The One that Trotted Away: Two Minotaurs Meet Briefly on the Internet

It was the kind of tired that didn’t necessitate the usual six episodes of Forensic Files to coax me into a slumber. On this night, the narration of someone’s murder would not be putting me to sleep. No sooner had my subconscious pulled me into my typical dreamscape of catholic churches and Bravo television personalities than some flying monkeys violently erupted on the scene. I startled myself awake to discover the culprit behind the noisy interlopers: a cacophony of howls and extremities flapping, taking place on the roof directly outside my bedroom window.

“Those sons of bitches are having a smut fest out there,” I thought. “And when all of us are stuck inside alone.” The audacity.These creatures flaunted their fruitful sex lives from midnight to about 5 am, with only a few breaks throughout — presumably for some cliff bars and gatorade.

Bitter from the sleep deprivation induced by the deciduous forest porn outside my window, I decided to take a cue from the sex-crazed woodland animals the next morning. I turned to my usual rotation of dating apps, hoping to find some form of companionship.

Despite my most earnest attempts to find a decent human with whom compatibility is a remote possibility, I am routinely betrayed by my desire for a good writing prompt. I swiped through the troves of men to find the kernel of absurdity through which I could showcase my talents.

The profile read:

A perfect first date would be: “Your dad joins us. He loves me. Wants me to move in. Adopts me. We’re step siblings. We all go fishing every Sunday.”

I lobbed out the first message as I am told to do on this particular app.

I started the conversation: We all go fishing for the first time and daddy takes us to the nearest lake. When we arrive, we see that daddy forgot the tackle box — he runs home to grab it so we can actually catch some fish. We are left there to entertain ourselves until daddy comes back with the bait and hooks. What happens next?

His response: You keep saying we don’t need a tackle box because we have a worm and you keep joking about me pulling my dick out but I keep refusing. Eventually you say I just won’t because it’s small. I decide the only way to maintain my pride is to pull it out and show you how big it really is….. what happens next

My jaw smacked the vinyl beneath me.

My response: You reach for the inseam of your jeans. My eyes narrow and my nipples get hard in anticipation of coitus. Just as you’re about to unzip, a troop of Boy Scouts and their leader emerges, ready to set up camp. The chaperone, a very chipper guy, asks what us kids are doing out here. What happens next?

His response: I say, “hey man, I’m trying to f*** my step sister here. Can’t you see her erect nipples??” He apologizes for the intrusion. He then informs us that this trip is actually the highly regarded “Congratulations on hitting Puberty” chapter for the scouts and asks if they can watch to give the boys a better understanding than the birds and the bees talk could deliver. What happens next

My response: I say, “I’m fine with it as long as my stepbrother and the children are okay with performing/viewing the simulation on a Minotaur.” I then remove my jeans and boots, which up until this point had been concealing my horse legs and cloven hooves. What happens next?

(Corrigendum: Any mention of horse or equestrian henceforth should be replaced with bull or bovine, respectively. In my attempt to advance the plot, my wires got crossed, and I erroneously thought that Minotaur meant the one with human torso and two horse legs, when it is actually a human torso, bull head, and bull legs — as a cursory google search would have shown.)

His response: I start crying tears of joy. Who would’ve ever thought. I remove my shirt and reveal that the entire upper half of my body is also horse [ah! Minotaur man plays along with the farce], including my head. I’m a reverse Minotaur. It’s cray how we overlook those details when falling in love. I begin to nay loudly and the kids all pet my furry back to calm me. What happens next

My response: I whinny and kick, obviously aroused by your equestrian torso. I’m ready to be mounted. But just then, daddy pulls up in his beat-up Chevrolet. I panic, knowing that daddy strongly disapproves of tops. What happens next?

I waited around a bit for a response but never did learn what happened next because horny Minotaur boy never responded. This seemed to be par for the course amongst the most interesting men- Minotaurs on the internet. You can only try to tame one so much until their erect nipples and unrelenting desire to go fishing pierce through the gossamer-like veil of a fledgling relationship.

At times, I like to imagine individuals like us roaming merrily in a field somewhere, with our lower halves clad in seersucker, khaki, or that distressed shade of denim popularized by American Apparel and our bovine (Or stallion. However you want to look at it.) torsos free to the wind, yet far, far away from anyone’s life to unnecessarily blow up.