Breeding in Horse Country
It’s Horse Country, and the Old Money lives in mansions the size of hospitals. The one down the street is 23,000 square feet and sits on 4,000 acres. The money is old, and you can tell, because it is running out. The conservatory has been falling to pieces since the Depression and the family can’t raise the two million bucks for repairs.
No one’s going to cry for them, but it is a shame to see this grand dame of a house tattered at its edges. The people there are lovely, with gracious manners and a sense of responsibility. They have hunts and races to finance the estate, which takes an army to run and endless reserves of cash. It’s the ultimate, class conscious money pit.
Houses have names here: Keswick, Grand Oaks, Fox Run.
The New Money names their houses after things they saw in Gone With The Wind. The perfection of their landscaping – and the flawless exteriors of their homes – are flares that indicate the exact position of the New Money. The gruesomely named estates like Tally-Ho and Tara, are also dead giveaways that the money is new, because people with no class name their homes Tara and Tally-Ho.
People who name their homes Tally-Ho should not be allowed in the hunt club, but the money for the hunt club has to come from somewhere since a lot of the Old Money simply doesn’t have money anymore. Those who want to keep the hunt club up and running are forced to rub elbows with the Nouveau Riche Hunt Club set. The Old Money who must engage in the elbow rubbing are as regal as royalty, and look perpetually pained when that which passes for society passes by.
Most of these old estates pre-date Gone with the Wind (which is why none of them are ever named things like Tara) and those that don’t were built by whatever construction company best installs jacuzzis.
There are really only two kinds of people out here: rich and poor.
The Old Money is usually property-rich because Old Money is quiet money, and they don’t carry their wealth on their backs in front of people.
The New Money carries their conspicuous consumption and the ability to engage in it everywhere even to the Piggly Wiggly, because money isn’t nearly as much fun unless you can wave it in the face of someone who makes $12,000 a year and works behind a checkout counter.
OK, there is a middle class out here (like me), but even the middle class is rich compared to an average income base (for the people who don’t live in mansions) of $18,000 per annum. There are people here who live in tin shacks, and who grow their own food, and milk their own goats, and make their own cheese.
Those who live in homes that sit on concrete blocks often name their homes as well. Sometimes, the homes are guarded by stone lions or concrete gargoyles. The grander the name of the home, the more likely it is to be mobile.
We are several hours from Washington DC, so in addition to the horse country money, we encounter the Washington DC money, the source of much of the New Money.
New Money likes to have a place in the country. Why is anyone’s guess, because New Money clearly does not want to live in the country. New Money would very much like a mall within reasonable driving distance. Or, at least close enough to reach by private helicopter.
The migration of the DC elite to Horse Country is the source of much of the area revenue, and much of the area gossip. Washington DC is the power chakra point of the world. Power and money are always entertaining in a Dominick Dunne sort of way. People like to hear about rich people getting their comeuppance.
Rich people who get their comeuppance often come in the form of foolish men who marry trophy wives who are no trophy.
It is not enough for a trophy wife to look good, she must have other qualities to recommend her. It doesn’t hurt to speak a few languages as well as to know which fork to use. A true trophy wife is a torch at which the husband can light his wick while basking in the reflected glow of his gorgeous, sophisticated wife. A wife who doesn’t have to lift a finger to do dishes always has time for a bikini wax, tennis lessons, and studies in advanced Arabic, a handy skill in Washington DC social circles these days. The trophy wife is expected to be gracious and well educated, as well as beautiful.
One of our local New Money cattle barons has a wife who is something, but she’s no trophy. We’ll call her Lil.
Lil is a beautiful woman. She is 26 years old, and she doesn’t have an ounce of fat on her, except where a woman should be fat, and the jury is out on whether or not the padding is natural. Lil has a very rich husband who decorates her richly.
Lil is also the town pump.
In a town of 150 people, there aren’t many secrets. When you expand the town set to encompass the entire county of 15,000 people, there still aren’t many secrets. Lil’s exploits are no secret, but she took her sexual adventuring to dizzying new heights of trampdom just this past week when she decided to pick up a likely young construction worker from his workplace at the side of the road and give him the romp of his life.
Tooling up in her handsome limo, she spied this healthy example of southern manhood doing his business, and much to the surprise of everyone – including the young man we’ll call Bubba – she propositioned him and gave him a whirl.
How do we know this, you may ask?
Because Lil decided to give young Bubba a taste of her wares right in the middle of the day in the town’s only public restroom, in front of a room full of shocked witnesses, including Gladys (not her real name) the owner of the Corner Store, site of the Toilet of Desire.
The Corner Store is the only store in town. More properly, it is the only store in the next town, because our town is too small for a store.
The Corner Store is where everyone gets their gas, their Twinkies, and their homemade potato salad, as there is a tiny little diner therein. Right there next to the diner counter is the door to the Loo of Love.
While a couple of old fogies (who never actually seem to leave the diner bench no matter what time of day it is) watched in amazement, Lil dragged a dazzled Bubba out of her limo and took him for a swirl around the basin; in the men’s room.
My mother was shocked:”But the lady’s room is so much cleaner!”
Be that as it may, while the chorus of fogies listened with glee, zippers were pulled, belts clanked, and gasps of passion were heard emanating from the door of the men’s toilet at the Corner Store.
Gladys was clueless to these doings at first, but the excitement from Old Fogie’s Corner could not be missed because none of these farts had been that stimulated since VE Day, 1945. What could possibly be going on!?!
Gladys went to have a look.
Well, imagine Gladys’s surprise.
She got an earful of the doings and freaked, banging on the door. “You two get out of there! What are you doing in there?”
Lil twittered, “Just a minute!” Apparently, she gets quick action.
Gladys wasn’t having any. “Get out of there! Get out of there right now!”
Bubba and Lil emerged. There was Lil, festooned in her best Texas-girl-on-the-make duds: black cowgirl boots, black cowgirl hat, leeeetle black skirt cut up her thigh. (Bet she doesn’t wear that to embassy dinners.) Bubba was still in dusty and dirty overalls from his construction job, but hey, some chicks like a man who sweats.
The old fogies absolutely howled with glee, and the delight added ten years to their life expectancies.
However, the scene was a double horror for Gladys because she knows both Lil and Bubba, and their spouses.
Because Lil is a rich, stupid tart, and Bubba is just a stupid farm boy, they both lied very badly.
“He’s my cousin!” burbled Lil, as if that would have improved matters.
While Gladys began to search for her oxygen tank, Lil assured her that neither she nor Bubba could possibly have been engaging in coitus in the toilet because, of course, both of them were married (as if that has stopped billions of adulterers in the past).
Gladys ordered both Lil and Bubba out of the store, demanding they never return, a particular inconvenience when it’s the only store for miles.
Unburdened by brains, Lil returned the next day to apologize and beg Gladys not to tell her husband about the inflagrante toilet-o. Gladys doesn’t need to tell anyone’s husband about the inflagrante toilet-o, especially since it was revealed that less than an hour before Lil and Bubba did the deed in the Corner Store porcelain basin, they had been in the toilet at the Food Lion off the interstate, and had also been forcibly removed from the premises. If Lil’s husband didn’t know about the loo-loving habits of his wife by now, he was the only person in the county who didn’t.
(By the way: inquiring minds want to know why a woman with millions of dollars at her disposal can’t just get a room.)
Anyway, Bubba may be a stupid farm boy, but he had a heart somewhere, and his remorse at having been led astray by a rich floozy in demon temptress cowgirl gear inspired him to give a confession to his wife. He went home and burbled the whole deal with the kind of edits that could only come from someone with the IQ of a marmoset. The truth of his sordid moments in Lil in the john were too much for Bubba to admit, so he claimed he had only poinked Lil in the limo. He made it sound as if he had been kidnapped by Lil, demon temptress in cowgirl gear. He claimed she had lured him in for a drink, locked the doors of the car, he couldn’t get out, and one thing led to another!
It was so sad, so tragic! His virtue had been stolen in a Mercedes (but I am sure, by now, his wife knows that his virtue actually went down the crapper.)
Bubba’s wife was enraged and she did what any woman would do if her husband had been kidnapped and raped in a limo by a demon cowgirl named Lil, in black teddy underwear: she went unto the great gates of Lil’s mansion, marched right up to the door, and confronted Lil the demon cowgirl; there was quite a row.
Lil called the police and had the wife of Bubba, the construction boy-toy, arrested.
In the end, Lil’s husband got himself a trophy wife all right. Unfortunately, she won Best Jumper.
True story, swear to God.
Originally posted some years back on the old blog.