The Cowboy's Dick: A Free Read

My mother was born with an extra finger on her right foot which made walking difficult and sometimes caused the Vietnamese girl who gave her pedicures to throw up in her mouth a little bit. It also gave her a unique perspective on life which included such amazingly deep perceptions such as, “Never add iron to your diet by eating a Chevrolet,” and “The quickest way to a man’s heart isn’t through his stomach but with a good boning knife that you spent the last week sharpening.”

Mom was a kick.

And that was why I was traveling on a dusty road in a dusty car drinking a Diet Dr. Pepper and contemplating my life.

After Mom’s exoneration and the media finally died down, I realized that Felix Huxtable Cosplay the First was not the fiancé for me and the life I was living was no longer fulfilling. The fact that Felix didn’t know me and that I was living in my step-father’s broom closet on the lower East Side of Pensawtucket wasn’t a deterrent. The fact that I was unhappy was.

I deserved happiness. I knew I did because every Diet Coke commercial I’d seen told me so as well as my part-time psychiatrist Dr. Elwright Copper-Penny.

“You deserve happiness,” Dr. Copper-Penny told me and indeed, I did.

So I decided to seek it. After all, happiness is one of those things that doesn’t just fall out the sky and hit you in the eye like pigeon poop. Women had to get their own… so said the cover of the self-help book I saw in the window at Elmo’s Peek-A-Boo World.

I was going to get my own.

Which was why I was in Dry Spit Montana staring at the sign on the feed store wall: Cook Wanted. 

I could cook. I was a well known chef in the circles I traveled (take a left and then another left and another left and a fourth left) and there was the same hot dog cart as where you started out. Good times.

I was going to get a job.

If I could figure out how I ended up in a feed store anyway as well as what was fed in such a store.

My journey had obviously started.

**

Author’s note: At this point which is 386 words unless I can find a few placed to add adjectives, I know I need to move the story along and get to the juicy parts. Since I’m a freaking terrible writer and am writing this only because I made a cover in Paint and decided to write a book to go with the cover and sell it at the price of $18.99 so I can pay off my bookie…

Let’s just pretend this makes sense, okay?

Now let me get a Valium and then continue.

**

“My name is Barbara Gordon.  (Editor’s note: A lawsuit from DC can only give this piece of shit some word of mouth.) I know how to make an omelet without breaking eggs, how to eat with chopsticks and these boobs are all natural.”

“Lady, I’m the gardener. You need to go up to the main house.”

I’d never seen a white gardener before. Imagine my confusion.

The main house was impressive in a log cabin, rustic way with a pig the size of my car lying in a patch of sun.

“Hi, my name is Barbara Gordon and I have a degree from Cordon Blue, Tavern on the Green and I read Catcher in the Rye. I have a hidden pair of testes and my nostrils are double jointed.”

“My name is Rusty and you’re hired.”

I didn’t know pigs could talk. Montana was amazing!

“That’s great. Can I have a raise yet? And a whisk. I love a good whisking.”

“I once had a dream that I was chased into a cavern by a whisk. But then it turned out to be my first girlfriend Enid Rosenblatz and the cavern was a car wash and then I woke up with pink eye.”

“You are amazing Mr. Pig. Do you have any spider friends? Is your name Wilbur?”

“My name is Rusty and I’m standing right behind you.”

I turned and saw the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. He was wearing faded jeans and a plaid shirt with ripped off arms so his muscular biceps had room to flex. A fine mat of brown hair covered him and he had a cowboy hat tilted cockily over a brown eye. The blue eye was hatless.

“You’re not a pig.”

“Neither are you Barbara Gordon.” (DC: send affidavits and legal paperwork to General Delivery, IDontKnowWhatImDoing, USA). 

“I can do a handstand.”

“Do it so I know what color underwear you’re wearing.”

Was he flirting with me? Did he like me? I was befuddled, bewildered and a little damp in the panties.

“Is it too soon to ask for a day off? My Grandmother died three years ago and I have to go to the funeral.”

“My grandmother died too.” Rusty walked over to me and took my hand in his. I felt a shock and then realized he was wearing a hand buzzer. “She got spotted elm disease and died thinking she was a glass of merlot. We casked her and served her at Thanksgiving the next year.”

His green eyes were the color of split pea soup. I could get lost in them.

“I’m your new cook,” I said, dazed.

“Barbara Gordon,” Rusty said, “We have 74 cowboys, two gardeners, a French maid from Italy and a visiting Swami. Dinner’s at five and if a train leaving the station interrupts a swallow’s fart on the L line, will Santa Claus have a wet dream in the Miami sand?”

“Only if he’s wearing board shorts,” I answered. 

Then I sobered. Who the hell eats at five?

**

Author’s note: This is the place in the story where I was under sincere obligation as a serious author to discover how ranches work, whether or not a French maid from Italy would eat Brussel sprouts and if a Swami could levitate.

Oh yeah, I’m not a serious author. Hell, I’m not even a serious person.

And while we’re on the subject, let me explain that I’m a grown woman who sleeps under a Batman blanket in a room decorated by a lovesick teenager with an anime obsession and this story is being written on a dare. My brother dared me not to and I’m just a contrary individual.

So I most sincerely did no Google searches, have Wikipedia-ed nothing and I have a fat Chihuahua on my lap telling me what to write.

And yes, there are pills for that. 

No, I don’t take them. If I did then the voices might stop talking to me and I’d be lonely.

Life is hard. Not as hard as reading this piece of shit but still…

**

“I couldn’t eat another drop,” Mimi Avante said. The French maid from Italy stood and all 153 eyes swiveled to her. 

“You drink drops,” I said standing also. 153 eyes turned my way.

“But with Cheerios for dinner, I ate the milk drops,” Mimi said and the eyes turned.

Drat. 

“I can play the bugle in Japanese,” I said and got 122 eyes. Mimi scowled.

The cowboys were a mostly smelly bunch, all of them named Pete. Except Rusty, who was named Rusty. And One-Eyed Pete although he was still named Pete, he just always looked like he was winking.

I had a feeling that Mimi the French maid from Italy might have also been operating her own special business since I saw seventeen of the Pete’s hand her money and one of the Pete’s crochet her a doily. 

Or they might have been tipping her.

I was too taken with Rusty to really notice anything. 

(There was an imported Chippendale’s table with a hidden drawer in the back holding stock certificates, a safe in the wall hidden behind a painting of pigs playing poker and under the loose floorboard by the buffet was an original Faberge egg with yolk still inside.)

“You’re a great cook, Barbara Gordon,” Rusty said wiping off his milk moustache. “Once you finish the dishes, join us at the campfire and we’ll sing authentic cowboy songs and someone might woo you.”

Dishes? I knew I forgot something.

**

After wrapping the dinner remains in tablecloths and throwing them outside the kitchen door, I followed the scent of sweaty cowboy to a clearing where Pete was rubbing two sticks together, Pete was strumming on a three stringed guitar, one eyed Pete had Mimi on his lap and Pete was canoodling with the pig.

“I once met a man who won the World Sneezing Competition,” I told Pete. 
 “Later found out he was allergic to his own hair. Since he had an unnatural fear of baldness, I believe he’s still sneezing.”

“I once dated Kevin Spacey,” Pete replied. “But he was going by the name Marie and had a tattoo of an avocado on his forearm.”

I nodded. I understood. 

It felt right.

“When my father was twelve,” said Rusty, stepping from behind a tree, “he decided to become a Russian scientist. Since he was a borderline idiot from the Midwest he decided to skip the easy stuff and instead tried selling secrets to Moscow. That’s why he’s now in jail. He sold them the real recipe for Diet Coke Minus Two.”

“You poor boy.” I wanted to comfort him by placing his face in my breasts and having him do things to them that caused me to tingle in my bikini covered areas.

“I was raised my Mama and a walrus she called Pierre,” Mimi said.

“That makes no sense,” I mumbled.

“Barbara Gordon,” (copywrite not mine) said Rusty holding out a hand, “I’d like to show you something special to me.”

My heart leapt like a fish in the sea. It fluttered like a butterfly. It tumbled down a bunch of rocks like a waterfall, splashing to the bottom and then sinking with a gurgle.

My heart was Marlin Perkins scoping out a couple of animals getting ready to mate.

He was really a sick fuck if you stop to think of it.

**

Author’s Note: In today’s romance market the best-selling books usually involve a little kink in the sex play. 50 Shades of Taking Your Money used whips and paddles. Ha. In my house we call that Sunday breakfast.

Any writer worth their salt (which is an interesting expression since everyone knows salt is made from dilithium crystals and Kool Aid) knows that great sex needs to be unrealistic, dry, and never be anything that anyone over the age of 23 or more than 10 pounds overweight can accomplish.

Book sex never leaves a wet spot.

Just to make things easy, here’s a short list of sex do’s and don’ts:

1.   Fisting is bad. Foam fingers are good.

2.   Animals are bad. Anteaters can be good.

3.   Two men and a woman can be good. A football team and a soccer mom can be even better.

4.   A little melted wax on the privates can be good. The whole candle shoved up an anus might be bad.

5.   If your Mother thinks it’s good, then it’s bad.

Okay, back to the story. Unless I can think of anything to save us from having to go there…

**

“All this land, up to out there when the shadows are, is mine,” Rusty said.

We were standing on a rock, the sun had set and I couldn’t see anything.

“Is that where the elephant graveyard is?”

“Only if you also want to get sued by Disney.” Rusty took my hand. “I feel something between us Barbra. A connection. Do you feel it too?”

“I thought that was just my IBS acting up. Would it change anything if I told you that I’m an heiress?”

“Are you?”

“No. But my brother promised me his comic book collection if he ever gets married.”

“Money doesn’t matter.” 

“It’s hard to buy things without it.”

“Love is cheap and usually easy.” Rusty tugged me to his side. “I’ll make you a promise Barbara. Whatever this thing is that’s between us, I’ll kill with my shotgun so nothing can get between us again.”

“Fine, I’m leaving,” Pete said. He jumped off the rock. “But we could have made it extra special.”

“I like him,” I said.

“More than me?” I heard the hurt little boy in Rusty’s question and I bled for him.

Wait. Was I getting my period? Talk about bad timing.

“We should join the others,” I said. “Plus I have to find the Corn Flakes for tomorrow’s breakfast. And the sheep guts for supper. I make a wonderful Sheep Gut and Pineapple casserole.”

“I could fall in love with you, Barbara Gordon.”

My insides tightened. Yup, my IBS was returning.

**

Living on a cattle ranch was different than my life in Jimmy’s broom closet. It smelled worse and there were cows. Big, mean looking cows who liked to loiter and stare at people unblinkingly while chewing.

They liked to chew.

The Pete’s liked to chew too. They spat tobacco everywhere, creating puddles I had to avoid so my kitten heels wouldn’t get stained.

But the average Pete’s I could handle. It was the big Pete who scared me out of my mind and left me quaking so hard I slipped out of my heels and trembled in spittle.

Big Pete the bull. THE BULL.

I didn’t dream that a cattle ranch would have big, mean bulls. Well, one bull. Pete the bull.

And Pete hated me. Most of the other Petes liked me and one or two of them liked me even more than that if my ransacked underwear drawer was proof.

**

Author’s note: I had a delicious quinoa and kale salad for dinner and now I’m snarfing chocolate cookies that I keep hidden in my bedroom. I don’t really hide things in my bedroom from the health nuts I live with but those things that might be considered hidden are unsurprisingly, chocolate.

Anyway, at this point in the story I need to go into the workings of a ranch and how bulls have their sperm collected for artificial insemination but the thing is… I was looking up bulls on the internet and saw a picture of a bull dick and almost had to change the title of this story.

Those things are made into canes, they’re so long! And the sac is even worse. A bull sac could house a small band of pygmies. Hell, they look like a damned hammock hanging from the animal. We could curl up and nap in bull sac.

It’s no wonder they artificially inseminate cows because that thing would have to hurt! Jay-sus. When someone tells you that size matters, find them a nice bull dick and ask if that’s big enough.

This is why you never see a smiling cow. Just saying.

Okay, back to our story in progress.

**

“We need Pete jism,” I heard Rusty say.

“You could just shake Marie,” I volunteered. “It should come flying out.”

“Wrong Pete, sweetheart. We need bull semen,” Rusty explained. 

Oh. Well.

“The thing is,” Rusty explained, “we don’t leave the cows and bull to mate on their own because they might never get around to it. Plus they always ruin the mattresses. What we need to do is get the semen direct from Pete and inseminate the cows ourselves.”

“How do you do that?”

“Usually a little soft lighting and romantic music sets the mood.”

Looks like Pete and I had something in common.

“The other thing that helps,” said Rusty thoughtfully, “is something for old Pete to concentrate on. Like bull porn but more three D.”

He looked at me. Intently.

“Hey! These are only double D’s I’ll have you know.”

“It doesn’t matter to me Barbara. You’re perfect even without that extra D.”

That sweet cowboy knew all the right things to say.

**

So that was how I found myself standing out in the pasture wearing a pretty, red peignoir and giving big Pete the bull a come hither look. 

Rusty and three toed Pete were sneaking up behind, holding catchers mitts and turkey basters. It was a professional way of doing it, Rusty promised me, and I knew he was incapable of lying.

“Hey handsome.” I cocked my hip and smiled seductively. “Bet you’ve never had a woman who could do three backflips without ever moving. Did you see that? I just did it. I can also spit in two directions at once and I know all the words to the Star Spangled Banner in pig latin.”

I could see Pete’s interest grow, which wasn’t the only thing growing. 

I saw Rusty’s encouraging smile and I kept going.

“I once watched a baseball game in the middle of winter before a realized it was a snowball fight. My father was a well-known French resistance fighter even though he was a pacifist who’d never been overseas. I learned to play xylophone using my feet but lost the skill after my first pedicure.”

Pete chuffed and lowered his head. His gaze never left mine and I felt a strange excitement I’d never felt before.

“I lost my virginity on the Staten Island ferry but found it later on a return trip. My sixth grade science teacher became my eighth grade boyfriend but it was okay because it was on the curriculum. I once watched two baby penguins play at the zoo for over an hour until I realized I was watching plastic bags in the breeze.”

Pete roared. Rusty was only one step away from him but it was too far when Pete charged.

I screamed.

Then I screamed three more times.

First when he started.

Then when I thought he was going to kill me with his dick.

Then when he didn’t and oh my God, I came so hard I saw stars. Although why Matt Damon and Ben Affleck appeared when I orgasmed, I’ll never know.

When Rusty and three toed Pete finally dragged my limp body from under big Pete my life had changed forever.

I married Rusty and demanded big Pete as my wedding gift. I continued to cook for all the other Pete’s and even though it cost a mint in dinnerware, I still did the dishes.

Big Pete never frightened me again. In fact, every time Rusty said it was collection time my life was unexpectedly bright. I did love helping my husband collect the goods to impregnate the cows.

Although I never did walk quite normal ever again.