The Cowboy Poet (3 page)

He reached down to find Tyler‘s cock, which had hardened, despite the recent orgasm. As his hand closed over the rigid shaft, he heard a groan and realized it was his own. How long had it been since he‘d felt this way with someone new? His mind flickered and stuttered as if losing its signal, and he gave himself at last fully to what his body was experiencing. He thrust into Tyler, holding him in place and riding him hard.
He pulled Tyler‘s cock in time to his own savage, primal thrusts. He wanted to slow down, to be gentler, but his body would not listen or obey. He almost thought he could hear the roar of the avalanche of his impending orgasm, gathering force as it prepared to tumble through him.
Oh god, Tyler cried. I‘m coming. Oh… His spasms dragged Clint over the edge, his body shaking with seismic force as he shuddered and moaned into Tyler‘s neck.
He fell back against the mattress, their sweat-slick bodies separating. Tyler at once curled into him, resting his head against Clint‘s chest. Clint drifted a moment, or was it longer…? When his heart had slowed enough to where he could catch his breath and regain the use of his muscles, Clint reached down, stroking the wet, matted hair from Tyler‘s damp forehead.
Tyler opened his eyes, staring up at Clint with such naked adoration that, had Clint been the blushing kind, he would have colored to the tips of his ears. Leaning up slightly, Tyler kissed Clint‘s chin and smiled the smile of a baby drunk on mother‘s milk. A feeling of overwhelming tenderness swept through Clint, leaving him, for that brief moment, utterly defenseless.
Thank you, Tyler whispered, so softly Clint wondered if he‘d only imagined it. He experienced a sudden sense of loss. It had been far too long since he‘d felt that eager puppy spark, either in himself or from another. When had he traded in the promise of that kind of wild, powerful love for a life of satisfied, placid contentment?
Clint realized with a jolt that, if things had gone according to plan, he would be in the arms of his familiar, tried and true old friend and sometimes lover, as comfortable as an old quilt, and about as exciting. These poetry festivals and readings, away from the ranch and his usual life, were a good opportunity for a little stolen sweetness, but in the end, that‘s all it was.
Was this time different? He knew it was crazy even to speculate. And yet the aching tenderness for the young man cradled in his arms still lingered. Something in Tyler called to him like a lone coyote‘s howl, plaintive and filled with longing.
Would he be able to break through the walls Tyler had erected between himself and his desires?

Okay, we‘re good to go. The owner says you can leave your car here at the honkytonk over the next few days. Everything all set on your end? Clint slid back into the booth seat opposite Tyler, who was sipping coffee, his runny eggs and sausage patties barely touched. Beneath the smell of bacon grease remained the lingering odor of stale beer and whiskey from countless nights of cowboys and ranchers kicking back at the end of a long day. The bar doubled as a diner by day and while the food wasn‘t terribly good, it was cheap, and the coffee was hot and fresh.

Yeah. I got the go-ahead from my editor to follow the story. I really appreciate the chance to tag along. To hear the two of them talk, one might have supposed they were casual acquaintances. The heat and passion they‘d shared the night before was cloaked by the long-ingrained habit of keeping their true feelings and orientation close to the vest—a survival instinct as natural to most gay men in rural Texas as breathing.

Glad for the company, Clint said, winking, and then grinning at the shy, flustered smile his wink produced. Clint eyed the younger man over the rim of his mug. He was fresh scrubbed from their shared shower, his hair still damp, his cheeks freshly shaved. He looked even younger than his thirty years, though he looked tired. Which was understandable, as Clint had kept him up half the night, unable to keep his hands off the boy.

It had been so long, too long, since he‘d connected not only physically, but mentally with someone. When Tyler had knelt at his feet, his eyes lowered and his face flushed, the need to submit had shone from him like a light, its beacon calling Clint out of selfimposed darkness that had gone on for too long.

When Tyler had licked down Clint‘s leg, stopping to kiss and explore the scar with such reverence and innocent adoration, something had snapped with a kind of sweet pain in Clint‘s heart.

Again Clint found himself wondering, as he had the night before, when that shinynew possibility of love had slipped away from the realm of his day-to-day life. Had he ever been as eager and desperately excited as Tyler had been the night before?

And yet beneath the excitement, or perhaps overlaying it like a blanket tossed over a campfire, something had held Tyler back.
I’m not into that stuff,
was all he would say, but Clint could hear the unspoken murmur of the back story beneath those few cryptic words.

While he didn‘t sense that Tyler had major issues with being gay, it was the submissive aspect that had him troubled. Was Clint the man to teach him otherwise? Did he even want to? After all, his love life, if not exactly tilt-o-whirl exciting, was steady and comfortable, a known quantity. Did he really want to upset the balance he‘d created over the years?

Even as these practical, rational thoughts entered his head, Clint felt himself rejecting them. For what is life without risk? If you never reached for a thing, how could you hope to capture it? Mentally, Clint shook his head, all too aware of his hankering after foolish dreams. He reached for the slightly burned toast on his plate, smeared some peach jam over it and took a crunchy bite.

Pushing aside for the moment his boyish dreams, he tried to apply cold, rational analysis to just what was going on between them, if anything. They‘d shared one night of hot sex. Tyler had expressed an interest in coming along on Clint‘s informal investigation of the missing bull semen tanks, and that, he tried to pretend, was that. They would spend a few days traveling over the West Texas plains, checking out the ranches and farms that had reported thefts to see what they could find out. In a few days Tyler would return to Austin, Clint would return to Ransom Canyon and the quiet, easy life he‘d created for himself, and each would fade into the other‘s memory like a sweet, half-forgotten dream.

Was that what he wanted? Would he enter his forties already acting like an old man with nothing left to explore or discover? Here sat the sexiest, most exciting guy to cross his path in years, maybe ever, and he was acting like things were over before they‘d barely had a chance to begin. Since when did Clint Darrow give up before the bull was even out of the chute?

The waitress, a petite woman in a tight pink waitress uniform, set the bill on the table. Y‘all don‘t be strangers, hear? She patted Clint on the shoulder and Clint offered a distracted smile. Both men reached for their wallets at the same time, reminding Clint of the old westerns on TV where the hero and the villain reach for their guns, each determined to draw first.

Tyler was quicker, his hand covering the slip of paper as he said, I got it. Expense account. The magazine will pay the tab. Clint could see by the look in his eye and the set of his jaw that Tyler was bound and determined to get the check, as if by doing so he was proving some unspoken point. Clint shrugged and pushed his wallet back into his pocket as Tyler withdrew some bills and placed them on the table.

They stood, each taking a last sip of coffee. Guess we‘ll get this show on the road, Clint said, though as he glanced at Tyler, the tug in his loins told him he‘d rather go back to the motel room instead and pick up where they‘d left off.

Where we headed first? Tyler asked, as they climbed into either side of the truck cab.
Blake‘s place is closest. It‘s about two hours from here, give or take.
They were quiet for a while as Clint maneuvered out of the parking lot and began to drive down the county road. Eventually Tyler pulled out his digital cassette recorder and continued the interview for the festival. Clint answered as best he could, the thought that he‘d be featured in some slick magazine amusing to him and also, if he were honest, kind of exciting.
They listened to the radio for a while. Hoping to draw Tyler out some, Clint said, You mentioned you was raised on a ranch in these parts. You still got family here?
Double S Horse Ranch, bout fifty miles south of here. My father owns and runs the place. For a while I thought I‘d want to take it over someday.
Something in Tyler‘s tone warned Clint to back off, but he persisted. I‘ve heard of that ranch. Got a good reputation. So what made you change your mind?
When Tyler didn‘t answer, Clint glanced away from the road, taking in the hunch of Tyler‘s shoulders and scowl on his face. Switching tacks, he said, You must a gone to college to be workin‘ for a big magazine like
Lone Star Monthly
, with an expense account and all.
College isn‘t always what it‘s cracked up to be, but yeah, I went. Got a degree in animal science from A&M, with a minor in journalism. Good thing, it turns out. He gave a bitter laugh.
So your leavin‘ wasn‘t entirely your decision…? Clint let the question hang.
If you don‘t mind, I‘d rather not talk about all that just now. If it‘s just the same to you. Tyler‘s voice was tight, and Clint regretted his probing.
Sure, no problem. Clint focused on the road, feeling something inside close up just a little bit. He should have known better than to press.
They arrived at Blake‘s place by late morning. Clint had met Seth Blake on a number of occasions, along with his wife, Mary. He‘d called ahead to ask if he could stop by and now Mary, a tall willowy woman in her late fifties came out of the farm house, wiping her hands on a large apron that covered her T-shirt and shorts.
Howdy Clint, she said. You‘re looking fine as ever.
Clint smiled. Nice to see you, Mary. This here‘s Tyler Sutton, a friend of mine all the way from Austin.
Mary smiled at Tyler, inclining her head in welcome. It‘s right nice to meet you. Turning to Clint, she added, How‘s Joe and Tildy? I‘ve been meaning to have them over to supper one of these days but time just gets away from a body.
Clint filled her in on the health of his boss and the boss‘s wife and they exchanged other small talk for a while about mutual acquaintances. Finally Mary said, Seth‘s out at the milking barn. He said to go on back when you got here.
Clint nodded his thanks and the two of them walked along the path toward the barns, the pungent smell of cow manure and fresh cut hay wafting toward them in the warm air. Seth was in with his dairy cows. He was a large man with plenty of weight around his middle and ruddy complexion.
Clint Darrow! he exclaimed, stepping out of the barn and moving toward them as he wiped a bandana over his sweating brow. Good to see you again, buddy. It‘s been too long. They shook hands and Clint introduced Tyler.
They exchanged small talk about the price of milk, the state of ranching and innocuous gossip about mutual friends before Clint ventured to the reason he‘d come. I was talkin‘ to Hoss Johnson and Jared Smith over at Jack‘s honky-tonk last night. They mentioned you were one of the folks as had some bull semen go missing. We had a pretty significant theft back at our place a few days back. I thought, seein‘ as I was in the area, I‘d come check it out. See if we could maybe piece together some kind of pattern.
It was the damnedest thing! Seth knitted his brow, his face clouding. I‘ve been in the cattle business for nigh on thirty years and I ain‘t never had nobody steal bull semen before. It‘s not like our semen is even valuable. Just basic seed to keep my cows breeding when we don‘t have a bull handy. I might not have even noticed it was missin‘, except Doc Crawford was here the other day to do a regular check and he noticed one of the cows was showin‘ signs of goin‘ into heat. I went to fetch one of the liquid nitrogen canisters and damn if two of them hadn‘t gone missin‘. Them canisters don‘t come cheap neither.
The three of them talked for a while about the possibilities, speculating what might have happened. Seth tried to think if there‘d been any mysterious strangers prowling round the ranch lately, but came up with nothing. Tyler scribbled on his notepad and Clint found himself hoping they‘d solve this mystery, not just to recover the stolen property, but so Tyler would have a good story for his magazine.
A bell began to ring, the kind used in old one-room school houses to call the children in from recess. Seth looked toward the house. Day starts at dawn. We eat early round here. I hope you got time to join us for lunch.
Clint glanced at his watch. It was a little past eleven. Though they weren‘t really on any schedule, Clint had to admit to himself he felt possessive of his time with Tyler, not certain how much longer they had together. He didn‘t want to spend an extra moment in the company of others, except as it pertained to the investigation. We got a kind of late start, he said, smiling apologetically. If we‘re goin‘ to cover more ground before nightfall, we best be movin‘ on. Tyler nodded his agreement, which pleased Clint, though he warned himself not to assume it meant anything.
Suit yourself. Seth patted his ample gut. More for me. Mary makes a mighty fine brisket.
The three of them walked back to the house, where Mary, too, tried to get them to stay for the midday meal. They again declined politely, but accepted the sandwiches she insisted on making them for the road.
Along the highway Clint pulled in at a gas station and filled the truck‘s tank while Tyler waited in the cab, checking his cell phone voice mail, since reception was spotty out in the country. Clint went inside to pay and came out with a small Styrofoam cooler he‘d stocked with ice and soda. He put the cooler on the floor by Tyler‘s feet, keeping out two bottles. He held one of the bottles toward Tyler. Thirsty?
Tyler took the bottle, examining it with a low, appreciative whistle. Dr. Pepper, huh? I grew up on this stuff. I haven‘t seen glass bottles like this in years.
Clint smiled back. You got to know where to look. He held up a bottle, the oldfashioned eight-ounce kind, the thick glass tinted green. Best soda on the planet earth. Puts all others to shame.
Where we headed now? Tyler asked, as he twisted open his bottle.
Harding Ranch is a couple hours from here. I figured we could stop for lunch somewhere along the way. Take our time. He glanced at Tyler, enjoying the sight of his Adam‘s apple bobbing as he tipped the bottle and drank. Tyler was wearing a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled just below the elbow, several buttons open to reveal his chest, smooth save for a light down of golden-blond hair.
They listened to country music, keeping the conversation light, though a steady, undeniable sexual tension hummed between them right along with the torque of the truck engine.
After about an hour, Clint pointed toward a sign that indicated a rest area. The area contained a small cement building with restrooms and vending machines behind which there was copse of trees with picnic tables scattered beneath it.
The parking lot contained a few cars and trucks, as well as some eighteen-wheelers. Folks were seated at various tables enjoying their lunches. A few children were running between the trees, laughing and calling to each other.
After they used the facilities, Clint and Tyler settled at an empty table, seating themselves on opposite sides. They ate their sandwiches, neither saying much. The day had been cloudy, and getting more so as the afternoon progressed, the heavy fat underbellies of the clouds darkening with potential rain.
The clouds parted for a moment, a shaft of sunlight penetrating the foliage overhead, illuminating Tyler‘s features in soft, buttery gold. He glanced up at Clint at that moment, a tentative smile moving over his lips and Clint realized he was smiling too, just for the sheer pleasure of looking at the handsome man sitting across from him. His cock was apparently appreciating the view as well; he could feel it lengthening, the balls tightening beneath it.
A twinge of pain moved through his knee and he shifted as a sudden, deliciously evil idea moved into his head. Extending his leg, he said, I need to stretch out a bit. He positioned his leg so that his booted foot rested between Tyler‘s legs on the bench. He pressed the sole of his boot lightly against Tyler‘s bulge.
Hey! Tyler said, his eyes skittering from side to side at the people nearby. No one was close enough to overhear them, or really see what was going on beneath the table, but Clint could sense Tyler‘s sudden panic.
He offered a slow smile. Tyler started to pull back, but Clint‘s words stopped him. You stay put, boy. I‘m just restin‘ my bum leg. He pressed harder, the point of his boot digging into Tyler‘s crotch. A flush had started up Tyler‘s cheeks and his hands were clenched in fists on the table, but he didn‘t move.
He glanced around, swiveling his head as he swallowed nervously. Focus on me, Clint admonished gently. Only on me. Forget about them other folk. They don‘t exist. Tyler turned his head back toward Clint. His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated and he‘d caught his lower lip between his teeth. Clint could feel Tyler‘s agitation, and his excitement.
I want you hard, Clint told him. Is your cock hard, boy?
Tyler nodded, swallowing again.
Speak up, boy. I didn‘t hear you. Clint pressed harder against Tyler‘s crotch. Tyler winced but didn‘t pull away.
Yeah, Tyler managed.
Clint nodded. He kept his foot there, watching the conflict of emotions move over Tyler‘s face. He both liked and didn‘t like what Clint was doing to him. The fact he was staying put said more than any protests could have.
Satisfied, Clint let his leg fall. He stood, grabbing their trash and the empty soda bottles. Let‘s go.
I can‘t. Not quite yet.
Clint suppressed a smile, pretending he didn‘t understand. Sure you can. Just stand up and walk. Easy as pie.
Tyler‘s flush darkened. I can‘t. Folks will see…
Clint laughed, a small, low growl of mirth. You think too much of yourself, boy. Ain‘t nobody lookin‘ at you but me. And I like what I see. Very much. So move that hot ass of yours to the truck. Now. He added steel to his tone, the same steel he used when admonishing some lazy ranch hand.
Tyler stood, the bulge at his crotch leaving no doubt as to his state of arousal. They walked toward the truck, Clint taking his time, Tyler moving quickly in front of him. Once back in the cab, Clint started the engine and eased the truck out of its parking spot in front of the restrooms. Instead of driving back out onto the highway, he rolled the truck down to the back of the rest area, parking it beside a clump of bushes, partially obscured by two large dumpsters. They were mostly hidden from view, though it was still public enough to add a hint of danger to what Clint had in mind.
Why‘re we parking here? Tyler asked, glancing nervously around them.
Clint didn‘t answer. He reached into the cooler and pulled out an icy cold bottle of Dr. Pepper. Idling the engine, he turned to face Tyler. Open your zipper and pull out that hard cock for me.
Tyler hesitated, licking his lips.
Go on, Clint urged. Do what I tell you.
He waited for the protest, but was pleased when, instead, Tyler shifted, lifting his hips as he unzipped his jeans. He reached into the fly of his underwear and pulled out the rigid shaft, glancing nervously out the windows.
Someone‘s gonna see, he murmured anxiously.
You let me worry about that. You just look at me and do what I say. Tyler was breathing a little too fast and again his lower lip was caught between his teeth, but he didn‘t argue. He locked eyes with Clint. Clint could feel his fire, which matched Clint‘s own.
Sit on your hands, Clint ordered. And keep em there, no matter what I do. You hear?
Tyler nodded, sliding his hands beneath his thighs, his cock bobbing at his groin. Clint reached for him, pressing his fingers in past the cotton of Tyler‘s underwear. He cupped and gently yanked Tyler‘s balls out of his underwear.
Jesus, Clint, Tyler groaned. Someone‘s gonna see.
Shh, Clint replied. He fondled Tyler‘s balls and cock, his own cock pressing hard against his jeans. Close your eyes.
Tyler waited a beat before obeying, but then his eyes fluttered shut, thick golden lashes shadowing his cheekbones. Taking the cold bottle of soda, Clint pressed it against Tyler‘s cock and balls.
Tyler gasped, his eyes flying open. What the fuck…? His protest was belied by the fact that he stayed in position, hands firmly beneath his legs. The state of his cock was telling as well, still hard as bone.
Take it for me, boy. It‘s what I want. Sufferin‘ is good for the soul. Suffer for me. Tyler shuddered as Clint moved the cold glass over his cock and balls, but still he stayed in position.
Clint moved the bottle away, reaching for Tyler‘s shaft with his hand. He gripped it and pulled upward, drawing a groan from Tyler‘s lips. He played with Tyler‘s cock, alternating between the cold bottle and the hot, tight grip of his hand. Pushing the cooler lid aside, he grabbed a handful of ice and held it for several seconds before dropping it. When he cupped Tyler‘s balls with his freezing fingers, Tyler winced and drew in a sharp breath, jerking upright.
Clint kept his icy fingers on Tyler‘s balls while he stroked him with the other hand until Tyler fell back limp against the seat, his breathing ragged, his chest heaving. I want you to come for me, Clint told him. Somebody might come by. Somebody might see you. That don‘t matter a lick, you hear? You‘re gonna come for me because that‘s what I want, and more important, it‘s what you want. You showed me last night with your actions that you were born to serve, no matter how much you tried to deny it with your words, and now I‘m goin‘ to prove it to you.
Clint pulled his hand away long enough to spit on his fingers and reached again for Tyler‘s shaft, gliding up and down with a firm, steady stroke. Tyler responded with muffled grunts and sighs, arching his body toward Clint‘s hand, his own hands still pinned beneath him. Jesus, Clint, he murmured. I‘m gonna come.
Good. That‘s what I want, Clint answered. Clint placed the still cold glass bottle against Tyler‘s balls as he continued to stroke his cock.