“Kind of horny.”

This is the third line of any conversation I have in Internet chat rooms.

The guys say, “Hey.”

Then, “How’s it going?”

Then, “Kind of horny.”

Sometimes, I wish one would ask me if I own a pony. And, if so, the guy will ask, how big? Small, like the size of a dog, or big enough that I can ride on it?

I will lie and say I have one on the roof of my apartment. Except my pony isn’t just a horse that suffers from dwarfism, with a rounded rump and cartoonish features. Mine is more of a miniature stallion. It is as if you took last year’s Kentucky Derby winner and shrunk it down so it was two-and-a-half feet tall. I am pretty sure Michael Jackson has a whole stable full of ponies, and Queen Elizabeth does, too. That lady loves horses.

The guy will ask me what I feed it, and I will have to explain that I live on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, so I feed it knishes. I’ll tell him that wheat germ isn’t so different from the alfalfa or oats that ponies normally eat. I will tell him about the time I tried to feed it pizza, and it just stared, not knowing what to make of zesty pepperoni and mellow mozzarella.

I will say the pony is my most valuable possession, even if I can only hold it in my head. It always loves me . It never confuses me with its bodily urges.

Then the guy will ask to come see my pony.

But I will have to tell him, “No, it’s my little pony.”