A Weakness for Cowboys

K&D Designs

Naples, Florida

2:42 P.M. June 3, 20—

“Who are you looking at?” I asked the tall, dark, and handsome cowboy standing next to me at the urinal. We both had our cocks out, pissing. “I know you’ve been watching me.” It was a little thrilling flirting with him here, at work.

“There’s a lot to watch,” he said.

I eyed his silhouette against the aqua-tiled wall—about six-two, 200 pounds, broad shoulders, cut jaw, stubble on his cheeks and chin, flat stomach, thick black hair, and black eyes. He wore tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a Stetson the color of rawhide. The guy was about my age, I guessed, thirtyish. He was Cord Darringer. I knew he owned the belt-buckle business called Buckling Broncos, and he was in Naples for only three days. In truth, I could see him riding bulls, feeding chickens, and tending a ranch. I knew that Naples, Florida, was the farthest thing from his world. He was a country boy inside and out, all the way: pure beef who liked hard work and never let his guard down enough to consider a city fag like me.

“You’re a rare breed,” I said, focusing on his tight ass. He certainly wasn’t from my neighborhood of sandy beaches, sky-reaching palm trees, scurrying crabs, and suntanned lifeguards. Frankly, I was hard for his rough nature and indisputable charm. The guy was rugged for all the right reasons in my hungry opinion, and he hadn’t been shy about watching me since his arrival from Tulsa, Oklahoma, three days ago.

“How am I a rare breed?” he asked. He was still pissing, holding his cock.

“Look at you,” I said in a bit of a condescending tone. “You’re rock-hard perfect. The sexiest cowboy in this city. Of course you’re a rare breed.”

“I thought I was the onlycowboy in this city,” he said, winking at me while managing to look totally butch, and gave his junk a firm shake. He checked me out from head to toe: blond hair and topaz-blue eyes, five-eleven, 165 pounds of muscle from my daily swim in the ocean, a tiny scar along the right side of my mouth

a small accident with a Swiss Army knife when I was ten years old

, clean shaven, no pimples. No baggage. “You’re not so bad, either, if I can say so, Bradley.”

Of course he knew me. He’d been watching me greedily for the last three days. He probably knew everything about me: where I liked to buy my morning cup of coffee, whom I’d last dated, where I lived, what my favorite color was. Hell, he probably had a notebook titled The Secrets of Bradley Hulland studied it like his financial reports.

I ignored his comment and said, “Maybe you arethe only cowboy along the Coast. Maybe not. I really don’t know. But I do know this: I like to look at your beef.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were flirting with me, pal.” He was performing, turning my way, showing his six-inch cut cock, his spirals of onyx-black pubic hair, and a glimpse of his hard abs fuzzed over with fine, charcoal-black hair that I found delectable.

I watched him buckle up his goods and head to the vessel sinks on the opposite wall. The view of his ass pleased me. He turned the faucet and asked, “You like cowboys, don’t you?”

“I’ve never turned one down,” I said, telling the truth. Cowboys were my weakness. Whether they were from Kansas, Colorado, or Oklahoma, it really didn’t matter. Give me a rugged man in denim, a Stetson hat, and maybe a Buckling Broncos belt buckle, and I was bound to fall on my knees and have my way with him—with, or maybe without, his permission. I’d bedded Land Barker, a rodeo champion, at his Topeka ranch for three years. There was Jax Temple, a smooth, quiet man who owned a horse ranch in Colorado. I’d accidentally bumped into all six-foot-two of him in his home city while buying my first cowboy hat, then I bumped into his pale bottom a number of times with my eight-inch cock. So, no, I never turned down a cowboy. And to tell the truth, if he offered, I wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity to share some man-on-man time with Cord Darringer.

I watched him as he washed his hands in steamy water, pumping globs of cum-like soap out of the dispenser. He asked, “How much do you know about me, Bradley?”

“Less than you know about me.”

He turned the spigot off and grabbed some paper towels. He said, “Let’s play a little game, what do you say?”

“I thought we were already playing a game.” I was at the sink now, at his right side. My hands lathered the soap in my smooth, office-boy palms.