By Neil S. Plakcy
Copyright 2013 Neil S. Plakcy
“Are you a real cowboy?”
The cute, blond twink leaned up against the bar next to me.
“Used to be,” I said.
“Really? I think cowboys are sexy as hell.” He arched his back and turned his head sideways so I could see into his light green eyes. I had just two-stepped for about an hour at this country and western bar in Montrose, the gay neighborhood of Houston, and I was dying of thirst, but the only attention I could get was from this twink, not from the bartender.
“Well, this cowboy’s dry as a patch of west Texas desert,” I said. “Who do you have to blow to get a beer in this joint?”
“You just have to know how to ask.” The twink turned to the bar and waved his hand in a broad gesture. “Yoo-hoo, Billy boy! Need a couple of beers down here.”
The bartender, a buff guy in a tight t-shirt, looked our way and grimaced, but he shot two unopened bottles of Bud down the bar. The twink caught them both neatly, and passed one to me. “I’m Paul,” he said.