Bad Joke
This was a short story written under the premise of that old, lame joke "A horse enters to a bar". To be honest I like it and maybe I'll write my first smutt story about these two characters. Who knows, I did like them a little.
Rowan was an irish draft in his mid 30's and a behemoth in size compared to all of his friends. His sturdy frame and raspy voice made him quite intimidating, yet he was as docile as a newborn puppy. He liked boxing since it helped him unwind a little but he knew he wouldn't hurt a fly if his life depended on it. Despite being such a nice individual, Rowan had been born under a bad sign. Why misery loved to hang around him so much was a mystery. Not long ago his shifts at work had changed and now he had to work in the mornings, something he certainly wasn't used to; his car had broken down that very same morning making him arrive late to the first day of his new job schedule; as soon as he used the office's copying machine, it had broken down. None of that however could compare to the fact that his wife and him had reached a point in their marriage where both of them decided to get a divorce and start over. Lana, his wife, was a gorgeous curvaceous breton draft and a lovely partner for over 12 years; he still loved her as much as she loved him, but they were both honest: the love they had for each other had become like the one you have for a sibling or a best friend, and not the one you'd have for the love of your life. They both parted on good terms, they both stayed in touch and they both were there whenever the other needed them, but it was over and the gap left by that mare was so humongous that loneliness had started to nibble at the edges of Rowan's day to day life. And with loneliness came depression.
Now, Rowan wasn't a horse that could easily be taken down physically and, more importantly, psychologically. He had always been as tough as an oak. That is, of course, as long as he didn't feel depressed or lonely. Gentle giants usually were like that: tough on the outside, warm and mushy on the inside.
He had been bi ever since he had a memory: male or female, it didn't matter as long as they could handle his girthy seemingly insatiable monster of a cock... and liked to cuddle. Cuddle was an important element for him in order to be in a peaceful state of mind therefore casual sex wasn't his thing. Lana had been wonderful at cuddling... and it shamed him to admit it, but more than once he had called Lana's number just to ask her to come over and... watch Netflix and chill. Some other times he had used this shitty app canines loved so much, Growlr, in order to hook but boy had it been a failure. Full of small species and lots of size queens, his size alone brought a lot of interested candidates, most of them sexy, but it had backfired once they met face to face since his cock was sometimes half as big as the torso of some and some other times plainly larger than their legs. If he had been lucky, he would have gotten a hand job but not only once, even while fucking with other horses, had he been unable to get balls deep inside anyone.
Given his recent success at life in general, Rowan decided it would be a good idea to visit a bar and drown his thoughts with just enough alcohol; perhaps some fresh air and some random faces could help him feel a little better. Why he thought the air in a bar was fresh had always beaten Lana, however feeling sad, horny and tired he went to a bar near his house that was just slightly over the shit hole grade. It wasn't fancy at all but it was clean and known to be a focus point for finding a quickie.
"The Horny Mare" was a bar known for its "No prejudices, no fights, no splashing" policies, where splashing centered around beer or bodily fluids. Rowan entered slouching and looking at the floor, he went directly to the bar and with a tired tone ordered some mezcal. He wanted to get wasted after all so, why not start then? There was no one else at the bar but him and the bar tender, a beige colored andalusian horse. Rowan kept drinking at Mach speed blatantly ignoring how the bartender ogled him every time he guzzled down a shot.
Rowan was so focused on just getting wasted that he jumped in his place when he heard a voice tell him: "Slow down hot stuff, or else you may end up breaking the no splashing rule we have here". The andalusian had been the one talking to him and he wasn't feeling even a little tipsy so as to play the "spaced out drunk" role.
"I can manage my alcohol quite well, thank you" answered Rowan eloquently. The andalusian said nothing else just as he served Rowan his seventh shot of the night. As he moved from mezcal to bourbon, the bartender talked to him once more. "If you're drinking like this you're surely trying to forget something or everything, for what matters", said the andalusian with a polite smile on his lips.
"Leave the bottle, thank you", answered Rowan in a dry manner; he wasn't in the mood for bad therapy, just liquor. "Jeesh, no need to be rude", said the bartender.
"Please, excuse my manners but I just want to enjoy my beverages, no offense", replied the irish draft.
"Ok, big guy, I'll let you off the hook just because you said the magic word. Non taken". And with that, the little chat ended unceremoniously.
Rowan kept on drinking and at some point he moved from bourbon to gin. He was determined to turn his judgmentinto mush; it was a shame his body took so much liquor in order to overload although he was getting close with every glass he emptied. At some point he stood up from the bar and went to the bathroom to take a leak; after coming back he sat down and knew he was on a good track: his fingertips were tingling, and for him that was an undeniable sign of getting inebriate and as he felt it, depression pounced on him like a master predator. He slouched on his seat and pouredsome gin on his glass with shaky hands. His plan had backfired, he now felt more miserable than before. All of the recent events went down on him, hard, but it was one word that made him start to sob like a small foal: alone. He didn't just feel alone, he was truly and unmistakably alone. His family was crossing an ocean, most of his friends lived either in another state or country and his wife... well, despite being a wonderful woman and his best friend, she was gone and he couldn't bare to bother her since she had seemed to cope well with the divorce. Man, did he feel horrendous. The bartender didn't notice Rowan at first glance: it wasn'tuntil he turned to reachfor the blue curaçaothat he realized his onlyclient for the momenthad had his water gatesopened.
Marin was a simple horse who happened to be the co owner of his own workplace where he could practice his mixology skills. He usually didn't like to get too involved with the customers nor he liked giving therapy to drunken assholes, but something in that draft had picked his attention. He surely was a hottie with his well kept coat and mane as well as his defined muscles; his voice was masculine and kind of soothing and he smelled a little like freshly done laundry, yet what had really made him focus in him the most hadn't been his size (even though he liked them big), but the fact that he seemed really vulnerable and lonely. The image of this draft sitting all by himself sobbing after having consumed the equivalent of a small get together in mixed liquors was breaking his heart. Sighing, he approached this particular client in order to see if he could help. To Marin, this big guy looked like a children who just discovered Santa wasn't real just after finding out his puppy had escaped.
"You ok big guy?", asked Marin while standing in front of the sobbing draft horse.
Rowan was kind of drunk, he knew that, but he was so tired and felt so rueful that he could do nothing but muster a weak "Yeah, m'kay".
This weak mumbling of his had been so adorable, Marin couldn't help but smile and try again. "You know, I know a joke that will surely cheer you up".
Rowan lifted up his gaze from the bar and looked at Marin with sad puppy eyes, "Really?", he asked while pouting a little.
This stud had to be the cutest, most heart melting man that had ever set hoof inside his bar. "Yeah. Want to hear it?", said Marin with an encouraging tone.
Rowan was really drunk and he was noticing it only now; this andalusian guy in front of him... was he trying to cheer him up because he looked so pathetic to his eyes that helping him would count as his good action of the day? That thought just made his eyes water a little more so he decided he could lose nothing trying to get cheered by a barman so with a quivering lip he replied after sniffling his tears back: "Yes, that'd be cool"
Damn this guy was cute; he appeared to be a good guy as well. Perhaps cheering him up could end being fun. "Okay, so... a horse walked into a bar...". Rowan might have been drunk but he knew a bad joke when he heard one and that was a classical. He groaned. He had already heard that joke one too many times. Marin noticed Rowan's reaction and immediately chuckled, "wait, wait, I swear this one's good. You gotta trust me on this, ok?", said Marin with a gleeful expression on his face.
For a moment Rowan was skeptic about it and his sobbing transformed into a raised eyebrow. Puns and horse jokes weren't really his thing and more often than not they made him frown. But hell, he was feeling terrible and the guy wasn't too bad looking; also he seemed to be friendly enough, "Knock yourself out then", answered laying his snout onto the bar.
"Ok, like I was saying... a horse enters into a bar, he aims for a seat in the bar; asks for a glass of tequila", Marin said this as he served up two shots of tequila, one in front of each other, and then put a little dish with two lime slices and a salt pile between the fruits. This didn't go unnoticed by the irish draft slouching on the bar, "and before he gets to drink his shot, the bar tender asks him...", as he said this he pushed one of the shots towards the sad draft, "why the long face cutie?".
Just as he heard this, Rowan looked up to the bartender without moving his head. The guy was smiling warmly and moving his eyebrows as in to coax him to accept the drink or laugh at the awful joke. He was cute, Rowan thought. And he was offering what he could only assume was a free shot. He sat up properly and with a blank expression took the shot in one hand and the lime slice and said: "It wasn't funny at all".
At this, Marin smile grew wider and replied: "It was funny watching you listen to it", and as soon as he said it he laughed heartily.
His laugh had been honest and kind of refreshing, his voice soft and friendly. This guy was handsome and cute... and he was trying to make him feel better for no apparent reason. Rowan sat up and then chuckled, "Cheers to your preposterous joke", said Rowan raising his glass.
"It made you smile, didn't it?" said Marin in reply and after clinking their glasses together, they drank the tequila like real men: in one go and without making faces at all. The andalusian horse washed up his mouth with the lime then said, "The name's Marin by the way".
Rowan smiled. He liked his name. "I am Rowan, a pleasure to meet you Marin"
"Wow, you're such a proper gentleman big guy".
Life was certainly awful at the moment, but for some reason Rowan felt a little better after Marin's successful attempt at cheering him up. He didn't know the guy at all, yet he had made him feel less lonely. Rowan was grateful for that. Marin, on his hand, was glad he could help the big guy: he didn't know shit about him, but he felt he'd be a nice customer to have around. Something about him made him feel calm. And, after all, whoever could manage his terrible jokes was worth to keep around.