You precede me up the stairs to the bedrooms I keep for rent above the saloon, and I can tell from the sag in your shoulders and the unusual lack of spring in your step that you have *really* been ridin' hard and steady for a long time.You precede me up the stairs to the bedrooms I keep for rent above the saloon, and I can tell from the sag in your shoulders and the unusual lack of spring in your step that you have *really* been ridin' hard and steady for a long time. The curve of your fine ass in those dark brown rawhide trousers--dusty, worn, fragrant-- reminds me of past pleasures and my need to renew them. I'm more concerned right now, however about taking care of your trail fatigue and enjoying one solid night of quiet old-buddy lovemaking. I know that tomorrow your animal spirits will be back and there'll be hell to pay with complete, continual uproar, but tonight is ours. When we reach the head of the stairs, I gesture to the big room at the end of the hall, through which you can see my sturdy four- poster. When we enter, you look around and give a tired smile at the things you find...my old, familiar saddlebag hanging on a peg, an indian blanket we used many times, the books, pipes, guns, bottles you've come to expect around me, and on the wall in a frame, the badge I gave up wearin' after I hadda shoot down that last young stud who challenged me to a senseless duel, long after the last time you saw me. And then your eye falls on the bedside washstand, where--next to the pitcher and basin--a tintype in a leather case shows two smilin' boy-men staring stiff with pride in their new-grown whiskers and store-bought suits. The younger one, you, sits with a bowler hat in hand (the camera man had to loan it to you) and knees apart, a view that guy with the camera knew would please much and often, later, even if his subjects hadn't yet caught on. |