Cowboy by J. M. Snyder

by Неизвестный

  "Can you tie down the tent?" I ask, turning in his one-armed embrace. This close he's intoxicating, but I don't know if it's the alcohol or the man, and right now I don't care. "Two burgers. You sure you're up for dessert?"

  So he won't mistake my meaning, I poke at the front of his jeans, where he's already hard, I can feel his erection through his pants. Sometimes beer will do that to him, and tonight I'm loving George Killian and his Irish red lager if it'll get me a piece of my man. "Just make it quick," he tells me, and I'm already stumbling for the house, thank God we have a gas grill and I don't have to wait for charcoal to light. "I've got to leave first thing in the morning --"

  "Already halfway there," I say, breaking into a jog. Vaguely I'm aware that I'm no different from the women who drive all the way out here to see him, but what's it matter? He's with me, remember? Let them dream of a cowboy in black because this one's mine.

  I cook three burgers and leave one of them on the grill -- I'll have it for lunch tomorrow, I know Kent well enough to know that he won't eat it tonight. He sits at the picnic bench we have out back, between the barn and the main house, and watches me through the amber bottle in his hand. More beer, at least that's all he's drinking tonight. He's not a mean drunk, not bitter or hateful or angry like some men, but the alcohol dulls his senses, makes him sleepy, makes him brood, and he'll fall asleep in his recliner, wet snores filling the house until I could smother him to shut him up. And in the morning he'll wince at the sun and the sound of my voice, and he'll tell me to keep off him, it's hot, and keep it down, I'm too loud. But he's not a bad drunk, he doesn't hit me, doesn't yell, doesn't tell me what I'm doing wrong or how I can be someone more to him, something better. Sometimes I think if I could figure that out then maybe he wouldn't drink so much. Sometimes I wonder what kind of man he'd be without the alcohol, if he'd be like the men in my sister's magazines, the ones she tears out and sends to me with little Post-It notes stuck on the pictures. How about this one? she'll ask. Have you seen one like this down there yet?

  I don't bother to write her back. What would I say? Unfortunately ...

  Kent wolfs his burger down in four bites -- sometimes beer gives him an appetite, but when I ask if he wants the second burger, he shakes his head no. Instead, he gives me a smoldering look across the picnic table, and there's a fire in his eyes that the alcohol can't dim, he wants me. Me. Finally, he wants me. I gulp down the rest of my meal as fast as I can and take the third burger off the grill so it won't burn. I set it on my plate and pick up his when Kent stands over me, his hand curving around my ass, rubbing along the seam of my jeans. "Leave it here, Marcus," he tells me.

  I nod, suddenly famished for him. "I'll get it afterwards," I say, my voice cracking like the desert ground. His fingers fumble between my legs and I lean on the table, arch up into his hand, moan at his touch. From the corner of my eye I see his belt already unbuckled, his other hand rubbing at the front of his jeans. I hope we at least make it inside.

  We do, but just barely. He drops his pants the minute the screen door slams shut behind him, and I can't seem to get my belt to work, I want it undone, I want it open and I want my pants gone now. Kent's already working himself hard, another few minutes and we'll miss this, it'll end in a rush of thin, beer-laced cum on his hand and the floor and I'll be out of luck. Somehow I manage to get my belt loose enough to shuck my jeans down my narrow hips, and my boxers follow suit, I don't think we're even going to make it as far as my bedroom because he won't be able to get it up again if we miss this now. "Kent," I sob, I want him so bad, it's been too long and I want someone in me, holding me, loving me, anyone at this point. "Babe, do you think --"

  That's as far as I get to asking if he wants to hold on until we get to my room, because he touches me and that's it, that's all I really wanted, his hand on me in places that quiver for another's touch. His hands are large, calloused, rough, but they turn me on when he cups my balls, strokes my hard shaft, caresses the smooth skin of my ass. He eases inside of me, one finger, two, and then he presses his thick cock in, I swear it's as rough and large and calloused as those hands. I have to grip the back of the recliner and spread my legs to get him all the way in, and the way I'm standing makes me giggle breathlessly. We never do it lying down. Sex is standing up in this house, and it's usually against the foot of my bed but this in the living room, that's new. It makes me think maybe we're not as settled into routine as I feared. God, if any customers pulled up now and dared to creep around the back of the house, they'd get an eyeful through the screen door. Kent shoving into me as I lean over the recliner, his breath coming in quick huffs that reek of beer, his dark hands on my hips and his white ass probably gleaming in the dusk. He's that pale below his waist. The image makes me laugh as he pushes further into me. "What?" he wants to know.

  It comes out like a grunt, and his fingers dig into my skin. I arch back into him and close my eyes, savor the fullness inside, my muscles working to hold him in even as he tries to pull back out. "Assume the position," I say, just to be silly. I can be silly right now if I want to -- I'm finally getting him, he's finally mine.

  He's a selfish lover, only works for himself and when he's done, he thinks I should be, too. Not one for foreplay, doesn't like sucking or kissing or hugging or anything like that. No, just a fuck for him, just sex, and it's always me on the receiving end because he says it just doesn't do anything for him to get it up the ass. He can be crude when he's sober, and it makes me laugh because he's so quiet, you don't expect it from him. The first few times we had sex, he would pull out just as he started to come and I'd end up with his juices trickling down my ass cheeks, hot and wet and so damn nasty that it was enough to get me off, as well.

  Only now I know he pulls out because he can't come, that's the beer in him, it makes him hard and he can go all night long if he wants, but there's no release. He thinks he's slick when he moans my name and bucks into me ten, fifteen minutes later, and suddenly he's finished. What the --? I look over my shoulder and he's already tucking himself back into his jeans. One hand is fisted like he came in it, but I know he didn't. I know he can't. "Kent," I sigh. I don't bother to pull up my own pants. I'm not done here yet.

  "You're good," he tells me, like that's a consolation. It doesn't make my dick any less hard, it doesn't make the dull throb that has settled into my balls go away. With a slap on my ass, he heads for the kitchen and I hear running water when he turns on the sink to wash his hand off. Does the pretense go that far? Does he think he's gotten off from this?

  I stand there, naked, clutching the back of the recliner, and I look at him incredulously when he comes into the room. "Babe," I start. I'm still looking for more.

  He doesn't like it when I call him that. He says it always sounds like I'm whining, babe, like I'm trying to wheedle something out of him. "Don't start with me, Marcus," he says, weary. "I'm tired. I can't keep it up all night like you --"

  "All night?" I ask. Who's he kidding? We're talking barely a half hour here. Is it so bad to not want such a rush job? From my lover, no less?

  "I've got to get up early in the morning," he tells me as he heads down the hall to his room. When I start to say something else, he holds up one hand to stop me. "A showerhead, I know. I'll pick it up."

  I'd like to pick this up, where we were a few minutes ago. My hand trails down my stomach almost absently, heading for the erection that still stands up from the patch of blonde hair at my crotch as if refusing to believe we're through. That's it. And he called this dessert? Heh, this was a spoonful of whipped cream, one strawberry, maybe a bite of cake, nothing more than a mouthful, if that. Neither of us got off on it, despite whatever lies he wants to tell himself. I'm aching here and I know he held nothing in his hand, nothing at all.

  Down the hall his door closes softly, almost like an apology, and I'm left with my dick in hand, staring around myself in disbelief. I got worked up for this? I cooked him burgers on the grill, two of them, for this? My sex life with him i
s like rain in the desert, a scarce occurrence that is barely-there and brief when it does happens. And those women earlier, our customers, they seriously think they want in on that?

  Disgusted, I kick my pants off from my ankles and head for my own room, my long t-shirt covering my ass and cock and the hand that works at my crotch. Beneath my bed is a folder of all the magazine clippings my sister's sent, all those underwear and cigarette and cologne ads, all those cowboys in their Stetson hats and bolo ties, flannel shirts, spurs and chaps. I kneel on my bed, the folder open in front of me, and my own hand has to squeeze and knead as I flip through the pictures, imaging those boys with me. I picture their lips on my skin, their hands on me, their fingers doing the delicious things I have to do myself while Kent sleeps off the booze in the room next door. Finally I come in an embarrassed spurt that slicks my hand and belly and I wipe myself clean with my shirt before putting the folder carefully away. Those are my men in there, those are my boys, not the snoring cowboy who stuck it to me tonight.

  Until tomorrow, of course, when I see him from the window, his skin bronzed by the sun. If only he could love me then, at that moment, when he's everything I want him to be and more. If only that man came to me after the market closes. That man has to be in him somewhere, right? That man is who I love about him, right?

  Later, when I remember the plates on the table outside, I move through the house quietly so I won't wake Kent, unashamed of my nakedness. In the living room, I pull on my boxers and leave the jeans on the floor, then push through the screen door out into the cool night. It's almost cold out here -- the temperature drops once the sun goes down -- and I hurry across the stony ground, telling myself I don't feel the gravel biting into my feet. The grill is cold now and I close its cover, working quickly because it's chilly and I'm wearing next to nothing. It's odd how a body grows used to things, after living with them for so long. In Jersey, this would've been a balmy summer night, I would've thought nothing of running down to the beach in shorts thinner than these boxers I have on now. But after two years I'm almost shivering here, and I bet it's not below sixty degrees. How did I ever survive before?

  The plates are where I left them, but the bag of chips is gone, the extra burger, gone. I look beneath the table, under the benches, around the darkened yard for as far as I can see, but they've simply vanished. The scarce dirt is unmarked, no prints from a coyote or bobcat or weasel, and there aren't any feathers scattered around from vultures, but that doesn't mean anything. The worse thing is that whatever ate the burger and made off with the chips will probably come back tomorrow looking for more, and Kent hates animals prowling around his garden, he'll take the gun down from over the stove and heaven help us then. He's not a good shot when he's not drunk, and I'd hate to see him when he's been hitting the booze.

  I gather up the plates, the cups, the tongs I used to turn the burgers on the grill, and head for the house. I won't mention it, then. Maybe ask him to pick up some poison in town tomorrow, tell him we have rats, I'll take care of it myself. He doesn't need to know anything more than that.

  I wake to the slap of the screen door -- Kent leaving, and a glance at the clock beside my bed shows that it's not even six AM yet. I pull the blankets over my head and wish the warmth that surrounds me wasn't just my own. Some mornings I would give anything to have the memory of his body lingering next to me. But he goes to bed before I do, wakes up too damn early, tells me that he likes a separate room because it keeps me from rousing him when I turn in at night. The explanation doesn't make my own bed any less lonely.

  I'm almost back to sleep when I hear tires spin to a stop in front of the house, the truck door slam shut, heavy boots on the porch and then he's back inside, muttering to himself because he's forgotten something. Through half-closed eyes I watch the hallway beyond my open door. He troops by, stomping in those cowboy boots like he doesn't care if he wakes me or not, and the glimpse I get of his tan arms, his bare chest, his black hat and jeans, it makes me catch my breath. Come here, I want to say -- I would if I thought he would listen, if I thought he would let me soothe away the anger that's bunched his brows together, let me make everything alright. I hear him in the bathroom, fiddling with the showerhead -- something hits the tiled floor, he curses and throws something else down, I'm going to have to clean that up when he leaves. Then he passes my room again, heading for the door and his truck outside, and whatever chance I might have had to convince him to join me has passed.

  So I wait. Until the sound of the wheels fade away in the morning sun, until the house has settled around me like a troubled pond growing still, until the clock reads a little before seven and I just can't stay in the bed any longer. In the bathroom I find the small aluminum tubing that holds the showerhead in place, it's tossed to the floor of the stall -- no tub for Kent. Just a shower stall, a toilet, a sink so battered and dingy that I can never get it clean. The shower rod is askew, the curtain pulled free from a few of its fastenings. He was probably pissed to all hell that he left without the head this morning, the one thing he's going into town to get. I should've been up to remind him, but then he would've acted like forgetting it was my fault, and he'd be grumpy and ill-tempered for days. I won't mention that I know he came back for it. Not if I hope for a little loving when he returns.

  Like last night, I think sourly. Heh, that wasn't loving, that was a few good thrusts and then poof, nothing. I shouldn't put up with that shit. I need more than that to survive.

  I pull on jeans and a t-shirt, a pair of cowboy boots because that's all we wear around here, a thin flannel shirt that covers my arms. But as I tug my blankets onto my bed, I catch a whiff of rank sex, alcohol, sweat, Kent on me, that man needs to bathe. When he gets that showerhead installed, I'm throwing his lily-white ass in the stall myself. We'll do it in the shower if we have to, anything to get him cleaned up. Is that what those boys in the ads smell like? That raw mix of man and beast? I have to get it off of me.

  The washtub's out in the barn. This early, I can get a quick bath in before the first customers arrive -- not that I'm expecting many, because Kent's not here to pimp in the midst of his Eden, no one's going to see me from the road and stop with a sudden taste for berries. But a few regulars will come by, a few cars passing will stop, we'll do a meager business, and I'd much rather be fully dressed and waiting by the register when the first car pulls into our lot than crammed naked into that tiny tin tub out back. A bath, breakfast, then I'll open shop. It won't be at Kent's ungodly hour, but I can make it before eight, at least.

  As I push through the screen door, I look around the backyard, which is nothing more than a run of stunted grass and cobbled dirt between here and our barn. Away to the right I can just barely see the road glistening in the already hot morning sun, and to the left our fields start, row after row of plants and vegetables that Kent somehow manages to eke from this soil. Remembering the lost burger last night, I eye the garden rows warily, sure that something's hidden among the leaves, watching me, waiting for more food. It's quiet, too quiet, but it's also the heart of Texas and I just might be the only living thing around for miles, I can't expect more than the silent line of crows that sit like black dots on the telephone wires lining the road.

  Crossing the yard, I notice that the barn door is ajar. I'm fairly certain I didn't leave it that way -- I always close it when I'm done, after the time a possum was hit on the road and managed to drag itself into our loft. I found it dead the next morning, blood everywhere, the heat making me swoon from the stench, and I stumbled from the barn gagging as Kent watched with impassive eyes. "Road kill," was all he said, but he took the rake and cleaned out the hay, disposed of the carcass, didn't mention my moment of weakness -- I can't help but love him for that. Since then, I make sure to pull the barn door tight behind me whenever I'm through in there, latch the rope toggle lock across the doors, check it before I go inside. I know I didn't leave that door open last night.

  A coyote then? The rope isn't chewed, though, I
don't know how an animal could get inside. Kent did it, I tell myself, easing the door open as I peer in where it's dark and cool and silent. This morning, whatever reason, he came in the barn for something and forgot to latch it closed, that's all and you know it. The rope's intact and he's probably hung-over so you know he wasn't thinking when he left. He forgot the showerhead, didn't he? True. So he forgot to latch down the barn, too. In the dirt beneath my boots are shoe prints -- no animal paws, no blood. He forgot to latch the door, is all.

  The hinges creak as I push the door open further -- I wince at the sound, impossibly loud in the quiet dawn, and slip inside the barn. My heart is hammering in my ears. Maybe Kent did open the door this morning, but who's to say something didn't slip in after he left? Coyotes are bad out this way. Kent used to keep chickens but he couldn't stop the damn dogs from getting at them, and even now one or two will prowl the old coop, out at the far edge of the field. Sometimes when he's really drunk, off the tequila usually, he'll take his gun down from the wall and head out that way, claim he'll put a stop to those rascals once and for all, and I swear one day he's going to come back with a hole shot in his foot, he's foolish when he gets too far into the bottle. But what if those coyotes are hanging around now? What if one of them slipped into the barn after the truck left, and it's watching me from the loft, or the empty horse stall, or the bundles of hay piled against the wall, just waiting for a chance to jump me?

  A shaft of sunlight slants through the partially open door, slicing into the darkness, and I try to look everywhere at once. Jesus, but I can get worked up over stupid shit, and in another few minutes when that washtub's outside and I'm filling it with the hose, I'll laugh away my fears, but right now, right here, they're palpable and real and pressing in on me like the musty scent of hay that tickles my nose, the faint stirring of bats in the rafters. The tub's against the horse stall, the sunlight cuts across it with a silver promise, two steps and I'll reach it and I'll turn and run, no one's here to see me, coyote or no --