Cowboys

by Tom Graham

  Actually, Brett had misquoted the song. It was force me to smile.

  McCormack had gotten a faraway look in his eyes. It was time to bring him back to the business at hand.

  “Thanks for the drink, man,” Harry said. He gave his crotch a squeeze. “Anything I can do for you?” Craig was standing right between his outstretched legs. Harry’s eyes trailed downward. The singer still wasn’t hard, at least not visibly. Time to up the ante. He unzipped his fly.

  “You’re really a cowboy?” McCormack asked.

  “Yeah, rode horses and all that stuff. Back in Nevada.” This wasn’t going the way Harry had planned. Still, it was the guy’s dime, and he was a superstar. And there’d been other times when he’d gone to some john’s house and all the man wanted to do was talk. Harry took this not as a criticism of his attractiveness, but as a sign of how fucked up some guys were.

  But Craig McCormack? Hell, Harry wanted a big star like him to suck his cock. “Yeah,” he repeated, “horses and all that stuff.”

  The night was beginning to catch up with him. The concert had been exhausting—most of them were, these days—and it was his fourth whiskey. No, fifth. Time to get what he was paying for. He put down the drink and unbuttoned his fly.

  “Okay, cowboy. Blow me.” He reached into his boxers and pulled out his still-soft dick. But the hustler didn’t make a move, just sat there with his eyes still half-closed.

  “No,” Brett said, between sips of Wild Turkey. “You blow me.”

  Harry knew from experience that these married guys claimed to just want to be sucked off, but what they really wanted was a mouthful of dick. Preferably a big hard dick like his. He fished it out of his pants. It was stiff and thick, the foreskin still half-covering the shiny head, and while he wasn’t much of a connoisseur, he knew most of his clients found it gorgeous.

  And he was right again. McCormack’s dick had started to get hard, and after a few seconds of hesitation, he dropped to his knees and, drink still in his hand, began to nuzzle Harry’s cock. But instead of putting his wet lips on the shaft, all McCormack seemed to want to do was lie with his head in the hustler’s lap and murmur, “Brett…Brett.”

  “G’wan, mister. Suck it. You know you want to.”

  McCormack snapped out of his trance and slid his lips over the partly obscured head of Harry’s dick.

  That was more like it.

  He had to admit it: Sucking the cowboy’s cock was nice. A nice, hard, hot piece of meat in his mouth. He reached up and unbuckled the boy’s broad belt, then tugged open the waistband of his jeans. The kid wasn’t wearing underwear. And he hadn’t trimmed his bush, either. Craig liked that. He hated when guys trimmed down their crotches, or worse, shaved. What the hell was that about? It wasn’t like they had cunt lips to expose.

  He tugged at Brett’s jeans, and the hustler raised his hips so Craig could slide them down to mid-thigh. Nice, hairy legs, too. Trim, muscled. He actually could picture this guy on a horse.

  Never taking his mouth off Brett’s cock, he slid his hands down over the hustler’s knees, down his shins, till he reached the boy’s boots. He ran his palms over the heels, the embroidered leather, the pointy toes. Cowboy. The hustler’s cock throbbed against his tongue.

  Not a bad cocksucker at all. Singing wasn’t the only use McCormack had found for his mouth. Should he say something? Something encouraging? Something demeaning? Drawl out, “Yeah, that’s it. Suck that cock,” stuff like that?

  Harry did, after all, believe in giving his customers good value. It was the way to build a steady clientele. If that paunchy software billionaire got off on being dressed up in diapers (and he did), then Pampers it was.

  And yeah, the fringed jacket might have been a bit much, trotted out on request. But he hadn’t lied. He’d been on plenty of horses back in Elko, back when he’d been a teenage farmhand shoveling shit. He’d had a pickup with a gun rack, too, until he wrapped it around a tree while he was wired on crystal.

  Not exactly Clint Eastwood, maybe, but then, Harry kinda doubted Eastwood would fuck Craig McCormack’s face.

  Though in Hollywood, you never knew for sure….

  The guy had a nice, stiff cowboy dick. A real mouthful. But McCormack was woozy from drink, tired from a long night. He’d had it with kneeling down. He took his mouth off the big cock and struggled to his feet. Standing over the hustler, he unzipped his pants and pulled down his boxers. His hard-on sprang free, and he grabbed at it and started squeezing.

  The cowpoke-hustler looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “Hey, Sam,” he said, “I don’t suck dick.”

  “But I’m paying.”

  “It wasn’t what we agreed to.” The kid seemed like he was trying for “laconic,” like Clint Fucking Eastwood. “And besides, real men don’t suck dick.”

  “Get on the bed, then. On all fours.” Like a horsie.

  Brett grew somewhat less laconic. “And I don’t get fucked, either.”

  “I ain’t gonna fuck you.”

  “I don’t get fucked,” Harry repeated, just to make things clear. Though he had gotten fucked. Plenty of times. When he’d been cold and hungry enough. In the men’s room at the Greyhound station in Elko. And by that rancher’s son he’d thought he’d been in love with. Way back when.

  But McCormack had said he wasn’t going to fuck him, and Harry didn’t want this session to go badly. Big stars—especially big stars in the closet—meant big money. So he pulled off his boots and tugged off his tight jeans.

  “Leave your jacket on.” McCormack’s million-dollar voice was sounding slurry.

  Harry Deering got onto the bed, on all fours.

  The boy had a real nice ass, no doubt about that. Craig got behind him, behind that terrific butt.

  “Okay, cowboy…,” he said, but left the sentence unfinished. He leaned down, stuck out his tongue, and licked Brett’s tailbone. He reached around the boy, the fringe hanging from the jacket brushing the back of his hand. He found a nipple and stroked it through the boy’s T-shirt. Brett made appreciative noises, and Craig ran his mouth down the hustler’s hairy buttcrack till he felt warm softness against his tongue.

  “Oh, yeah,” Brett moaned, though how sincerely was hard to say. Craig flicked his tongue against the boy’s hole, then began licking up and down.

  This was it. This was what he really wanted. He thought of all the millions of people in all the audiences he’d sung to. They didn’t know—how could they? But this is what he longed for. Dirty fucking hot hole. Man hole. He took his fingers from Brett’s tit, backed off a little, and grabbed both asscheeks, spreading them wide. The kid’s ass opened up nicely, showing a glistening darker pink in its depths. He stuck his tongue as far in as he could.

  So that was it. The great, patriotic, butch dude liked to eat ass. And liked it, apparently, a lot. Well, Harry had seen a lot worse. He’d dressed men up in women’s lingerie before he fucked them. He’d pissed on his clients, even crapped on one or two. Whatever. Whatever the job required. Within reason. And depending on the fee. But this? Fuck, getting rimmed felt so good, he’d do it for free.

  Only he wasn’t doing it for free. Not by a long shot.

  “Oh, man, that feels great,” he moaned, partly because that’s what the occasion demanded, partly because it did feel great. He lowered his head to the mattress and reached back to stroke his still-stiff dick. Might as well relax and enjoy this. Though he hoped the guy would be satisfied soon. He had an early class at USC the next morning, a philosophy class, a pisser.

  When Craig McCormack really got into eating ass, the rest of the world—the troubling, confusing world—ceased to exist. There was only that warm, wet contact. That was all that mattered. He pushed his tongue as far inside the boy’s guts as he could, then pulled out, running his lips down the seam of the hustler’s furry perineum, licking the big dangling balls, then back up again, to the hole. Brett was jacking himself off now, which meant he was enjoying it, too, and even though Craig was paying,
he was glad.

  He almost didn’t hear it, and he almost wished he hadn’t. “That’s it,” the hustler said. “Eat my ass, Craig.”

  The kid knew who he really was, then.

  He pulled his mouth away.

  He wished he hadn’t said it, of course. He didn’t know why he had. How he’d let it slip. Still, McCormack freaking out like that was sort of silly. Did he really think someone as famous as he was could go around hiring hustlers and not be recognized? Stupider still, he was into country boys, exactly the sort most likely to know who he was.

  Harry acted as though he hadn’t let the singer’s name slip, as though he had no idea why the probing mouth had left his ass. “Go on, Sam,” he said. “Lick it.”

  But McCormack had gotten to his feet. “Get up, Brett,” he said.

  The singer’s face was angry, yes, but he also seemed a little scared. Maybe it was all that booze.

  “Hey,” said Harry, “sorry, man.”

  “This isn’t some kind of fucking shakedown, is it?”

  Harry was a little hurt. He’d never considered such a thing. He was, after all, a whore, not a blackmailer. And besides, that kind of reputation would be bad for business.

  “Jesus, man, no.” Harry was crouching on the bed, his dick deflated.

  “Because if it is…” Craig McCormack reached into a dresser drawer. Fuck, did he have a gun? Well, of course he did—Harry remembered that song of his, what was it? “Freedom Is a .44.” And if you take my piece from me, you’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands. Harry also remembered, oddly, his mother, dying from cancer, listening over and over to Craig McCormack’s Christmas album.

  But McCormack didn’t pull a gun from the drawer. He stood with a pile of bills in his hand. “Here,” he said, “take it. Get out. And forget this ever happened.”

  McCormack’s cockhead had retreated into its long foreskin. He had a pretty nice-looking dick. Not as big as Harry’s—kind of small, actually—but suckable.

  “How about I go down on you?” Harry asked. “To show no hard feelings?”

  “Go on. Take this and get the hell out.”

  McCormack watched as the hustler stripped in reverse. Too bad things had to end this way. He was a good-looking kid. And a real cowboy, too, or at least so he said. Oh, well, these things happened sometimes. He poured himself another drink, not offering Brett one.

  When the hustler was fully dressed, he stood there for a minute like he was expecting something, like maybe free tickets to his next show.

  “Go on,” Craig said between sips, “get out. And don’t forget your hat.”

  Jesus, what was that? For a weird minute, Harry thought Craig McCormack was going to cry. But no, it was just that his face was all flushed with liquor. Probably.

  Oh, well, he’d gotten paid, no problem. More than he’d expected, actually, though whether that was intentional, he had no idea.

  And now he could take a cab home, take this shit off, get some rest.

  The hotel lobby was near empty when he left, and nobody gave him a second glance.

  Outside the hotel window, most of L.A. was asleep. McCormack watched the cowboy go, switched on the radio, then turned it off again. He stripped down, turned off the lights, and crawled into bed.

  He inhaled deeply. He could still smell the scent of the boy’s asshole. He reached down and stroked his hardening cock. It was a comforting feeling, the touch of his own hand sliding the foreskin back and forth, back and forth. He thought of the way Brett’s asshole looked, the way it had tasted when it yielded to his tongue. Back and forth, back and forth. He said it aloud: “I want to eat ass.” His cock was hard as a rock now, close to coming. His tongue against the boy’s soft insides. Horsie. The spotlight. Him walking home from high school with Brett, almost getting up the courage to tell him how he felt—but then the moment had passed. The roar of his fans. Brett’s dick. Hard cock, hairy ass, pink hole. He came then, not so much squirting as oozing cum, a big sopping handful. Ordinarily he wiped off with a Kleenex. But he just brought his wet hand to his mouth, his cum’s saltiness joining the lingering scent of Brett’s ass, and licked his palm clean. Brett. He was drunk, exhausted, nearly asleep. Brett.

  Sometimes he wished…

  Sometimes he wished…

  WESTON’S SPREAD

  Jude Gray

  Alex Weston’s hazel eyes swept across the wide-open land stretching outside his kitchen window, and he shivered in the cold October morning. He had just added wood to the kitchen stove, so it would be some time before the room warmed up. As he turned from the window, he put on a pot of coffee and crossed bare arms over his hairy chest. He moved around the cold kitchen, getting breakfast organized and slapping his arms as he struggled to wake up. Being cold and naked was the best way he knew to fully awaken himself each day. Most mornings he woke up in his huge, warm bed with a painful hard-on begging to be drained of piss and his hot, sticky seed. To keep himself from lingering in bed, he had taken to masturbating in the outhouse after relieving his bulging bladder. By sitting in the stink and cold of the outhouse to release his pent-up hormones rather than the comfort of his bed he wasn’t tempted to tarry too long and waste the daylight.

  On this morning, with the lightest touch of frost on the ground, Alex stood with his butt dangerously close to the stove as he warmed his bare backside. He blew a stray lock of wavy dark hair off his forehead and decided it was time to get moving.

  Just more than a year ago Alex’s grandfather had passed on and willed the entire ranch, what everyone in these parts knew as Weston’s Spread, to his unwed, twenty-four-year-old grand-son, his only surviving family. Alex’s grandfather had raised him, as he’d lost his parents and two younger siblings to disease years ago. When his grandfather had released his final breath, Alex felt something break within him. He was alone for good now, no one to turn to for help with the ranch or to talk with when the sun fell behind the foothills and the long, dark night took the open land.

  Shaking his head to clear away his negative thoughts, Alex took a deep breath and burst out of the warming kitchen into the brisk air.

  “Yikes!” he cried, his balls pulling up and his hard-on quickly retreating at the rude slap of cold air. He dashed to the outhouse and jumped inside, slamming the door behind him. He stood before the smooth, wooden seat and released a long, steady stream of piss into the dank, wet depths.

  When Alex had finished, he turned to sit on the seat and took himself in his hand, stroking his member back to life. His cock unfurled slowly, reluctant to expose itself to the cold. He closed his eyes and stroked harder, willing himself back to life. His thoughts fastened on images of faceless, nameless men: burly, hairy men. Their cocks and balls swung low between their legs, and in his mind he found dozens of ways to please them. He was a great lover of men, but only in his mind, for Alex had never been with one. He’d had a woman once—a whore in town—and while the experience was somewhat pleasurable, he wasn’t eager to engage in it again. He’d always been drawn to the rugged ranch hands his grandfather had employed before money became a problem and the older Weston had to let them go one by one.

  Alex wrapped his other rough, callused hand around his hairy balls and pulled them taut, stretching the sac into the dark pit of the outhouse. He tipped his head against the rear wall and sighed, his strokes growing quicker and his grip tightening. His breathing picked up until his exhalations matched the rhythm of his fist and his breath plumed from his lips in the cold air.

  Just before he could finish himself off, the door jerked open, flooding the tiny room with light and cold air. Alex gasped and hunched forward, trying in vain to cover his pulsing erection as he blinked in the glare of the morning sun.

  “Hey!” he snapped. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Oh! Sorry!” a deep, male voice replied. “Didn’t know anyone was in here.”

  Alex squinted at the dark outline before him. He couldn’t see the man’s features as
the sun shone behind him, but he could make out a silhouette of broad shoulders and a trim waist. A cowboy hat sat on the man’s head, and Alex heard the scuffle of boots on gravel as the stranger shifted his weight.

  “Do you mind?” Alex said, his erection quickly deflating. “It’s cold.”

  “Yep, yep.” The stranger eased the door shut, saying again, “Sorry.”

  Alex paused for a moment, his eyes closed and his mind racing. He had no clothes with him and didn’t know if the man was alone.

  “Hey, you out there,” Alex called.

  “Yep.” The stranger’s voice came back from right outside the door, and Alex jumped. The least he could have done was step a few feet away!

  “Are you alone?”

  “Just me and my horse,” the man said.

  “Okay.” Alex took a breath and pushed the door open. He stepped outside and shivered in the wind, cupping his hands over his crotch. Moving quickly, he ran into the house and slammed the door behind him.

  After quickly dressing, Alex threw on his tan leather coat lined with sheep wool and dropped his brown Stetson on his head. He stepped outside in time to see the stranger emerge from the outhouse buttoning up his worn denim pants. Anger sizzled in Alex’s chest as he walked quickly across the yard. Just as he reached the man, however, he noticed the stranger’s square jaw and clear blue eyes, and his determined step faltered.

  “You could have knocked,” Alex said, his voice sounding less angry than he would have liked. He felt small and childish standing before this tall, broad-shouldered man with the tanned, handsome face.

  The stranger smiled, showing white teeth through a dark blond beard. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he lifted a hand and slid his hat back from his forehead. His torso appeared thick and strong beneath a black leather jacket also lined with sheepskin. Large, tan leather gloves covered his hands. His denim pants were faded across the crotch and ass, hugging every curve of his package.