his stance. “Right, so one thing you need to understand is that I have had extensive surgery on my legs to improve the flexibility of the tendons which has improved my balance and stability overall. I can stand and walk for short distances without the crutches, however, my balance is a bit off.” Lifting the crutches he took a step forward to demonstrate. We were now within kissing distance and I could feel his body heat. “Without the crutches, I can reach out and draw you in close for a kiss.” Putting the crutches aside he demonstrated and I found myself with my nose mere centimeters from from his chest. Warmth flowed through me from where his hands pressed against my back. I was surprised at how nice it felt to stand there with him like that. Down girl. I told myself ruthlessly forcing myself to look up at him. This is strictly professional. “Okay. So what’s the problem.” I was impressed with how neutral I managed to sound despite the sudden pounding of my heart.

  “The problem is that you’re short.” He said dryly. “And I could overbalance from having to lean down to kiss you without having the crutches to support me.”

  I ignored the comment about my being short and focussed on the details of what he was telling me. Priorities. “But with the crutches you can’t easily pull me in and everything is—”

  “Awkward.” He finished with a smile as I imagined my way through a kiss with him as he leaned on his crutches.

  I felt my way through it.“You’d be relying on your date to step into the kiss and take the lead in terms of physical contact because you’d be occupied with the crutches.”

  “Yes.” He gave me an approving nod. “First kisses are particularly awkward.” Stepping back, he refitted the crutches to his arms before moving back into my personal space. “I can release the hand grips.” He demonstrated. “And the crutches will remain attached at the upper arm but they get in the way.” He reached for me again and showed me what he meant. He had to make extra adjustments to his grip to avoid getting the crutches caught up on anything. “You’ll need to account for this in your descriptions.”

  “Hmmmm….” I said already mentally rethinking the first kiss scene.

  “You also need to be aware that if I hadn’t had those surgeries, I wouldn’t necessarily have the balance or stability to walk without the crutches.”

  “Ok.” I nodded. “That’s what you meant about deciding how affected the hero is by his CP?” I asked just to confirm.

  “Yes.” Hastings reorganized his crutches. “The devil is in the details Sinclair. If you want to do a book with a realistic disabled hero, you’re going to have to include them.” He gave me a look. “Starting with the crutches.”

  I thought back to the morning meeting where he’d given me ibuprofen; the way he tended to adjust his back and shoulders every so often. “Do they hurt?”

  Something flashed in his eyes. “What?”

  “The crutches, do they hurt?”

  “The crutches are inanimate.” He did that peculiar head tilt back and gave me a dry look down along his nose. Deflecting?

  I gave him a dry look of my own. “Do they hurt you?”

  “Ah.” He smiled slightly. “If I’m up and about a lot, yes, they hurt.”

  I hesitated slightly because what I was about to ask felt private—too intimate for our relationship—but the openness of his face and the fact that we were engaged in practicing the mechanics of kissing because he had asked me to ask got my mouth open. “In what way?”

  “In what way?” Eyebrows raised in inquiry.

  “In what way do they hurt?” I clarified taking in the ever so slight slight tension around his eyes

  “My back and shoulders get stiff and sore.” He answered easily. “The armbands can chafe and my hands and wrists can get a bit tender.”

  * * * * *

  “And if it weren’t a first kiss?” I asked after a I had finished tucking away that information for later.

  He exhaled slowly through flattened lips. “If it weren’t a first kiss… and my partner were—” A slight pause. “Comfortable with…me…” He widened his stance a little; removed his crutches and leaned them against the wall. Turning back to face me he extended his arms in my direction and offered me his hands palms up.

  I glanced from his hands to his face. There was a challenge in his eyes which had me hesitating a moment before I put my hands on his.

  “Put your hands around my waist.” He instructed as he tugged me towards him.

  I felt a shiver of trepidation run along my spine as I put my hands on his waist, and slid them round to the small of his back. I was strangely unprepared to feel the warmth of his body beneath my hands. I somehow hadn’t really considered that he would be warm… or muscled. I resisted the urge to explore the thick muscles I felt under my hands. You cannot feel up a colleague. I warned myself which, felt slightly weird under the circumstances. After all, My traitorous brain reminded me. he won’t be a colleague for long.

  He reached back along my arms and tugged my hands up until they rested against his mid-back along either side of his spine. This resulted in two things. The first being that I did in fact, get the opportunity to explore the muscles delineating his spine and the second being that I felt him sway slightly as he reached. As he released my hands and brought his own up to encircle my shoulders and rest on my upper back, he swayed again. Only this time, because we were front-to-front, the motion was absorbed into the places where our bodies met.

  One hand came up to cup the back of my head while the other came to rest splayed between my shoulder blades, and locking eyes on mine he leaned down bringing his face closer to mine. As he leaned down, he also leaned into me and I got it then why this wasn’t first kiss material. There was an intimacy in that leaning—a silent seeking of support, of physical
accommodation—that went well beyond the sexual. It was an act of trust—an openness about his body’s needs—inscribed with the certainty it would be well received and that a space would be provided for honoring those needs. That certainty that he would not be left to fall or hurt out of carelessness or selfishness spoke of the quality of a relationship in its entirety and not just its sexual components.

  Our faces were, by this time, mere centimeters apart, and his expression had a reserved quality to it even as he regarded me intently. He was waiting for my reaction I realized. He had very little reason to trust me, but there he was; pressed against me making admissions; exposing pieces of himself; waiting to see what I would do in response. Why are you doing this? I wondered staring into his suddenly mesmerizing brown eyes. Surely you’re not that invested in romance novels and their various failings?

  I was trying to work out the appropriate reaction to this situation when something occurred to me. “You could dance like this.” I blurted thinking back to his refusal to dance with me on his birthday.

  He laughed. “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t—“

  His smile turned rueful and he nodded down at our bodies. “It’s a big ask for a first kiss never mind a first dance with a colleague.”

  “Hmmmm…” I replied as I considered that. It was true that our position was extremely intimate by first kiss standards, even without that silent request for accommodation of his legs. “I suppose it is.”

  “There’s a lot of conversation and negotiation and experimentation that goes into things like this.” He told he quietly. “Nothing can be assumed.” I felt his exhale along the seam where our bodies met. “It’s work.” There was that word again, that darkness.

  “Is it?” I asked probing at that darkness. It doesn’t feel so very much like work. At least not this part.

  “Isn’t it?” He replied with a careful neutrality. There’s that head tilt thing again.