Track 4.

I nearly stumbled over my latest copy of “International Geographic.” Good, the evening was saved. I prepared a little nest for myself on the sofa, with soda and ice cream. The latest “Doctor Whooves” audio drama was coming on, and I wasn't gonna miss it for the world.

This was my weekend entertainment, science and Doctor Whooves. But at some point, I started tuning out the plot of the episode, and the photographs of naughtily clothed tribal zebras began to look more enticing... Damn libido, this was an itch I was tired of scratching myself.

I considered my options. there was at least a hundred ponies who'd be more than willing to share my bed in the area, at least a dozen of which had already given me their number... And just about all of them would talk about The Night They Fucked DJ Pon3 until their jaw fell off or a reporter noticed, whichever came first.

Who could I trust to be discreet about this? A list appeared in my mind, but it was quickly whittled down due to personal or geographic incompatibility until only one name remained. My old boyfriend I dumped back in magic high school, the kindest and most bashful stallion you'll ever find. I wonder if his acne have improved...

I went back to fantasizing over the striped equines while Doctor Whooves ran away from some threat in the background and the ice cream slowly melted.

Author's Notes:

There seems to be a difference in European and American art when it comes to sexuality. It's often framed as we Europeans being horny perverts and Americans being prudes horrified by even the sight of a nipple, and that is absolutely true completely false. If I can generalize to a MASSIVE degree I think it is that Americans prefer to have a clear dividing line between porn and regular art, while European art tend to treats sexuality as just another aspect of life.