When I was 16 years old, I had a hover-hand problem.

Actually it was more like a hand-placement problem: Where to put my hand on a girl? Her arm, her hand, her back—I wanted to touch the girl I was talking to, but I didn’t know how. I wanted to step up the physical intimacy, but didn't quite know . . . how.

This all was back in 1985—dinosaurs were still walking the earth back then, so there was of course no internet, and of course no TRP.

So anyway, that summer, a friend invited me to his family farm for a couple of weeks. Of course, they had some horses; very nice ones in fact. I’d ridden before, but wasn’t experienced by any stretch of the imagination. The ranch hand who oversaw the horses was a big guy with a big black beard and big Elvis sunglasses who knew his trade: This horses knew he was the boss.

Bearded Elvis got me on my horse, gave me the reins . . . and the horse just stood there, unmoving.

“Giddy-up,” I warbled like the 16 year-old loser that I was.

The horse—a mare—craned her neck over her shoulder, gave me one long look with her big brown eyes, and then turned back and hung her head to munch on some grass.

She didn’t move.

It was the single most complete and total diss I have ever received from a female in my life—bar none.

“No-no-no-no-no!”, said Bearded Elvis. “You have to yank on those reins firm!” he said, showing me with his own horse.

I didn't want to hurt the horse, so I pulled on the reins—and only succeeded in irritating the mare.

“No-no-no-no-no!”, said Bearded Elvis. “You have to really pull back on the reins! Gentle—but firm!

I looked at him unsurely.

“Go on! She won’t break!” he said.

So I did as he said—I pulled back firmly on the reins—and succeeded in getting my horse to walk backwards for a bit.

“Not so much!”, hollered Bearded Elvis. “Firm, but tender! Tender, but firm!”

I nodded and tried to combine what I thought were contradictory commands: Tender but firm. Firm, but tender . . .

. . . and incredibly, the mare started going. I even got her to trot for me a bit.

We rode around for the afternoon, and I got better as I went along. When we got back to the stables, I lightly patted the side of my mare's neck.

“Good horsey,” I said, between relief and euphoria.

“No-no-no-no-no-no!”, said Bearded Elvis as he dismounted. “The horse doesn’t even feel it! She thinks your hand is a fly! She’s a big animal! You have to pat her so that she feels it!”, he added

Then he patted the flank of his own horse, practically spanking the animal . . . but tenderly, and certainly not hurting his horse.

“Let the horse know that you appreciate what she’s doing!”, he told me. “Let her know that you’re there.”

I copied him: I dismounted just as he had, I turned to my horse just as he had (though a million times more unsurely), then patted my mare firmly on her flank with more or less the same force as Bearded Elvis.

Then he said words that I’ll never forget to my dying day: “Para que le haga caso, hay que tratarla tierna pero firme—¡como si fuera una mujer!”

“If you want her to do what you want, you have to treat her tenderly but firmly—just like a woman!”

“Let’s get them some water,” said Bearded Elvis, walking to the water trough and giving a single firm yank on the reins of his horse, which dutifully followed him.

Again, I copied him . . .

. . . and in that moment, I got it. I understood how I had to handle girls: Tenderly, but firm. Without disrespect—but let her know that I'm there—

—just as if she were a horse.

I got good at riding that summer. And I never had hover-hand ever again.

TL;DR: If you master how to handle a horse, you’ll never have hover-hand ever again. If you like this post and want to see me rant and rave about other stuff, be sure to check out my YouTube channel, “Coach Red Pill