I surprise Jobe by stopping at The Ranch, a gay cowboy bar in downtown Pittsburgh. The place is kicking with cowboys, city men, and country music. There’s line dancing and bull riding. The bar area is shaped like a horse shoe, packed shoulder to shoulder with men. The bartender looks like Blake Shelton: all smiles and somewhat sexy-rough. It’s probably the only bar with straw on the floor and upright fences.
There are far too many cowboy hats and plaid shirts to count. Men dance, talk, laugh, and just seem to have a good time in the place, relaxing. I see more beer bottles in hands than I can count. Some of these drinking men hang out in the shadowy corners, making out: unbuttoning shirts, pinching n*****s, palms gliding over denim-covered erections, and all the important whatnots of the
