If you wish, you may think of me as The Cowboy....but only if you want.

I'm not saying this happened or anything, because...well, you'll see.

For Her Pleasure: Cowboys Go To the Lesbian Bar

She said, “I was raped and maimed when I was six years old.”

“Jesus lady, I only offered you a drink.”

The girl swerved her legs around the barstool. She was now trying to ignore The Cowboy, who had moved to the end of the bar and ordered, “Anything strong and cheap.” His right hand held a twenty, his left massaged the back of his drooped head. “Keep ‘em comin’.”

The Cowboy called the girl Blue Jeans before all this happened. He had said to his cowboy friends, “Look at that woman. Imma call her Blue Jeans.”

Sipping Budweiser through their grizzly mustaches or rubbing stubble on their chin, they had all looked up from the pool table and had narrowed their eyes contemplatively, staring mainly at her ass. All the while, the DJ played a song with only bass.

“Yessir,” The Cowboy's friends had said to him, “You oughta go up and talk to her.”
"What?" The Cowboy asked.
The Cowboy's friends repeated themselves louder, in order to be heard over the speakers.

Thinking it over carefully, The Cowboy eventually found this to be a good idea.


Now, it was just a matter of getting a drink or two and having a good time. “You know what I like,” he told the bartender. After taking his money, she went to work: she grabbed a shiny doubleshot glass from a stack beside the sink and sat it in front of The Cowboy; then she walked to the rail, which was on the other end of the bar. She grabbed a random bottle, examined the label and brought a bottle of Old Crow back to him. The Cowboy looked around. The bar wasn't crowded, but the dance floors above and to his back were.

The bartender filled the glass to the brim smiling and saying to The Cowboy, “It’s on the house.”
“Thank ya, darlin’,” he replied, putting his wallet away.

The Cowboy threw back his shot in one fluid advance. He wiped his lips and let the first pangs of taste settle in. Ah shit, he remembered, I forgot a condom.

He cursed himself and lit a cigarette. The smoke curled through the air, and The Cowboy followed it with the tip of his hat. He was fairly drunk now. Not sloppy drunk. He never got sloppy drunk. Just drunk enough to notice that Blue Jeans had found a mate: a tattooed woman with short, gelled, blonde hair. The Cowboy called her Maurice.


I wonder if she remembers me, he thought, then realized again that he had no protection. Only the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ knew what that woman had and our hero wasn't going to get Herpes from a one-night stand. Maybe after his marraige proposal, he'd do the real gentlemanly thing and take on a veneral disease just so that he could stay with his wife forever and ever. But not for Blue Jeans.

The Cowboy then remembered something important: bar bathrooms always had condoms. He had once even gotten a condom for a quarter in a gas station outside Dallas. It didn't break.

So, in light of his rediscovered knowledge, The Cowboy got up from the bar and walked in a straight line through the dance floor.

Once there were no condoms to be found, The Cowboy struck the shoddy bathroom mirror, which cracked at the point where his high school ring had made the first contact. "I guess I'll fuck her bareback" he said aloud as two other cowboys entered the bathroom, discussing how a four stroke engine might be improved.

Back to the bar, The Cowboy lit a cigarette. It was getting late and there was no sign of Blue Jeans this time. Maurice was gone, too.

Once The Cowboy had finished his cigarette, he flagged down the bartender and over the speakers instructed her, “One last shot.” He pointed to the ceiling to demonstrate his wishes.
The bartender put her hands on her hips, and mouthed “Only one?” She smiled.
The Cowboy grabbed an invisible steering wheel and screamed, “Yeah, I gotta drive home!”
She laughed and poured another shot.

Waiting for The Cowboy’s graceful movement of the shot glass to stop, The Bartender leaned over the bar, grabbed his shirt collar and said, “That’ll be twenty dollars.”

“Twenty dollars? For Christ sake I can’t afford that for this shot!”

“Pay it or get out and never come back, you fuckin' redneck.”

”Fine, goddamnit,” he said, smashing his ten-gallon hat on the wet bartop, “I’ll get you your twenty dollars.”

The Cowboy stood up and grabbed for his wallet. He unfolded the trifold and found nothing. He felt through its small, leather pockets. Yet again, he found nothing.

In a last ditch effort, The Cowboy overturned his wallet and shook it. He shook it, and shook it and shook it, until eventually a small, flat object floated out and landed on the bartop. “My money!” he said. “Here’s your goddamned twenty.”

As he forced his arm at the bartender, The Cowboy noticed the single, unused condom resting between his two, erect fingers.

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