The Legend of Sleep-With-Me Hollow

Egad it’s cold! Come, come, close the door behind you and gather around the fire. Have a snifter of brandy and join us. I was just about to tell my story. Perhaps you know of it? 

Gather round as I tell The Legend of Sleep-With-Me Hollow.

Oh, so you’ve heard the cries in the night woods just as I have? The wailing moans of a man begging to have his bones jumped? The bellowing cries from the simp on a steed, asking where his hug is? Yes. I’m afraid the Hessian is real. And his story is thus:

This guy rides around on a horse and absolutely nobody wants to fuck him. 

I’ve seen him once, in the dappled moonlight of a forest path. His horse is a modest Palomino and the man himself is purely average, honestly, but if he’s gonna keep asking for some action, it’s just gonna put you off. Like have a little panache. Put in a little work. Yet still he cries, “Why won’t anyone fuck me?” And the whole thing is dour top to bottom.  

There are numerous accounts as to how he became the way he is, but it’s all conjecture. Some say he was jilted by a lover, forced into that fabled realm of the Friend Zone. Some say he took rejection too seriously and died watching “Joker.” Some say he was the ugly friend in a group of hot friends and when he realised it, his head just burst! 

Did I not mention he’s headless? 

Yeah, he’s a Cephalophore, always carrying around his own head in one hand and a strip of expired Durex condoms in the other, begging any night traveler if they’d spare a nut, the jangle of his Chaturbate tokens heralding his approach. It’s all really egregious.

Do you know Arthur the Stone Mason? He once had a run-in with the Horseman. Found him in the moorlands asking Twitch streamers for their OnlyFans. One poor maiden had to nuke her whole IG because he wouldn’t get out of her comments. Kept asking for nude rates and then calling her a slut if she didn’t oblige. Arthur said it was the saddest thing he’d ever witnessed. The worst part was that Arthur, being a stonemason, had a larger horse. A Clydesdale in fact. And the Horseman grew outraged and humiliated and rode off screaming that he was horse-mogged. Nobody knew what that phrase meant until the scholar from the city finally told us. We all had a pretty somber laugh about it.

Here. Pour me some more brandy. The cold of the dark is at the threshold. 

Do I feel bad for the Horseman? I suppose on particularly lonesome nights I’ve found myself relating. Yearning for the embrace of someone else. But perhaps, listeners, he’s reaping what he himself has sown. Maybe if he stopped calling girls femoids they’d wanna be near him. Maybe if he stopped calling villagers Chads and offered to learn their real names he’d find a community. I don’t even think we have a Chad in this small town. My name is Mortimer for Christ’s sake, which is hardly a lady-pulling name, but I do okay for myself. I don’t own a horse either, but Jesus Christ, I’ve never used the word mogg before! Do you see what I’m saying?? 

Sorry. It’s the brandy talking. 

What hour is it? The night is darker than we started and the moon is behind the graphite clouds. Do you hear the whinny of a nearby horse? The steady approach of galloping? Listen carefully. On the wind you can hear the sounds of Cum Town and, even closer, the poor soul asking an E-Girl for her Discord. Aye, let us stay by the fire. I can feel the chill in my bones.

Author’s Pick