Markwildyr.com, Post #213
The last time, we left Gary Hawthorne, our itinerant cowpoke known as Gabacho, heading back home aboard Slick, his flea-bitten gray gelding. When we last saw him, he was so frustrated he was talking to his horse about his sex life. That’s getting pretty bad, isn’t it?
GABACHO
IN WEST TEXAS
Two days later
things were getting so bad I was getting a hard-on just from rubbing against
the saddle every time Slick took a step. Judging from the last road sign I’d
seen, I was a good ten miles from the next little town. When I came across a
brook rushing beneath a bridge, I took Slick downstream, looking for a good place
to camp. It was only mid-afternoon, but I was going to have to do one of those
hand-jobs or else I’d shoot off in my britches sooner or later.
Quarter of a
mile downstream, I hauled Slick up short at the sound of singing. A pleasant
baritone doing a pretty good job with Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” The guitar
strumming was decent too. The voice got stronger as I went down the creek bed,
and finally a figure sitting on a big rock at streamside came into view through
the trees crowding the waterway. That’s the way you found water in this part of
the state… following any line of vegetation taller’n a clump of grass.
The kid
heard me coming, and even though he looked to be naked as a jaybird, he didn’t pay
me any mind. Slick came to a voluntary halt a dozen feet from the guy, who kept
on singing and strumming until he finished the song, a grin tugging at his lips
all the while.
I took
inventory while he wound down “Crazy.” Probably hadn’t seen his twentieth
birthday yet, kinda rangy, curly hair the color of ripe hay in the sunlight and
blue-green eyes that made me think of turquoise. The freckles across his nose
saved him from being beautiful, rendering him merely cute. And I’d been right.
He was naked, although the guitar covered his privates. My manhood took on
another couple of inches.
He strummed
the last note, and gave me a blinding smile. “Howdy. I’m Sol.”
“Gary,” I
responded. “Although everybody calls me Gabacho.”
“Guess you
could tag me that way too. It means a fair-skinned Anglo, doesn’t it?”
“Originally
used to describe a Frenchman, I think. But now applies to about anybody not Mexican.”
Sol tried to
look ashamed but didn’t pull it off. “Sorry for my condition, but I was skinny
dipping and felt the need for a song.” He lifted a chin toward me. “I see
you’re not too fond of clothes, either.”
I looked
down at my bare chest not quite covered by a vest. “When the weather’s right, I
never wear a shirt, but I like the vest to keep the sun off my back and
shoulders.”
“Looks good
on you.”
“Thanks. You
live around here?”
He nodded
back over his shoulder. “About a mile back that way. Live on a little spread
with my folks.”
“How’d you
get here?”
“Walked.
Sometimes when I’m done with my chores or have a day off, I grab my guitar and
walk up the creek. Hop down and rest a spell.”
Mindful of
my vow, I declined. “Looking for a camp site for the night.”
“This is a
good one, or there’s one about a tenth of a mile down the creek.”
I set my hat
firmly on my head, thanked him, and gouged Slick’s sides. He gave an
exaggerated grunt to let me know he didn’t like that and started downstream. Sol
picked out a new tune and filled the clearing with his melodic voice.
The kid had
been right. In a few minutes, I came across this spot where the grass looked as
if it had been mowed and the lilacs and violets ringing the place looked like
they’d been planted apurpose. The stream had broadened so it slowed a little,
giving off only a muted murmur, perfect for sleeping. The trees gave enough shade,
so the Texas sun didn’t have much sting. Perfect spot for me and my popup tent,
enough grass for Slick’s needs, and good drinking water. Couldn’t ask for much
more.
I unsaddled
Slick and let him wander over to the creek to slake his thirst. Didn’t bother
with the tent, just spread out the saddle blanket and parked my butt on it. I
rested my head on the saddle, pulled my hat down over my eyes, and took a
listen. Everything was like it oughta be. Birds chirping in the distance. A
squirrel fussing at me from a tree until he gave up trying to drive me off. The
sound of Slick tearing grass from the turf. The creek gurgling at me in soft,
restful tones.
I was
beginning to drowse until—dammit—I realized I didn’t hear the kid singing any
longer. And that made me think of the kid. And that made me think of his fair
flesh hiding all those muscles rolling underneath it. And that made me… horny.
Course, in my starved condition, it didn’t take much.
I felt my
old thing crawling around in my jeans and tried to ignore it, but I couldn’t. When
it was really struggling against the denim trying to get out, I gave up on a
nap. Might as well take care of business. That might even make the nap better.
The buttons
on my fly gave way without much trouble, and I reached inside. The touch of
flesh on flesh felt good. I closed my eyes tight and tried to imagine my horny
old hand was a petite gal’s fist fondling my privates. I don’t even remember
slipping my britches down, but when I peeped under my hat, they were around my
knees, and the hand on my dong wasn’t some cute little gal’s, but my own. Took
some of the feeling away, but I’d started and wasn’t in any mood to stop.
Then I heard
a branch snap.
I snatched my
hat from over my eyes and saw Sol standing at the tree line gawking. He had on
his boots, but his clothes were thrown over his shoulder, and his guitar was strapped
to his back. He was in the same sorta condition I was.
“You…you
need some help with that?” he asked after swallowing a couple of times.
“Naw. I’m
okay.”
“Man, you
look ready for business. I’ll do a good job for you.”
Oh, what the
hell!
“Sure, kid, come
on over.”
Well, once
again, it looks as if need overcame intentions. Wonder how the kid was?
Did Sol keep his promise to “do a good job for you?” If we meet Gabacho again
in the future, maybe he’ll let us know.
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
Email:
markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr
Now my
mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.
You have something to say, so say it!
See you later.
Mark
New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at
6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.
No comments:
Post a Comment