Our Bareback Cowgirl describes her steamy life behind the barn.
Courtesy of iheartit
After the failed attempt with Mr. Carlton, she decides to screw the whole ‘having a valuable relationship’ idea; throwing her arms in the air with defeat and falling backwards into a pit of sexual deviancy. The emotional anxiety has left her mentally exhausted and ungratified. Sex is something she knows she can handle. And with that draining incident now behind her, she decides to waste little time in rounding up her girlfriends for a night of celebrated singledom at Grace O’ Malley’s.
As the night of tequila shots and short skirts progresses, she finds herself repeatedly coming to the same area of the bar where a stocky, goatee’d, middle-aged man is sitting, clad in a baseball cap and polo shirt. He starts to flirt with her in a subdued and polite ‘you’re-pretty-cute-but-half-my-age’ kind of way, keeping himself in-check with the morally iffy situation their ages present. But fortunately, for him, he has stumbled into the right bar on the right night and she just happens to be a girl half his age with a curiosity that lingers.
By drink #4, she’s dragged this middle-aged man onto the dance floor and is pushing him hard against the wall; rubbing her youthful body against his much older, sun-beaten body to the song ‘Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy’.
“You are trouble!” He yells into her ear over the music. She decides to kiss him.
And like the signature on his permission slip, his hands grab her hips and pull her against him, forcefully kissing her back, losing grip on the control of his desire. She loves it. When he asks if she wants to go to a hotel room, she smiles playfully at him and nods her head. Next thing she knows, she’s in a cab with this retired hockey player, high on adrenalin rushing through her veins.
When they reach their destination, he opens the door for her with a gentlemanly charm and follows her in. No time is wasted before he has her disrobed and pushed gently onto the mattress. His hands begin their journey back to taut skin and celestially perky breasts – rubbing and petting her body as if he’s forgotten the feeling of youth. His lips magnetize to whatever crevice of flesh is nearest: the gap between her ear lobe and her cheek, the dip where her collarbones meet, her navel, the bend in her knee. Her body has beguiled him.
She is only 20. Gravity hasn’t found her yet. But she is no swimsuit model either; she doesn’t have a six-pack, or any sharp shadows from muscle tone. She likes to stay fit without resorting to starvation to fit in with society. And yet never has anyone put her on this pedestal of idolism before. When he finishes and falls beside her, panting and exhausted, she asks the question they both know needs to be asked:
“So, how old are you?”
“…41.”
She yelps with delight as her sweaty, naked body clings even tighter against his. This reaction was just that: a reaction. But she very rarely reacts to anything these days. It had shocked her when the indelible truth slipped out, convincing her even further than any Richard Gere or George Clooney crush could, that yes, she had a fetish – and it was one for men twice her age.
Equally curious, he asks “How old are you?”
“20!” She squeals, much too loudly for pillow talk; still enthused from the alcohol.
His body freezes beside her before he says “Oh my fucking God. You have got to be kidding me. You are SO the topic of my locker room conversation tomorrow night.” And with that he bites her neck hard and starts the beginning of round two.
–Bareback Cowgirl.
Too good!