Country Boys, page 10
But footsteps swishing through the grass near the fence remind us that we’re not alone. Reluctantly I sit up, dust the grass out of my hair, off my shoulders, arms, legs and back. I don’t look at Davis as we dress, silent, each lost in his own thoughts. As he leads the way back to the fair, I reach out to brush the grass off his butt. His hand catches mine. “Copping a feel?” he asks, one eyebrow cocked salaciously. He raises my hand to his lips, kisses the tips of my fingers, then lets me go. “You here all week?”
I thought he’d never ask. Not to seem too eager, though, I shrug like maybe and he punches me playfully in the arm. “Don’t be like that,” he says. “I got bite marks underneath my chin where you sank your teeth in, Jesse. You liked it.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t.” The next time he looks up, I duck down to see under his chin. Damned if there isn’t a faint red welt, and he’s got a hickey coming up along his jawline. I point it out. “That’s gonna be pretty.”
We’ve reached the fence. Davis leans back against it, grabs the belt loops on the front of my jeans and tugs me toward him. “Davis,” I warn. We’re behind my truck and mostly out of sight, but this is a small county and I surely don’t need this getting around. Still, his skin looks smooth and creamy, and I can’t stop myself from trailing a hand down his flat belly to hook in the front of his jeans. He’s watching me with an unnerving stare, waiting for me to answer his previous question. “I’ll be here,” I tell him.
He gives me a sunny smile. “Me too. I’m staying with Gary—” “Stay with me,” I say. It slips out before I can think to stop it, and the way his face lights up, I hate myself when I have to add, “Only I still live with my folks. Gary’s my half-uncle, so Momma’ll put you up, but Pa won’t cotton to us getting it on in his house.”
Davis’s smile twists into a sly grin, and his eyes sparkle mischievously. With a tug on my jeans, he pulls me closer and I stumble into him, my nipples stiffening where they brush against his. In my ear he whispers, “Then we’ll just have to go outside.”
And suddenly six days doesn’t seem long enough for this year’s fair.
BAREBACK RIDER
Michael Bracken
Every time the rodeo came to town, the local bars were crowded with hard-muscled men clad in tight-fitting Wranglers, snap-button shirts, low-heeled ropers, sweat-stained Stetsons, and belt buckles the size of dinner plates. Following the rodeo circuit were the wannabes and the used-to-bes, the groupies and the clingers-on, and they crowded into the bars along with the cowboys and the rodeo employees. Included in every crowd in every bar were the locals, the men and women who brushed against masculine greatness for one long weekend and lived on the adrenaline rush for the following twelve months.
Justin Longacre, a bareback rider who frequently finished in the money, rolled into town in his extended cab dually the day before the rodeo’s first event, booked himself a room at the Motel 6 just down the road from the coliseum, and began to prowl the local bars. Justin had the sinewy build of a man who had been stretched tight and held together by sheer determination. Unlike other bareback riders, the abuse he had endured seemed negligible: he’d smashed his face against the skull of a particularly spirited bronc, leaving his nose with a flat spot just above his nostrils, and a bad dismount had broken his left leg, giving him a barely perceptible limp.
In each of the bars Justin visited, men bought his drinks and women sidled up to him, offering themselves as if they were breeder cows. He always politely tasted the drinks and thanked the women for their attention before moving on, riding the local alcohol circuit the way he rode the southwest rodeo circuit.
In one bar near the Interstate, a well-lit place that catered to upscale out-of-towners, he had to explain to a buxom young coed what a bareback rider did.
“It’s just me and the horse,” he said. “No saddle, no stirrups, no reins, just a leather rigging that looks like a suitcase handle on a strap.”
He explained to the attentive coed that cowboys grab the handle with one hand and throw their free hand in the air to keep from touching themselves or the horse during the ride. The cowboy must mark out when the horse leaves the chute, making sure that both spurs touch the bronc’s shoulders. Then the cowboy spurs the horse from shoulder to rigging, doing his best to score points based on his strength, control, and spurring action during the eight-second ride.
“That sounds crazy,” the coed said.
Justin had heard another rider describe it once and he’d repeated the description ever since. “It’s the hardest eight-second ride on earth,” Justin said, “like riding a jackhammer one-handed.”
The coed lost interest when Justin failed to produce a room key or a desire to pay her bar tab and she wandered away in search of a softer touch. Justin resumed his cruise through the central Texas town’s ample supply of watering holes until he found himself straddling a red leatherette stool and leaning against the worn wood of a bar in a dark hole downtown, about as far away from rodeo people as he could get in distance and ideology.
“The rodeo must be back in town,” said a soft-skinned young blond who settled onto the stool next to Justin.
“Yep.”
“I thought I smelled cow flop.”
Justin looked the young man over. Steven Pitt had the physique of an office worker, gym-toned but without the hard edges that only backbreaking outdoor work provided. He wore a dark suit, his rep tie still knotted at the collar. His close-cropped hair had been styled recently and his fingernails manicured. The faint aroma of expensive cologne settled around him.
“You a real cowboy, or a reject from the Village People?”
Justin stared into the younger man’s eyes. “I’m a bareback rider.”
Steven looked the cowboy up and down, as if searching for hidden meanings. “Why?”
“I like the risk,” Justin explained. “Using a saddle just doesn’t feel the same.”
The young man considered for a moment, and then ordered two shots and beers. After the pug-faced bartender slid the drinks to them, Steven asked, “You in town long?”
“Just as long as the rodeo’s here,” Justin said. “Then I move on.”
“Just like that?” asked the young blond. “No commitments?”
“I’m just looking for a good buck,” Justin said. “I ride and I move on.”
Steven lowered his voice and leaned into Justin. “You want to ride me?”
The question hung in the air unanswered until the two men finished their drinks. Justin followed Steven out of the bar and two blocks away to the bedroom of a third-floor walk-up apartment. Under Justin’s watchful eye, Steven stripped off all of his clothes except his tie, revealing a smooth, hairless body tanning-bed tanned the color of honey. Justin grunted his approval and peeled off his own clothes, revealing his own redneck tan. His face, neck, hands, and arms from mid-bicep down had the beef jerky color of a man who worked outdoors, while the rest of his hard body remained pasty white because it never saw sunlight. A dark patch of untamed hair at the juncture of his thighs provided a nest for his thick cock and heavy balls.
Steven dropped to his knees on the carpet in front of Justin and took the cowboy’s rapidly stiffening cock into his mouth. As his tongue circled Justin’s glans, he cupped Justin’s heavy scrotum in his hands and massaged the cowboy’s testicles. Then he used his middle finger to stroke the sensitive spot behind Justin’s scrotum.
Justin reached down and held the back of Steven’s head, feeling the stiffness of the young man’s perfectly arranged hair as he pumped his hips against Steven’s face. Soon he exploded in the younger man’s mouth, and Steven swallowed every drop. After the young blond licked Justin clean, he stood, dug through his nightstand for lubricant, and then handed the tube to Justin.
“Ride me,” Steven whispered as he turned around and bent over his bed. He placed his hands on the down comforter to brace himself. “Ride me hard.”
Justin squeezed a drop of lubricant onto his finger and then applied it to Steven’s rectum, teasing the younger man’s fancy by pressing the tip of his middle finger against the tight sphincter, but not entering him.
After Justin withdrew his finger, he pressed the head of his cock against Steven’s lubricated sphincter, pressing forward until he entered him. Then he grabbed Steven’s tie, pulling Steven’s head back as he drove forward, burying his cock deep inside Steven. Justin threw his free hand into the air as he drew back and pressed forward again. And again.
And Steven bucked, forcing himself backward to meet each of Justin’s powerful thrusts. As Justin continued pounding into him from behind, Steven reached down and took his own turgid penis into his fist. He pumped furiously, coming across his comforter as the tie tightened around his neck and only moments before Justin came inside him.
Justin had ridden Steven long and hard and well beyond the eight seconds that would be required in the rodeo arena the next afternoon, and he continued holding the younger man’s tie in one hand until his penis stopped throbbing. Then he dismounted, pulling his cock away with a barely audible pop.
Steven collapsed on the bed, clawing at the tie until he loosened it from his neck. As soon as he caught his breath, Steven rolled over to watch the cowboy.
Justin dressed, dropped a rodeo guest pass on Steven’s chest, and said, “If you want to see how a real man rides, come tomorrow.”
Justin let himself out, walked to his truck, and returned to the Motel 6. He eased his dually between two full-sized pickups outfitted with expensive tow packages, bought a diet Dr Pepper from a machine near the motel office, and returned to his room to drink it. Then he showered and climbed into bed alone because he always slept alone.
The next afternoon, Justin completed his first eight-second ride with a respectable score in the low eighties, and the pickup men swooped in to pull him from the still-bucking horse. After they lowered him to the ground, Justin looked into the stands. As soon as he saw Steven watching him, Justin knew he had a few more good rides ahead of him that weekend. In every town, no matter how big or how small, Justin Longacre always found a good ride. Sometimes it was a horse named Diablo, Crazy Eight, or Snake Eyes, and sometimes it was a man named Brogan, or Charles, or Thad. Justin didn’t care which it was because he always rode bareback.
He lived to take risks. It was the cowboy way.
WATERMELON MAN
Shane Allison
Whatchu doin’ here? Tol’ you tuh never come here.”
The man veered around the table of gold-plated crosses, tennis bracelets and hoop earrings with his signature piece of watermelon, and pulled out a vacant lawn chair.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be gone befo’ yuh mama come back.” He smelled like dirt and rotten trash. Pink pearls of watermelon juice dripped from wrinkled, rough hands. “Where she at?”
“She went tuh church. I gotta watch th’ table till she come back.”
I hate this poor white trash flea market. The scent of funnel cakes frying fills my lungs. I’m only here ’cause Mama wanted to go to church. She keeps complaining about how she hasn’t been in weeks
“So whatchu want?” The pepper from the watermelon made me sneeze.
“Bless ya,” he said, spitting out black seeds.
Who puts pepper on watermelon? He was so country. I watched in disgust as he bit into the soft, red fruit. He was wet with sweat, sticky from the juice. The sharp smell of pepper lingered in hot heat. He was old enough to be my daddy. He’d been a good friend of Ma’s since middle school. He was eating that melon like it was the last he’d ever have.
That’s how he got the name. Watermelon Man.
He plucked two scented naps from a box of Wet Ones and wiped his hands clean of juice. A couple of old ladies fawned over anklets and dolphin necklaces. One said the jewelry was fake.
“Come ova t’night,” he said.
“Cain’t.”
“Why?”
“Buzy.”
“Doin’ what?”
“None of yuh bizness, an’ anotha thang, don’t be callin’ my house an’ hangin’ up. Ma’s gon’ fine out it’s you. We got calla ID too, man.”
“What um ’pose to do? It’s been weeks an’ I wanna see yuh.”
“I toljuh’ I’ll let yuh know.”
Ma rode up. It started to get busy. Thank fuckin’ god.
“Well, well, well.” She was dressed to the nines in her navy skirt suit, white gloves, and hat to match. She never goes to church without something on her head. Her hair has thinned because of that bad perm Terri put in it. He was as happy to see her as I was happy to be rescued from this loud-talking nut.
“You jus’ comin’ from church?” he asked.
“It was a good service,” she said.
“Was it?”
“Yes g’ness.”
I wandered off to the side of our table to assist a younger woman interested in an anklet of cute little elephants. It didn’t fit, too damn tight.
“You might need a ten or an eleven.”
Him and Ma went on about neighborhood pastors, the latest flea market rumors.
“It’s too tight. I cain’t fasten it,” she said. I wanted to say it was because she had smoked hams for ankles, but I kept my mouth shut. She placed the anklet back on the table. Examined other pieces of jewelry while gradually walking off. I stared at his arms glistening with sweat, the sweat trickling off his hairy chest. He was a slouchy mess. I stared at his crotch, remembering the size. Sweaty and smelly beneath thin, swarthy skin that blanketed the head. Over Ma’s navy shoulder, I watched the Rastafarian selling incense, Jamaican flags.
Watermelon Man with his white row of teeth. Dentures, juxtaposed nicely against ominous skin. Every Saturday around this time it got busy. I worked one end while Mama took care of folks on the other. He pushed his trash can out of the corner, started down the flea market aisle, sweeping up cigarette butts and beer cans.
Ma made almost four hundred dollars off the X and O bracelets. She packed the last gold-plated necklace in a Rubbermaid bend. I excused myself to the bathroom ’cause I’d drunk sodas all day and my dick was full of piss for it. There was a toilet over by one of the refreshment stands. The food cost too much out here. Two dollars for a corn dog, five for a paper plate of greasy cheese fries. We always brought sandwiches, drinks to last till we went to the all-you-can-eat buffet. The bathroom was filthy, reeking of pee. I pressed the dispenser for soap. Empty and dry. The hot water tap was torn off leaving only the cold to work. The stall was small, the trash can running over with soiled, brown paper towels, balls of wet tissue. I unzipped my jeans and forked out my dick. I stood over the toilet as a tongue of urine plopped in commode water. I couldn’t help but think about him. My hands embracing his booty snug in denim days old. A dirty Southerner. I think of his privates in public. Piss poured and splashed as the door opened. He entered, letting in light. He startled me, Mama’s junior high chum. Heavy breathing.
“Whatchu doin’ in there?”
“What it look like? Takin’ a piss.” He stood outside my stall, peeked in over the wall. “Fuck you doin’?”
“I saw you lookin’.”
“What?” I pretended not to know what he was talking about. I prayed he wouldn’t try anything. Not with the sheriff in the office right outside. We ran the risk of getting caught. I tucked things back into rightful places.
“Hol’ up.” He jotted something on a torn piece of brown paper towel and handed it to me, his name and number and address written in crimson ink.
“Why you givin’ me this?”
“Fo’ when you get bored.” His fingers were rough against my hand. I’ve never known hard work. Couldn’t wait to git out of there. I rinsed my hands under that tongue of cold and dried them clean. I pretended I wasn’t interested. I looked at his number. My head is a camera. My memory’s a photograph. I took his number and tucked it in the pocket of my shirt. He was all I thought about as Ma and I sat down for Sunday dinner.
Days passed, the week was uneventful. Work and home pretty much. I was saving money to move, inhabit a place of my own, a place to throw parties, a pad to entertain. Love Mama, but we’ve had our share of late night fights. Sick of feeling like some kind of caged animal behind these barred windows, these ten-inch impenetrable doors. A hundred more and I’d have enough. I don’t tell Ma what I wanna do: fame and fortune, a writer of film and television. She’d think me silly.
He popped up on the porch one day with a bag of fruit. I opened the verticals and there he was. He smiled pretty but that’s not why he came. I answered the door bare-chested wearing nothing to cover me but boxers. Barely able to keep my dick secure.
“These fo’ yuh Mama.”
“She ain’t here.”
He stood at the door, black and sweaty, dressed in a red tee, dirty Guess jeans, and dusty carpenter boots.
“Where she at?”
“She went to a revival.” She’s getting closer to God. Because of the leaky roof, the unfinished work, Ma didn’t like people coming to the house.
“I tol’ yuh Mama I would be brangin’ these by. They navel oranges.” The sun is hot in my face, sweat does a number on my eyes. “A revival, huh? She always was into Bible study an’ all that choir stuff. Even when she was in school she would carry a Bible round wit her. Well, can I leave these wit you?”
“Yeah, come on in.” He wiped his feet on the welcome mat. He tailed behind me to the kitchen. I hoped he wasn’t looking at my ass. “You can sit ’em up there.” I pointed to the porcelain countertop.
“Can I trouble yuh fo’ a drinka wata?”
I took a yellow pitcher from the refrigerator and poured the water into one of Mama’s glasses, the ones with the pink flowers.
“You want ice?”
“Naw, this is fine.” He swallowed it down without as much as a pause between gulps. Looked over my shoulder and noticed I had left my porn movies on the sofa. Always been careful about leaving them out, so Ma wouldn’t find them. It was no easy task.
