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."
