It’s been another year, or so. I never put exact dates on these things, but my last entry was less than a week away from my twentieth birthday. This entry is the morning after my twenty-first birthday. It’s a beautiful sunrise, but I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night.

After what happened I spent a lot of time thinking, barely getting two hours of sleep. Give or take, I guess. Anyhow, since my life’s technically been better since my last entry, and with what I’d been thinking about last night, I decided to get back to this. I re-read a couple of my old entries and it actually kind of made me laugh, sometimes. I realize my last entry might have been a little dark, like some kind of suicide note or something. Like I’d never be heard from again. I’m sorry, if you thought that. Truly.

Anyhow, I’d like to try to get back in to the old swing of things, telling a story from the beginning.

I guess that technically starts with what happened after my last entry.

Well, I never got back together with Sawdust, and never bothered convincing him or Churner to come with me to Manehatten. I got a letter of recommendation from Churner and indeed ended up getting hired by a theater on Bridleway, as well as a little street-café. Turns out, when the stage directors found out I wanted experience working for a theater they signed me on as an intern. An unpaid intern. Which, is exactly what I wanted, technically.

Still, I couldn’t pay rent without income, and I couldn’t allow my grandmother to settle my bills for me. I’ve already renewed the contract for another year, so there’s that. Manehatten won’t be getting rid of me that easily.

So, after landing my nearly meaningless job on Bridleway, Granny and Dale—Dale came too, I never asked him to—led me around some nearby establishments with “Help Wanted” signs in the windows. One of them was a café, and a waitress that happened to be working there went by the name of Pearl, and was friendly enough to put an extra-good word in to her boss about me. I started cleaning tables and floors the next week.

Pearl’s been real friendly since I moved out of Green Stables. She visits often, occasionally uninvited, brings dinner for us to share. I thought it was important to let her know where I stood on the sexual scale. When I told her, she snickered. It was a cute, snorting sound, but I blushed dark red all the same. She told me she had actually guessed, though she couldn’t explain how she could tell. Or wouldn’t.

I was embarrassed, convinced that I hadn’t been half as obvious as she made it seem. She told me she didn’t mind, and that I absolutely was not obvious. I’m still confused about how she figured it out, but I really don’t care.

The café—Café de la Lune—went through one massive expansion within the last year. Quite a big one, nearly doubling in size. Management hired two new workers and promoted me to waiter. Pearl and I were officially at the same level, which she went on and on about for a few hours. Something about mare equality. Which I totally get: She’d been working that job longer than I had and hadn’t upgraded since she was hired, even quitting her job at the pizzeria for more hours at the café.

She wasn’t all that serious, though. She made the same amount I did, and there wasn’t a higher position to get promoted to.

I don’t know where she found more hours, though. I already spent most of my mornings there, working four days a week. The theater lets me go around midnight after each rehearsal/performance and I get about two hours to get home, eat something, prepare my uniform and get to the café for the earliest shift known to ponies. Even more surprising is that we actually get business that early. I’m on duty until just before lunch, but I usually stick around a while longer in case the rush is more than Pearl or the others can handle. After lunch I get a solid eight hours of free time to sleep and whatever.

Stitches is the bus-colt that replaced me, a cute little pegasus with a light orange-brown coat and a pale mauve mane. His older sister Patches washes dishes, also a pegasus, with the same coat color but with a dark, brick-red mane. Gourdy, the boss, is the only one allowed to cook. The siblings are trying to raise money for medical schooling. They’re real sweet, but having them in the same room too long can be more than any one of us can handle.

Once in a while, an older mare named Slalom would clock in and work with the rest of us. I’ve been told she’s Gourdy’s daughter and she spends more time in the mountains up north than in the city. I don’t blame her, city life is obviously not for her. Things tend to go really well when she comes to work, we don’t even risk getting backed up, she does whatever’s needed. Plus she gets along with everypony.

Now, when Pearl found out it was my birthday she started putting together a really big night. Once she found out it was my twenty-first birthday, she insisted on making it even bigger. I never had anything alcoholic to drink, but Stitches, Patches, and Pearl all had their desired number of hard cocktails.

They took me to a gay bar—which, until then, I had no idea was even a thing. I was really rather uncomfortable for a while, but once the drunken pegasus, nurse-in-training Stitches gave me a lap-dance I got much more into the evening. His less drunk sister made sure I promised to hold it over his head as long as she did afterwards. We took to the dance floor, Stitches and I. He showed me his old-school dance moves, tied in with some modern style bump-and-grind. I loved the flirtatious silliness of it all, not even paying the slightest attention to my stallionhood, or anypony else’s. Except the dancers’.

The DJ mixed expertly, evolving to fit the mood of the mob and swinging to influence all of our moods as well. I might not have been drinking, but I was drunk on the experience.

Patches was surprisingly sober, given that she had as much—if not more—to drink as her brother, who happened to be half-conscious on her shoulder by the end. Pearl and those two took a cab home. Conveniently, they live in the same apartment building, so one cab was enough.

Now we can get to the good part.

And of course, when I say “good,” I don’t quite mean that. I still don’t know how to feel about it.

Anyway, my sober self and I got to walk home alone. Work was on my mind. I was lucky enough to get a night between shows, as well as leading up to a Sunday. I knew I wouldn’t have to worry about where to go next. I didn’t need to be at the café in an hour, and I didn’t need to go over stage notes or practice placements or anything! I had the rest of the night off. I wouldn’t sleep, clearly, since that would mess with my schedule. Not really. At least, not dramatically.

After living in the city for a year I got to know my way around pretty well. Though I’d never been to that bar—and by the way, Stitches wasn’t the only stallion getting all over me back there. I knew the way back to my apartment, and assured Pearl that I’d be fine. I hadn’t had anything to drink and the way was lit very well. I convinced myself it was safe since it was a city that never sleeps. Unfortunately the shortest path home was through Centurion Park.

If I haven’t given it away by now, I obviously was not safe that night. I mean, last night. Regardless of the time. I was on a jogging path when it happened. There was no warning. I should have been more aware, looking back. Right? I’m always so perceptive, aren’t I? Maybe it was the mood I was in, or maybe I’m not as sharp as I thought.

Whatever the reason: The stallion was on me in less than an instant, materializing from the darkness. I fought against him as hard as I could, but he was larger than me. Not by much, I guess. He was a pegasus and within moments had both my front hooves pinned down with his right fore-hoof and a wing over my muzzle. He was grinding against me viciously. I hate to admit that my body responded to him. It was a confusing arousal; the sensation was clearly meant to be pleasurable, and my body thought so, but I was also in shock. The absolute fear of the situation paralyzed me, and left my dick utterly dumbfounded.

Regardless of how I felt, or what I actually remember, the stranger was preparing himself for what was apparently my worst nightmare. At some point he released my hooves, but kept me pinned by my shoulders. Then he pressed against me more. He was completely hard now, and I was crying. I opened my eyes once, somewhere within the nightmare, for reasons unknown. I only remember seeing his cloud-white mane and dirty black trench coat as his body pressed against me.

He rubbed is disgusting phallus against my loin and moaned into my shoulder. I whimpered, but I don’t think he heard. Eventually he stopped his senseless grinding and moved back for a bigger picture. I heard him spit and suddenly felt a cold presence against my taint. I gasped, then sobbed. I had to have known this was what he wanted, but I wanted to believe it wouldn’t happen. I didn’t want it to happen, I wasn’t prepared. I knew there was a lot more that had to go in to this sort of experience, and my body was not ready. Then the pressure. The force of his meat against my ass.

I sobbed again, and my thoughts solidified; this was going to happen, I couldn’t stop him, I was what he wanted. I never wanted my first time to be painful, or cruel. I always dreamed of what my first time would be like, and this stranger was going to ruin it.

That’s when I whispered, “Not like this...” I don’t know what came over me, exactly, but with everything going on in my mind, and as often as I should have been screaming, my voice decided to let itself out.

Then the cold pressure on my ass disappeared. His fore-hoof backed away. I opened my eyes, and saw his. They were green, and… wet, I think.

He turned and ran, and of course, I let him. I ran, too. I needed to get home.

Then, like I said, I spent most of my night thinking. At some point I fell asleep, and now it’s about halfway through the day. I thought about why he stopped. Of course I thought of other things, too; like why he tried in the first place, who he could have been, what his story was, that sort of thing. In the end, though, I always got back to thinking about why he stopped. I didn’t know the thought process of a rapist, but I figured he’d want to claim what he found. Was it because I was male? Did he first prey on me because of that? Or, was there another reason?

I want to stop thinking about this. Actually, I don’t. But I don’t want to keep thinking about it alone. I found the napkin with Pearl’s phone number from so long ago in my things. I’m gonna give her a call. Hopefully she picks up.

Author's Notes:

In which I subtly imply the passage of time.