I didn't want to be a cowboy, but I certainly wanted one to fuck me. So, to honor those sojourners of the dusty trails I wrote this.
When settlers in the 1870's first used "dude," to refer to pasty-faced Easterners coming to The Rockies, they took notice of men with a distinguishable lilt (I have no doubt), of men with a different spring in their step, of men who had secrets settlers didn't know, and of men Rocky Mountain cowboys would never suspect.
A 2K Easterner, I differed from my ancestors in that I didn't have secrets. But I DID look, however, for the same things: fantasy cum impossibility, related to getting fucked by a cowboy named Boots, Hoss, or Chance.
For the doubting, I did have an interest in all things western, but I had been too infected with purpose and promptness. They exacted a bill my body wasn't equipped to pay. While most were going to this dude ranch for the experience, the activities, or just the fresh air; I was going to reclaim my identity and my health.
"Hey, folks!" An old cowboy, tall in the saddle, rode up in prairie coolness. Waving his hat to all, he dismounted and personally greeted about nine of us: “Candy...Candy Butler...Howdy...Candy...You must be David," he beamed, "Long trip?"
I took too long to answer; he moved on.
He was magnificent, a description reserved for exceptional beasts, but apropos for this cowboy. He was big, beefy; with a barrel chest fitting snugly in a festive western shirt and with powerful thighs in equally snug Wranglers. A six-six, two-hundred-plus ball of energy, he flashed sky-blue eyes; recessed in a crimson, weather-beaten face. And with a crushing handshake and dimpled-mustachioed smile, he charmed my pants off, which as I said was the plan.
"So, long trip," he asked again.
"What?" I asked leaning in.
He smiled, widened his eyes, and directed the crowd to waiting ATVs. "Let's get to the house, folks. Time for lunch!"
"Shit!" I said and followed an old couple with my head lowered.
"Great lunch, Candy," came from the crowd among belches and farts. While high-noon passed to high-tea, I went for a walk. Candy said keep on the trail, but I wanted to hide my shame in the shadows. In a clearing between the tree canopies, I could see the sun and clouds paint pastel scenes into evening. I hadn’t realized I been gone so long, but I couldn’t shake the image of that tall cowboy fucking me into inspired positions at all points of the dude range. I saw a particularly dark gathering of shadows over an old stump, well off the path and--
"I wouldn't do that, cowboy," Candy warned and lit a joint.
I jumped.
Leaning on a tree just left of the stump, Candy asked, "A bit skittish, young feller?" After taking two impressive draws, he passed the joint to me.
I refused, protocol dictated it.
"Hey, you need this more than me, son," he said and extended the joint closer.
Who was I kidding? I took a few impressive draws of my own and handed it back to an equally impressed Candy. "Haven't seen a man suck a joint like that since the seventies," he said, besieged by some severe hacking.
We talked as men with the knowledge of more than joint protocol and we confirmed what we already knew.
"I knew as soon as I spied ya—Look, when a man travels alone all this way to play cowboys and Indians, he’s a widower or a queer—or both.”
I cringed.
"No offense, just never could stomach 'gay,'” he explained and wrinkled his face for emphasis, "I hear you young guys throwin’ that around, but in my day, any name had to mean tough."
I nodded but really didn't understand.
"Guys like me hear 'gay' and see some guy walking along carryin' a parasol," he said and drew on the joint before handing it to me with his pinky raised.
I laughed into smoke-inspired cackles, prompting him to join. It was chronic weed.
So, when the smoke and our highs cleared a bit, he made his move. "After dinner and our fire-side welcome, why don't you drop by my cabin for belt and one or two of these,” he said, pinched out the roach, and put it in his shirt pocket.
"You got it, cowboy," I said and tipped an invisible hat. We both laughed and headed back to my group. On the way, he slowly slid a hand from my shoulder to my asscheek. I smiled.
The campfire was an altar of recessed concrete, surrounded by a circle of deadfall. Everyone gathered with twigs to skewer marshmallows and weenies. Candy began a cowboy ditty in a slightly mournful tenor. Everyone heard cowboy talent but I heard queer pain. He sang about getting doggies along and a trail made lonelier by a cowboy’s lost love. Everyone heard passion but I I heard longing.
I wanted to alleviate that longing—if only for a little while, and I wanted to give him a measure of comfort—no matter how my time with him turned out. But I was getting ahead of myself, and I knew that doing so, could lead to unimaginable pain. So, I reevaluated Candy’s invitation and pulled on the reigns. Besides, I really did want to try some more of that weed.
A short, red-clay road gradually rose from the ranch to a stony roundabout that sat on a mound and ended in front of Candy’s cabin. Sitting between two massive boulders, his cabin sat on the mound in a way that paralleled his solitary life.
The night was chilling, and stars sparkled like gems as I followed the road up to his cabin. Light shone from one of two windows. A fountain lowly bubbled in the middle of the stony roundabout, as night creatures warned of my approach. I was so intent on kicking a small rock up the road that I didn’t see Candy, sitting on one of two stone benches that cornered each side of the cabin.
“If I were a snake, Cowboy,” he began and struck a match.
“I’d be dead, right?”
“Depends on where ya got bit,” he said, lit a joint, and shook out the match.
After a generous draw, he stretched away the day and handed the joint to me.