Big Book Of Lesbian Horse Stories

by Surkis, Alisa

Jean stopped herself from explaining. Better let Tony, let them all think the smell of the stables that lingered on her was the result of a sordid affair. Jean knew they could never understand her working for the police, any more than someone like Midge could ever understand Jean’s Village life.

  Jean had spent most of that afternoon working with Chopper. Midge had stayed around, making easy conversation. Despite her reservations, Jean found herself enjoying both Midge’s company and the horse’s.

  “I thought I knew a lot about horses, but you’re a real expert,” Midge had said admiringly at one point. Jean remembered the warm feeling it had given her.

  “So, how’d you get into police work?” Jean had asked, hoping to find some way to reconcile her growing fondness for Midge with Midge’s career choice.

  “Never thought about doing anything else,” Midge had responded. “It’s what my pop did, all my brothers. Family tradition.”

  Jean had digested that in silence as she reached down to pick out one of Chopper’s back hooves. That was when she’d seen them. All along the back of Chopper’s legs were tiny scars, and Jean knew what they were from. Someone had tried to make a jumper out of Chopper, smacking his legs with a spiked two by four to make him jump higher.

  “That’s why he’s so skittish,” Midge had said softly after Jean had explained.

  “He was probably never meant to be a jumper—you can’t make a horse into something he isn’t meant to be!” Jean had burst out. “With his balance, poise, and elegant step, he should have been trained for dressage!”

  “Well, he’s safe now,” Midge had said. “I’m sure we can make him happy here. Besides, I’ve always thought dressage was kind of a sissy style.”

  But as Jean sat on the stool, thinking about Chopper, she wondered if being a police horse was the best thing for him. A police horse needed steady nerves, and with all his fine qualities, Chopper didn’t have those. And it troubled her, what Midge had said about dressage. Why did she have to judge like that?

  “Honey, I have a surprise for you.” Carmen kissed her on both cheeks, and handed her a beer. “A friend of yours is here to see you.” Jean looked up to see Louise coming toward her as Carmen dropped her voice a few octaves and added, “I explained about the horse trauma and she’s not mad.” As Jean watched the raven-haired beauty approach, she felt again the desire of the night before. Somehow, Jean knew that the horse sculpture couldn’t hurt her anymore.

  Carmen continued in an excited whisper, “Now you hang on to this one—she’s very talented, has all sorts of connections to the art scene, not to mention a very wealthy family out on Long Island.” Jean smiled at Carmen’s mothering, and then shooed her away as Louise reached them. Jean didn’t need a mother to tell her what to do now. As she felt Louise’s lips burning into her own, her body recalled the unfulfilled passions of last night. Closing time couldn’t come soon enough.

  Jean sat up in bed, wondering what time it was. She was in a strange bed under a scarlet comforter. Finally she spotted a small clock on top of an orange crate. The hands pointed to 9:30—and she’d told Midge she’d get to the stables at 10:00! She wanted to work Chopper as much as possible, to steady him before Midge started taking him out. Hurriedly, she grabbed her clothes and headed for the bathroom.

  “Morning,” called a voice when she emerged. She made her way through the forest of sculptures until she came upon a small kitchen in the corner of the loft, where Louise was pouring mugs of coffee.

  “I’m sorry, Louise, I’ve got to run,” she began.

  “I’m sure you have time for coffee,” said Louise with a wide smile. She handed the steaming brew to Jean.

  Jean eyed Louise as she sipped her coffee. Her hair was piled up on her head this morning in a kind of bird’s nest tangle, with paintbrushes stuck through to hold it in place. Louise’s next words caught Jean off guard.

  “So this horse thing of yours—I understand perfectly what you’re going through. I’ve been in psychoanalysis for years and my analyst is an expert in this sort of thing.” Jean listened with interest as Louise told her about the intricate theory which explained the ties between lesbians and horses. Jean admired Louise’s openness, but she still couldn’t talk about what had happened that day in the hollow. It was too painful. Instead she wondered aloud about the complex psychological drives that had led them to their unconventional lifestyle. Louise listened knowingly as Jean told her how Pa had taught her to run the tractor and how Ma would never let Jean into the kitchen until she’d wiped the mud off her shoes. Finally, Louise just smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder why we even have to ask these questions.”

  It was nice talking like this, but as much as Jean liked Louise, she knew it couldn’t last. It could never last—not as long as Cathy still had a hold on her heart. Jean knew there would never be another love like Cathy. It was time to make her usual speech. “Louise, you’re an awfully great girl, and we’ve had a wonderful time, but I’m not much for domesticity—”

  “Neither am I,” said Louise. “It’s really too bourgeois!”

  “What I’m trying to tell you, Louise,” Jean continued, “I’m not the settling-down type.”

  Louise just laughed and shook her head. “Help yourself to more coffee. I have to meet my friend Andy—I told him I’d help him with his movie. Make sure the door latches behind you.”

  Jean and Midge spent the morning putting Chopper through his paces, with Midge in the saddle and Jean keeping a close eye out for any of Chopper’s antics that might threaten Midge’s bad ankle. Jean admired Midge’s firm, yet gentle manner with Chopper. Midge might be wrong about Chopper’s future as a police horse, but she was a fine horsewoman, no question. From remarks Midge let drop, about rapists apprehended and lost children restored to their parents, Jean began to see that Midge was quite different from the kind of policemen she’d come to know working at the Stonewall.

  Jean’s admiration for Midge had not stopped there. Midge had arrived at the stables straight from the precinct, where she’d been filling out paperwork, still in her crisp blue uniform. The uniform, which was so repellent on the men who raided the bar, had a strangely unsettling effect on Jean. She found herself noticing the swell of Midge’s breasts beneath the shiny brass buttons and the way the holster rested on Midge’s full hips. From the first, Jean had suspected that Midge and she had more in common than just horses, and now she had to know. But how to find out in this straight world, where she had to watch her words?

  “Midge, have you ever had a best friend?” Jean began.

  “Well, sure. All kids have best friends.”

  “What about when you weren’t a kid anymore? Did you ever have a friend then who was just . . . somehow . . . special?”

  “I’ve certainly known a lot of people in my life who were very special,” Midge responded carefully.

  Frustrated, Jean dropped the topic. What was she thinking—even if Midge was a lesbian, she was clearly butch, and Jean bridled at the thought that she might be kiki. But she’d learned to look at so many things differently in the last week that she began to wonder if these roles really mattered.

  As she lay in bed that night, smelling the garlic wafting up from Luigi’s below, Jean felt a new kind of hope growing within her. She was learning to be around horses again, and she’d made some new friends: first Chopper, and then Midge and Louise. Maybe she’d go back to school. Louise had loaned her a book about abstract art, which reminded Jean how she missed the routine of studying. And Midge—maybe Jean could find a way to talk to her about what had happened with Cathy and Cracker. Midge would understand in a way Carmen never could. As she turned over in bed, struggling for a comfortable position on the hard mattress, the old images came to her, Cracker, rolling on the ground whinnying in pain; Cathy, her blond hair tousled around her face, her cornflower blue eyes filled with horror. Resolutely Jean summoned up an image of Chopper, so different from Cracker but with the same affectionate perso
nality. Tomorrow she’d manage to break through Midge’s caution.

  But Midge was all business the next morning, working Chopper in the ring until Jean protested. “Midge, I think Chopper needs a little more time and patience . . .”

  “I know, Jean, but I’m scheduled to go back on patrol tomorrow. Chopper will be fine, don’t you worry.”

  But Jean did worry, as she saw the nervous way Chopper tossed his head when they trotted past one of the hurdles. She hoped Midge was right.

  When it was time for lunch, Midge went for sandwiches, beef brisket, “the best in town,” Midge said. Chopper was quietly munching hay in his stall, and even Midge relaxed as she looked out at the Manhattan skyline, chewing her beef brisket.

  “This is nice, isn’t it?” she asked Jean with a smile.

  “It sure is,” said Jean. She took a deep breath. “Say, Midge, I wanted to talk to you—” But before she could finish her sentence, an older man in a uniform approached them.

  “O’Brien,” he barked without preamble. “How’s the ankle?”

  “All healed up, Captain,” said Midge, jumping to her feet.

  “Good,” said the man. “Because we’re shorthanded tonight. We have to use everyone.” He gestured at Jean. “This the new groom you were telling me about?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Hmmmm.” His eyes swept Jean from head to toe, taking in the D.A., the grimy white T-shirt, the jeans with the long keychain, the scuffed black oxfords. Without another word he turned and walked away.

  Jean watched him go, indignation and fear churning inside her. “It’s a good thing this is temporary,” she finally said.

  “Oh, don’t let the captain get to you,” Midge said apologetically. “He’s always like that, but he’s really a good guy.” Without pausing she continued, “You know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Jean, about your appearance.” Midge kept her eyes on her sandwich. “You’d probably get along better in this world if you changed your hairstyle a little bit—you know, to something more feminine—and got rid of that keychain—”

  Jean thought about little Lester Brown back in Doylestown who never grew to be more than four feet tall, and how it sometimes made folks uncomfortable to be around him until they got used to his looking a little different. But nobody ever asked him to wear platform shoes, or walk around on stilts, pretending to be tall. She crumpled the sandwich wrappings wordlessly. First it would just be changing her hair or her clothes, then it would be pretending to laugh when the policemen made jokes about “queers.”

  Just then, Jean spotted an attractive woman in her early thirties coming up behind Midge. Jean took in green eyes which matched the woman’s tailored skirt and jacket, and rich brown hair in a smart gamine style. As Jean watched, the woman put both hands over Midge’s eyes. “Guess who!” she sang out, the smile on her face leaving little doubt as to her feelings for Midge.

  “Tilly!” Midge’s face relaxed into a smile, but the next moment it clouded over again. “You know it’s not a good idea to come to the stables.” Suddenly remembering Jean, she added nervously, “This is my roommate, Tilly. She’s . . . she’s allergic to horses. That’s why it’s a bad idea for her to come around here.”

  Tilly extended her hand with a smile. “You must be Jean. Midge has talked about you a lot.”

  Jean shook Tilly’s hand, then quickly made her excuses and left. She laughed bitterly at the feelings she’d had for Midge, at her thoughts of confiding in Midge. Midge, ashamed of a woman like Tilly, who clearly loved her so much. Jean knew now that she would get no help from Midge.

  That evening, she kept brooding about Midge and Tilly, and Chopper. She knew she should leave the job at the stables, but she couldn’t bear to abandon Chopper. She’d thought she was through with horses, through with hope and love, but he’d made her realize she wasn’t. Usually, Jean would tuck into the heaping plates of pasta that Luigi generously provided, always insisting that they were included in the price of the room, and she wouldn’t stop until she’d soaked up every last bit of sauce with thick slices of Italian bread. Tonight she just pushed the pasta around on her plate. Luigi paused by her table, his plump cheeks sagging in exaggerated dismay.

  “Whatsa matta, Jean? I make your favorite meatballs and you don’t even touch them!”

  Jean tried to smile. “I’m sorry, Luigi, the food’s tip-top like always. I’ve had something weighing on my mind all day and now I guess it’s decided to weigh on my stomach for a while.”

  “What is it, Jean? A fella? You kids always think every little thing is the end of the world.”

  Jean couldn’t help a wry smile as she reassured Luigi, “It’s nothing, I’m sure I’ll be fine tomorrow.” Glancing at the clock over the counter, she pushed her plate away from her and got up. It was time to head over to the Stonewall.

  Over at the bar it seemed like everybody was in a somber mood. “Who died?” Jean asked Carmen sardonically, but the big drag queen didn’t laugh. “Today was the service for Judy,” she responded heavily. She left Jean standing there, regretting her quick tongue, and went over to the jukebox. The strains of “The Man That Got Away” filled the room.

  “Jean, bring up a coupla kegs from downstairs,” Tony shouted at her.

  “You got it, Tony.”

  When Jean had brought up the kegs, Stony, one of the women who was a regular at the bar, beckoned her over. “Say, kid, you better be on your toes tonight,” she advised Jean.

  “Thanks, Stony—I will be. Trouble in the air, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Stony sighed. “You know, kid, I wish I could say I remembered a time when I could sit and have a drink and not feel like trouble was breathing down my neck.”

  Jean nodded sadly, and bought Stony a beer before she took up her position by the door.

  It was with a sense of resignation, that she saw the police car pull up to the curb sometime after midnight. “Betty Law!” she cried, flicking the lights. The drag queens dancing together in the main bar separated. The go-go boy scrambled down from his gilded cage. Everywhere there were cries of “Oh please!” and “Not again.” Jean quickly snatched a beer and sat at a table, pretending to be a customer. Sullenly she showed her ID to the uniformed detective who came in the door. Tonight she didn’t care if she was arrested. “You a boy or a girl?” the officer smirked. “You got on three pieces of woman’s clothing? You ever had a real man?” But his attention was pulled away by Carmen, who was trying to slip by carrying a cigar box full of cash. “I’ll take that off your hands, ‘lady,’ ” he said. And Jean took the opportunity to slip out the door.

  Outside she was surprised to see that the street and the little park across the way were filling up with people—neighbors, patrons from the folk bar down the street, Stonewall regulars who’d escaped arrest. She stood there too, watching, waiting for something to happen.

  The police were herding the most flamboyant drag queens into the paddy wagon when it started. Jean saw one of the policemen push Carmen, so that she tripped in her high heels and fell hard on the pavement. “Pigs!” someone in the crowd shouted. The police pushed another of the drag queens, and she pushed back. The crowd roared its approval, and now they were throwing things, and everyone was scuffling. Some of the queens were freeing themselves from the paddy wagon. Jean heard the sound of a gun, a warning shot, and suddenly she was back in the hollow.

  She was kissing Cathy’s face, feeling her softness, feeling Cathy’s hands on her. They were half sitting, half lying next to Cracker, who was cropping grass peacefully. The steady munching blended in with the trembling of their bodies as they pressed up against each other. It was the first time, for both of them . . .

  And then there was the shot, and Cracker had fallen, whinnying with pain, and there was Cathy’s father standing with a rifle in his hand, a look of hate on his face. “I missed,” was all he said. Cathy was sobbing hysterically, her hands shaking as she buttoned her blouse. She had offered no resistance when her father took her arm
and led her to the car up on the road. And Jean had been left with Cracker, watching the blood pump out of the big vein on his neck, watching his eyes glaze over as death took him . . .

  The terrified whinnying echoed again in Jean’s head, and then she was back in Sheridan Square and she realized it wasn’t an echo, it was real. A troop of police horses was advancing on the rioters, and there was Midge struggling to control Chopper, who had broken ranks, whinnying in fear.

  Jean ran over and grabbed Chopper’s bridle. “Midge, what are you doing? Don’t you see what this is doing to Chopper?”

  “Jean!” Midge gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  “This is where I live, Midge, these are my people. Don’t tell me you haven’t guessed that! What are you doing here?”

  “I’m upholding the law,” Midge shot back. She took a deep breath. “Jean—I know it’s hard to understand—”

  “What does Tilly think of you ‘upholding the law’?” Jean asked. Midge stiffened and Jean knew that her dig had hit home.

  “Tilly understands!” Midge shot back, “Why can’t you? Is all this”—she gestured at the line of drag queens mocking the police with high kicks—“worth risking jail for?”

  “Yes!” shouted Jean, just as one of the drag queens was torn from the line by a policeman with billy club raised.

  Then a shout came from a retreating policeman in riot gear, “O’Brien! Get over here! Now!”

  “Let go of my horse,” said Midge harshly.

  “I won’t!” Jean cried. “Stop trying to make Chopper into something he isn’t, something he can’t be! When will you learn? When will you ever learn?”

  Just then, a rock flew from the crowd, hitting Chopper on his scarred legs. With a frightened whinny he reared, tossing Midge from the saddle. Jean tried to hang on, but the frantic horse was too much for her, and the next thing she knew the reins were yanked from her hands and she heard the distant sound of hoofbeats fading away down Christopher Street.