Her name was Trish and she loved horses.
She liked boys and she liked girls too. But she loved horses. So it was no surprise when she got a job training horses for a well-to-do woman in northern Georgia. Trish worked twelve hour days, wrestling 500 pound animals, making them bend to her will, so that they could become disciplined, prancing, tassel--laden show ponies who made big, big money for their owners at fancy contests.
It was hard work. Most days Trish's hands were a rough tapestry of calluses, her back was a maze of knotty lumps, and her wrists barely usable as both had become inflamed with tendonitis.
Despite all that, or maybe because of all that, Trish had this unquestioned sex appeal. She was 5 foot 2, and weighed about 135 pounds. She was twenty-seven, but had the youthful exuberance of a teenager. She never wore makeup and her lower body, almost always encased in a pair of dusty Wranglers, featured muscular thighs and a taut, round ass that danced when she walked. Her small breasts, always covered by a loose fitting white tee shirt, were subtle and proud. Her naturally dishwater blonde hair was bleached white and cut into a cropped, sassy, spiky sort of thing. Whenever she batted her lashes, as she did to both men and women, the recipient of her affections would notice her eyes, which were a soft, powder blue.
One day, Trish had a rare afternoon free. Always looking for ways to improve herself as a trainer, she went to the gym near her home in Marietta. The suburbs of Georgia were hardly a reflection of Atlanta, the state capital. Marietta was a mass of mostly white transplants looking for a great deal on a big house, and black folks who wanted to be near the city called the black Mecca, but not necessarily in it. The small, but colorful population of Jewish folks gave the town its edgy flair. Of course when Trish walked in, all eyes were on her. She stood out, and to at least one man, she stood out in a way that was both enticing and unsettling.
Drew was the most popular personal trainer at the gym. He was hoping to start his own business, but for the meantime he was paying the local gym rent and establishing a clientele.
In his early thirties, Drew was muscular, with thighs so large they rubbed together when he walked. He had large, veiny arms, one of which bore a long ugly scar from a cut incurred during his days as a college football player. He was five foot-ten, with a milk chocolate complexion, a smooth, shaved head, and a disarming smile. All of this made him a hit with the lonely bored, middle-aged housewives, who comprised the bulk of his clientele.
Sure the old housewives flirted with him all the time. But none of them had any intention of following through. There was that one woman, though. Sharon. She was heavy set red head with big, full tits. There was that one day when she was doing sit ups on the resist-a-ball. As she leaned back on the big blue ball, Drew noticed her legs were spread wide enough to expose a hole in her leotard. A tuft of bright red hair poked through the opening.
Was it intentional? Drew wondered. He would make a note to follow up on that one...
When Trish walked in, Drew was cleaning some equipment. He caught himself in a double take. Normally reserved, Drew was moved by the need to speak to this woman. He walked over to Trish and introduced himself.
Hi, my name is "Drew," he said. "I'm one of the trainers here." As she took his hand, he noticed her staring at the scar on his arm.
"You know, because of my work I could use a trainer," said Trish.
"What do you do?" he asked.
"I train horses," said Trish. She looked and sounded like a little girl when she said it. In fact, whenever she spoke about horses, Trish was ten years old again. That's when her father taught her to ride.
***
She had been terrified at first. The animal was big and black, and smelled just awful. Besides that there were flies and shit everywhere. She wanted to cry. But she knew if she cried, her father would get mad, so she stifled her tears and sat there on this big, smelly beast.
"Take the reins," her father told her.
Trish held the long, leather straps.
"Now dig your heels into him' said her father. "That'll make him move."
Trish was terrified, and she felt the tears welling in her eyes. But she did what she was told.
With the rubber heels of her white converse all-stars, she lightly tapped the horse in its ribs.
"If you want him to move, you'll have to do it harder than that," said her father.
Trish did it again, this time kicking the horse as hard as she could, in the process lifting herself up in the saddle.
The horse began to trot and Trish felt herself smile.
"Make him go faster!" her father yelled.
Trish kicked again, several times. The horse began to gallop around the pen. Trish bounced into the air and back down onto the saddle. She kicked harder and the horse went faster. Round and round the stable she went, bouncing and kicking the beast. She kicked harder. As she rode, she felt so powerful. Here she was, sitting atop this animal that, if it wanted to, could crush her in an instant. But she was controlling it, making it do whatever she wanted. It was amazing and Trish felt herself get really warm and her face went flush. It was the best feeling she ever had.
After that she begged her father to take her riding every day. And he did just that. They went riding every afternoon until the day her father died. That was the day after her 19th birthday. Since then, every time she climbed onto a saddle, she had thought of him.
***
Trish yanked herself back to the present. "These horses have been beating me up lately," she said. "I really need to get stronger."
