Even Cowboys Practice

Stockton County, Oklahoma

Glock Ranch, Cabella Hall

June 4, 20—

7:38 P.M.

“You may now kiss the groom,” Pastor Tag Fellow said with a wide grin that glinted Hollywood-cowboy style.

Two exciting events occurred then: one, the crowd of twenty-seven applauded and cheered with relentless bursts of glee; two, Gray McKeever leaned into my pretty-boy face with his country-boy-charming one, and applied his lips to mine, bringing us to a state of bliss.

More applause rose through the reception hall, which was on the west side of Gray’s vast Glock Ranch. Although we were just in jeans and shirts for the run-through of our wedding, the guests threw their cowboy hats and yelped as loudly as they could. They whistled as the applause grew even thicker.

Gray’s kiss was mind-exploding and crotch-moving. Our heads were tilted and our mouths aligned in the perfect public display of affection for our guests, and we enjoyed our tenderness and their attention. Not once before had a cowboy knocked me off my feet with his kisses. But when Gray kissed me, the earth stopped spinning and euphoria jolted through me, numbing my system. Then elation bubbled in me, offering me satisfaction and pure bliss.

When the kiss ended, the crowd didn’t calm down in the slightest. I reached for Gray’s massive hand, took it within my own, turned to our guests with the brawny man at my side, and heard Pastor Tag say behind us, “may I present the newly wedded Mr. Gray McKeever and Mr. Dixon Pierce.” Gray and I then walked through the lines of chairs and smiling guests, listening to more yelps and applause, and exited the reception hall as almost-husbands, just as planned.

* * * *

Not even five minutes later, when we walked back into Cabella Hall, I was back to earth enough to notice my surroundings: the room was about five thousand square feet with two bathrooms and a kitchen at its rear; ten

five on each side of the building

stained-glass windows with a rodeo cowboy theme designed by Marcus Wilson decorated the walls; eight circular tables of five each ranged the oak floor; rugged-looking wagon-wheel lights hung from the sixteen-foot-high ceilings; a wooden garden arch before the tables where we had practiced our service only minutes before.

Pastor Tag hugged us both immediately, saying, “you two did an amazing rehearsal. Just remember that practice makes perfect.”

“I was extremely nervous,” Gray admitted, winking at me.

“That’s natural. You’re supposed to be nervous,” Pastor Tag shared, beaming his Marc Harmon grin. He patted my lover on the back. Then he said, “your wedding is six weeks away. If time permits, we’ll practice once more at a second gathering with your close friends, and I’m sure some of your jitters will go away, Gray.”

“How are you feeling, Dixon?” Gray turned his attention to me and asked in his country-boy drawl—always deep and erotically pleasing.

“Like I’m already married and the happiest man alive to be your husband.”

We kissed again: melting together, lips in motion, heated passion that only faux newlyweds could share. We pulled apart, grinning lustily, and realized that we had become an erotic one-act play, making a spectacle of our pleasure.

We laughed the moment off. And Pastor Tag did also, even though I was quite sure he felt uncomfortable because of his high morals.

We enjoyed a festive dinner with our closest friends, sharing laughter, a few champagne toasts, and many more kisses.

* * * *

Gray and I escaped to the small bathroom—one toilet, one urinal, and lots of mirrors. We primped our hair, kissed in private as much as we wanted to, and admired each other with sexual delight. We relished the privacy. Who didn’t want to be alone with their future husband, right?

Frankly, I never had a problem looking at Gray McKeever. He could have been a Hollywood cowboy with his good looks: twenty-eight years old, blond crew cut, Cancun-blue eyes, six feet tall, 200 pounds of muscle, minor crinkle along the right side of his nose from a high school football injury, and blond stubble on his cheeks and chin. And under his denim jeans and cotton shirt, I knew he sported a hairless chest of cut muscle, strawberry-colored nipples that were usually iron-hard, and a nine-inch cock that was perfectly cut and showed off a plump helmet. The guy was model-perfect hot with an edge. He was rough, wild, and exactly who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Not once did I question why I intended to marry the man. Not only was he independent, a professional, and intelligent, but he could rock my world with his kisses—among other man-with-man activities.