One Utopian is hungry for some action.
THE STABLE--There’s really not much to do out here, I’ll tell you that to start. Just four days ago it was me and her, the two of us, alone. Even when those 14 non-cows move in next week, it’s not as though activity will suddenly fill our days. Like today, we’ll walk around a little. We’ll eat the grass. We’ll “moo,” it’s true, though that’s less a verb than it is the sound we happen to produce when we express ourselves. I don’t know. Our life: an endless opportunity to ruminate and...be.
Neither one of us is complaining, really. I hope you don’t think that.
But I wanted to set the scene -- Hollywood cows, I know -- for the tale to follow. There’s no doubt in my baseball-sized brain there are those among you reading for titillation, a cheap thrill. No artist can control the way her work is received. But the intention remains, and has always been, honesty. (“No bullsh**,” if we’re being cute.) Anyway.
We’d flirted for the past few days, a two-ton dance around each other that maybe netted an errant tail wag or two. The thrill of possibility, at best. But I knew from the first graze of her tongue that this morning would be different. That tongue. That wet sandpaper, a grain of which I’d never felt before, gently grazing my rump. A moment of surprise. Is “new” sufficient to capture the sensation? Under its umbrella add warmth, fear, desire…
Her tongue moved with purpose, gently lapping the morning dew from my hindquarters. “Thank you,” I wanted to moo (say! say!) with the casual air of a cow not floating away on a cloud of ecstasy, but the only words I had came from my eyes. “Yes,” they said. “YES.” You saw them. You know.
When she finally stopped, I caught my breath and looked out, not in, for the first time in what felt like hours. The Shambala we’d both summoned was now gone, replaced by...well, the sign says “Utopia,” but I’m not so sure. We’re still penned in. The flies, several hundred of which call my hide home, haven’t flown away. It’s just me and her, and our thoughts.
But oh, for that too-brief vacation to paraiso de vaca, and the unspoken promise of a return trip. Maybe manana...
Neither one of us is complaining, really. I hope you don’t think that.
But I wanted to set the scene -- Hollywood cows, I know -- for the tale to follow. There’s no doubt in my baseball-sized brain there are those among you reading for titillation, a cheap thrill. No artist can control the way her work is received. But the intention remains, and has always been, honesty. (“No bullsh**,” if we’re being cute.) Anyway.
We’d flirted for the past few days, a two-ton dance around each other that maybe netted an errant tail wag or two. The thrill of possibility, at best. But I knew from the first graze of her tongue that this morning would be different. That tongue. That wet sandpaper, a grain of which I’d never felt before, gently grazing my rump. A moment of surprise. Is “new” sufficient to capture the sensation? Under its umbrella add warmth, fear, desire…
Her tongue moved with purpose, gently lapping the morning dew from my hindquarters. “Thank you,” I wanted to moo (say! say!) with the casual air of a cow not floating away on a cloud of ecstasy, but the only words I had came from my eyes. “Yes,” they said. “YES.” You saw them. You know.
When she finally stopped, I caught my breath and looked out, not in, for the first time in what felt like hours. The Shambala we’d both summoned was now gone, replaced by...well, the sign says “Utopia,” but I’m not so sure. We’re still penned in. The flies, several hundred of which call my hide home, haven’t flown away. It’s just me and her, and our thoughts.
But oh, for that too-brief vacation to paraiso de vaca, and the unspoken promise of a return trip. Maybe manana...
UTOPIA. It’s always on. Jump into the live streams here, or get the app!
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