Save a Horse

Save a Horse By J.D. Walker No. More. Cowboys. This was my new modus operandi. I’d had it with sexy, tight-assed hotties who winked in my direction, rode me like they were trying to round up stray cattle, then left me holding the lasso. I was over it. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t enjoyed myself with each and every last wrangler, brawler, cow puncher, and ranch hand out there. But I was a romantic, and had just turned forty. The luster of finding that perfect, monogamous cowboy—who still had his own teeth—was decidedly tarnished. He didn’t exist. And believe me, I’d tried to find him. First, there’d been Billy Joe Raintree from Montana when I’d turned twenty-one. He’d taken me out behind the bar where we’d met. The blow job he’d given had made me see other universes. After making my knees weak, he’d taken me to his RV—I was a pit stop on his way to a rodeo—and popped my cherry. It was love at first f**k. It didn’t last, and I was mildly heartbroken when he’d headed out of town before the sun rose the next morning. That was okay, though. I was grateful for the night we’d had together, and the world he’d introduced to me. A week later, Jeremiah Pinkett came roaring into my life. His body made me weak in the knees. Jeremiah was from Idaho and worked with sheep. He had arms and legs like boulders, and I was more than happy to be pinned by him, anywhere, anytime. The log between his legs had made my ass sing. That hookup had lasted a few days that time. See? I was improving. On it went. The longest “relationship” I’d had over the years was for six months. That had been Grover Vasquez, when I was in my thirties. But it had been more of a f**k buddy thing. Whenever I’d bring up the idea of being exclusive, Grover would f**k monogamy out of my head until I forgot my own name. All in all, in the nineteen years that I’d been sexually active and in search of my one-man cowboy, I’d washed out—every damn time. Was it because I’d wanted it too badly? At this point in my life, I just didn’t know anymore. Perhaps I was simply too starry-eyed to see the truth, but Daddy had always said that anything worth having required effort. Unfortunately, I’d expended a heck of a lot of that, to no avail. After passing out drunk in a bar—alone—on my fortieth birthday, I decided to face the truth: I was too old to go trolling, and s*x without love was for the young. Time to hang up those particular spurs.