Cowboy Up

by Shane Allison

  WEST TEXAS WINTER

  Michael Bracken

  Winters are tough in West Texas. Cold wind rages across the northern plains at speeds up to forty miles per hour, and there’s little in any direction to impede its relentless assault on man and beast. Cold fronts can drive temperatures down sixty degrees in a matter of hours, and every five years or so the summer dust storms are punctuated by winter blizzards. Cody Jessup fastened the buttons on his fleece-lined suede jacket and settled his black felt Stetson atop his head before grabbing his overnight bag and stepping out of the wind-rattled singlewide mobile home where he’d lived for nigh on ten years.

  During winter, he wore his boot-cut Wranglers a size larger than his summer pair in order to accommodate the bulk of his long johns, and at that moment he was glad he’d remembered his thick cotton undergarments because the wind hit him full force and drove its way through the tightly woven denim. He held on to his hat and stepped quickly down the concrete steps. As he walked from the mobile home to his white F-250, the ground crunched with each step and he left a trail of boot-heel-shaped impressions where they broke through the frozen crust. The boots leaving a broken-earth trail behind him were more the color of Texas dirt than the color they’d had coming out of the box many years earlier, and they fit his feet as snug as his socks, having long ago molded to the shape of his feet.

  A full beard protected much of his face and ice began to form in his moustache as he exhaled damp air. By the time he wrestled open the door and stepped up into his truck, icicles clung to his facial hair. The F-250 resisted his first two efforts to start it, the engine finally catching on the third try. Cody exhaled, not realizing until that moment that he’d been holding his breath. He switched on the heat and shifted the truck into gear.

  Five miles of private road led to four miles of county road and eight miles of farm-to-market road before he reached a state highway, and the F-250’s cab finally felt warm as Cody began driving the ninety-three highway miles to the town where he would meet Kendal Smith. He’d been waiting for this day for more than two months and wasn’t about to let the weather dissuade him, a good thing given that the wind turned his F-250 into a bucking bronc, threatening to toss the truck off the road or into oncoming traffic, and he wrestled with it the entire ninety-three miles.

  Kendal’s matching white F-250—a coincidence neither cattleman had ever remarked upon—crowded a parking space at the far end of the diner’s lot, and Cody crowded the space next to it with his F-250. Heat still radiated from Kendal’s truck so Cody knew the other man had not been waiting long, and he found the older man sitting in a window booth inside, nursing a steaming cup of black coffee. Cody slipped into the opposite side of the booth and let his gaze drift over the man he had driven so far to see. He wore his black hair shorter than Cody’s, and he had finger-combed it behind his ears when he’d removed his Stetson. Just like Cody, he had let his facial hair fill in as insulation against the cold, and it, like the hair on his head, was threaded with gray. A heavy crow had left its footprints at the corners of Kendal’s eyes. They weren’t the only wrinkles he’d acquired over the years, though they were the ones most visible during winter.

  “Rough drive,” Cody said as he unbuttoned his jacket. “You?”

  “Same.” Kendal had driven a similar distance from his ranch near the Oklahoma border.

  The two men always met at the same diner, nearly always attended to by the same waitress, a thick-waisted grandmother in running shoes who kept her fire-and-brimstone upbringing to herself but who prayed mightily for the misguided souls who crossed her path daily, and she squeaked over to slip a cup of coffee in front of Cody.

  Without bothering to glance at the menu, they ordered chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes and white gravy, side of carrots for Cody and side of corn for Kendal. Only the season—sweet tea replacing coffee during the blistering days of summer—and the available selection of pie altered their dining experience each time they met.

  “What’d’ya think of the weather?” Cody asked.

  Kendal glanced out the plate-glass window. “Seen it worse.”

  Their meals arrived and they ate, sopping up every drop of white gravy with buttermilk biscuits. Then Cody ordered a slice of blackberry pie and Kendal ordered banana cream, the waitress refilled their coffee cups and they wolfed down dessert just as they’d wolfed down the main course.

  One hunger satisfied, they left a healthy tip for the waitress, bundled up, and walked outside to their trucks. Cody followed Kendal to a motel on the edge of town, a place they had visited every other month since meeting at a cattle auction in 2011. Kendal had made the reservation, paid cash for the room, and collected a single key attached to a yellow plastic fob near as big as his belt buckle.

  Before long they had nosed their trucks into a pair of parking spaces in front of the ground-floor room and Kendal had the door open. Cody entered first and tossed his overnight bag on the room’s only chair, a threadbare thing that had seen the ass end of too many overnight visitors. Kendal closed the door and threw his bag on the dresser next to an aging television they didn’t plan to watch.

  Cody pulled the drapes closed and turned to the other man. “Been too long.”

  “Not much longer’n usual.”

  They began peeling off layers of clothing.

  “I miss you,” Cody continued.

  “Can’t be helped.”

  Cody knew that, but he also knew their irregular connections via Skype, when each would pleasure himself while the other watched, were poor substitutes for the limited time they spent together pressing flesh against flesh.

  “I’m all sweaty from the drive,” Kendal said after he’d stripped off the last of his clothes and stood naked before Cody, his thick, flaccid cock and heavy ball sac dangling from a gray-speckled nest of black pubic hair. Even bowlegged from a lifetime astride quarter horses, Kendal stood half-a-head taller than the younger man. “I wouldn’t mind some company.”

  Cody finished undressing, laid his long johns atop his other clothing, and followed the older cattleman into the sea-foam-green tiled bathroom, a room that had not been renovated or even redecorated since its construction in the early 1950s. His older lover reached into the shower, brought the hot water tap to life, and turned to face Cody as slow-warming water pelted the inside of the tub.

  “You’re just teasing me now,” Cody said.

  Kendal smiled. “I really do need a shower,” he said, “but mostly I just want to get you all wet and slippery.”

  Cody stepped forward into Kendal’s embrace, and reveled in the feeling of the other man’s sinewy, work-toughened arms wrapping around him. Their lips met, despite the abundance of facial hair, and they kissed long, deep, and hard. And as they kissed, Cody’s cock lengthened and stiffened and prodded the older man’s thigh.

  The water pelting the inside of the tub had grown quite hot by then, and steam clouded the tiny bathroom before Kendal finally drew back. He adjusted the water temperature and then stepped into the shower. Cody joined him and the two men fit as snugly as beef in a cattle chute.

  The tiny bottle of shampoo provided by the motel held barely enough to lather their hair and beards, but the motel-size bar of soap Cody palmed allowed him to soap his shower partner from face to foot, and he lavished extra attention on Kendal’s package as he lowered himself to his knees within the confines of the shower. He soaped the other man’s heavy ball sac and then, with the soap bar still in his palm, wrapped his hand around Kendal’s stiffening cock shaft. He pistoned his fist up and down the entire length until Kendal’s cock was lathered with soap. Then he set the soap aside, rinsed away the lather, and bent forward to take the swollen purplish head of Kendal’s cock in his mouth.

  Oh, how Cody had missed this during the weeks they’d been apart tending to their respective herds of Herefords. The life of a cattleman was often a solitary one and that the two of them had found each other often seemed to him an improbability only slightly
less likely than that Texas would someday legalize their union.

  As warm water pelted his back, Cody slowly took Kendal’s entire length into his mouth, something he had never done with another man and which he had learned to do to please his lover. Once his moustache was mashed flat against the wet mass of Kendal’s pubic hair, he drew back until only the older man’s cockhead remained in his mouth. Then he licked away the drop of precum that oozed from the tiny slit crowning Kendal’s cockhead.

  He took in Kendal’s entire length a second time and, just as his lips reached the root, Kendal wrapped his thick fingers in Cody’s wet hair and held the back of his head. Then, slowly at first, he drew his hips back and thrust forward. Cody held Kendal’s muscular thighs as the older cattleman face-fucked him, his hips moving faster and faster, his heavy ball sac bouncing against the thick cushion of Cody’s winter beard.

  When Kendal’s ball sac began to tighten and his strokes became more aggressive, Cody knew his lover was nearing release. He slid one soapy hand upward, parted the older cattleman’s firm asscheeks, and pressed the tip of his finger against Kendal’s tight sphincter. As he pushed his finger into the older cattleman’s ass, barely pushing it in as far as the first knuckle, Kendal made one final thrust and his cock erupted within Cody’s mouth.

  Cody swallowed quickly and then swallowed again as Kendal filled his mouth with cum. He held his lover’s cock in his mouth until it stopped spasming and began to deflate. Then he stood, took in a mouthful of water, and spit it toward the drain.

  When the warm water finally began to cool, the two lovers rinsed off the last of the soap and shampoo, and then stepped out of the shower and toweled themselves and each other dry. Cody followed Kendal to the king-size bed, stopping only long enough to retrieve a half-used tube of lube from his overnight bag and place it on the nightstand while Kendal threw back the cover and top sheet.

  They joined each other on the bed and lay face-to-face in the darkened room. Their fingers traced random designs in each other’s chest hair, and when Kendal drew Cody close, they kissed. They were in no hurry now and their kisses lingered. A gust of wind rattled the window, reminding them of the world outside, and Kendal pulled Cody tighter in his embrace, one more thing they could never do through Skype.

  Cody’s cock reacted to the proximity of Kendal’s body, slowly stiffening until it pressed against Kendal’s thigh. Kendal’s cock, not quite as quick to respond following their shower, also began to rise. When Cody felt Kendal’s cock begin to stiffen, he rolled over and faced away from the older cattleman so that they could spork.

  As Kendal’s cock lengthened and nestled in the crack of Cody’s ass, Cody reached out and retrieved the lube from the nightstand. He squeezed a glob of lube on his fingers. Then he lifted his leg, reached between his thighs and behind his ball sac, and coated his sphincter with the slick substance.

  Kendal took the hint, shifted position, and pressed the head of his cock against the tight pucker of Cody’s asshole. After only a brief application of pressure, Cody opened to the older man and accepted Kendal’s entire length. Kendal drew back and pressed forward a second time, and then reached over Cody’s hip and took Cody’s erect cock in his fist. As he fucked Cody from behind, he stroked the younger man’s cock in counter rhythm.

  The first few times they had fucked after meeting at the cattle auction, their sex had been fast and hard and over too soon, as if they were competing in a sexual rodeo and a winning ride was measured in seconds. As they had grown comfortable with each other, as lust had been supplanted by unspoken love, their carnal encounters had grown more tender but no less explosive.

  Kendal’s fist began pumping faster, and soon he was stroking Cody’s cock twice for every slow thrust of his cock into Cody’s ass. Cody came without warning, firing a thick stream of cum across the bed. He grabbed Kendal’s wrist to stop the pistoning movement of the older cattleman’s hand.

  As Cody’s cock throbbed in Kendal’s fist, his sphincter muscles clenched and unclenched around Kendal’s cock. Half a dozen thrusts later, Kendal came for the second time since they’d entered the motel room, and he emptied his balls into Cody’s ass.

  The two men lay together, Kendal’s warm breath tickling Cody’s neck until his cock finally softened and he pulled back enough to withdraw from Cody. Then they pulled the covers up and listened to the winter wind assault the motel until they fell asleep.

  They spent that night, most of Saturday, and all of Saturday night in bed. When they talked, they talked cattle prices, feed supplies, and how the drought had impacted their herds. What they didn’t talk about was how much they missed each other when they were apart.

  Sunday morning they returned to the diner for brunch, consumed eggs over easy, thick strips of bacon, and stacks of pancakes. They washed it all down with orange juice and mugs of black coffee, and stared at each other across the table until they couldn’t delay their departure any longer.

  “Best be on our way,” Kendal finally said.

  “Yep,” Cody conceded. He grabbed his black felt Stetson, settled it on his head, and then slid out of the booth.

  Kendal followed and they walked out into the cold, thankful that the wind had died down sometime during the night. When they reached their trucks, the two cattlemen stared into each other’s eyes. Then Kendal thrust out his hand and Cody clasped it. They shook hands and slapped each other’s backs, their last physical contact before returning home appearing to others as nothing more than two friends parting company.

  Then they climbed into their F-250s, fired up the engines, and headed their separate ways, the warmth of their time together seeping away the more distance separated them, and the West Texas winter resumed its relentless assault on man and beast.

  THE SINGING COWBOY

  Rob Rosen

  Hundred bucks,” said the man on the other end of the line.

  “But I’m not a singing cowboy,” I protested.

  “Ad says cowboy for hire,” he replied. “I’m trying to hire you.”

  I sighed. Yes indeed, I had taken an ad out. After all, jobs for honest to goodness cowboys were few and far between. Still, this wasn’t what I had in mind, not by a long shot. “But you want an entertainer, mister; I’m a cowboy. I herd cattle. I tend to cows and horses. I don’t sing to neither one.”

  His sigh echoed my own. “But you are a cowboy, right?”

  I nodded, even if only for my own benefit. “Uh-huh.”

  “Hundred and fifty,” he barked. “Take it or leave it.”

  Since all rotten things travel in threes, my last sigh was the loudest. “Where and when, mister?” I asked, resignedly. “And please tell me it’s not first thing in the morning.”

  Well, first thing, no. But not too much later, as it turned out. Guess seven-year-olds get bored after ten in the morning. Go figure. And, to be quite honest, I could sing. Sure, I’m no Gene Autry, but ain’t nobody gonna cover their ears, I figured. And as for that Benjamin and a half, it’d pay for groceries until a real gig came along. That or a decent paying rodeo. Either way, it was easy money.

  Or so I thought.

  Though it did start off easy enough, with me showing up right on time even. Place was some big ranch miles and miles out of town. Father of the birthday boy rented the whole kit and caboodle. Even had a nice mare for me to ride once I got there. Jason, the newly crowned seven-year-old, had one too, just a smaller version of my own.

  He sat on his little filly alongside my mare while I did some fancy rope tricks my daddy had taught me, the same ones his daddy had taught him. The kids down front oohed and ahed and clapped with childish glee, Jason included. That oohing and aahing amped up a notch when I started galloping around them, my lasso high overhead, the rope nothing but a blur once I sent it spinning, a boy down front lassoed a moment later. Funny thing was, no cowboy worth his boots ever did this sort of stuff, not in real life, but, truth be told, I was having fun.

  That is, until… “Now time for some
singing!” shouted the father, who clearly didn’t know a good act when he saw one. Not even when the oohing and aahing turned to boos and catcalls. I mean, what little kid wants to hear a grown man sing instead of performing rope tricks?

  Still, that’s what I was getting paid to do, so that’s what I’d do. Plus, they’d already wheeled the cake out, and I knew that no amount of roping was gonna compete with that, at least not for long. Now all I had to do was sing a couple of old-fashioned cowboy songs, ending of course with the traditional “Happy Birthday to You.”

  Except, I never got that far. No sir, no how.

  See, while no one covered his ears, the horses, as it turned out, didn’t have the option to, Jason’s horse in particular. Guess my yodel spooked the filly. Though it was a mighty good guess considering that when I hit my highest register, the young horse hit the ground running.

  Up the filly jumped, Jason’s face going from bemused to terror-stricken, worse so once his mount charged through a fence of bushes and on to points unknown. I of course, being the good cowboy that I am, instantly took chase. Through the bushes I went, my mare whinnying and snorting as she catapulted her wide expanse of chest through the dense patch of green, brambles and leaves and twigs raking across my denim shirt.

  I held on tight, sweat suddenly trickling its way down my face as I veered my mare in Jason’s direction. We were in a field now, so there was no way for me to corral the young gal, to maneuver her into some sort of dead end. Instead, I galloped ahead and quickly found myself alongside them.

  “You okay?” I hollered to the kid above the din of hurtling horse hooves.

  He was holding on tight, legs gripping the filly’s sides. “No,” he whimpered, tears streaming down his face.

  So much for that happy birthday.

  I galloped closer now, the two horses barely a couple of inches apart, both of them charging at full steam. My legs grabbed on to my mare as I let go of her reins. I quickly reached across and grabbed the filly’s. I tugged with all my might, eyes in a concentrated squint, until she gradually slowed, snorted, and then, at last, came to a complete stop, kicking up dust all the while. Take that, Gene Autry.