A week ago, my friend Matt sent me this image. I fell in love instantly.
Man hands. I just realized the horse has MAN HANDS.
I’m both sad enough and wise enough to have heard of people who like to get it on with horses, but this…this was something entirely different. This was a full-blown horse-on-lady romance! Would they share a candlelit dinner of oats and sugar cubes? Canter down the beach an sunset? Break their legs after getting spooked by a snake and have to be put down? The possibilities were, if not endless, then at least appealingly weird.
Alas, my fragile heart was destined to be broken. But…You’re a Horse is not an actual horse romance. It’s not even a romance. It’s a comedy book written by David Bussell, a tome that someone–perhaps Bussell himself–decided to bestow with a hilarious but unrelated cover. I spent a sleepless night nursing my betrayal. And scheming. Always scheming…
The next day, I skimmed through Goodreads’ erotica directory and picked out the four weirdest books I saw. I then read them. What follows is a summary of the horrors contained therein. Sit back, pop a Dramamine, and prepare to have your world rocked in the sexiest possible way.
The first thing you need to know about today’s book is that it isn’t actually called My Dear Woman, Are you Cognitively Impaired? The real name shall be revealed in due time, but it’ll be under the cut. I’m not joking when I say it’s offensive–perhaps the most offensive title for a dating book this side of UNDER THE FLOORBOARDS: FIFTY PLACES I’VE HIDDEN MY DEAD GIRLFRIENDS.
Everybody’s weird, and nobody’s weird. This is the closest thing I have to a consistent life philosophy. And even I only believe it about 60 percent of the time.
Full disclosure: when I was in high school, I self-identified first and foremost as “weird.” When you’re a teenager, that means something very specific–waxing rhapsodic about 80’s cartoons, bursting into song at inappropriate moments, and so, so many non-sequiturs. Also sporks, for some reason. My mom had a rough time convincing me not to have “Sporky” embroidered on my letter jacket.
She succeeded in the end, thank God. She was a really, really good mother.
That was the kind of forced randomness my peers responded to. Though I had many traits that were genuinely unusual or perverse (as does everyone), there was no point in emphasizing them–not if I was keen on being recognized as a “weirdo.” Weirdo was a demographic, a tribe. It was one more stupidly tiny box for my teenage self to stuff herself in, heedless of all the parts she had to cut off in order to fit.
“How many times do I have to quote Happy Noodle Boy before the other weirdos accept me? SILENCE, CLITORAL CHEESE NIP!”
Of all the things I’m glad to see the back of, my “Weirdo” phase comes in at number one. It was phony, limiting, and more than a little embarrassing. At the same time, I suspect it’s a natural part of growing up. It must be–because the next generation is doing the same god damn thing. At least, if this stupid clickbait article is to be believed.