Our Bareback Cowgirl describes her steamy life behind the barn.

Courtesy of iheartit

One year ago:

She sits on the bus, her pocket mirror held up in front of her face, triple checking that she has nothing stuck in-between her teeth or that her mascara has not raccooned itself around her eyes from the rain. She’s not even sure if she’s attracted to this boy she agreed to meet out of boredom – not too mention sure if he’s obese or not as his pictures are deceiving. Yet something pushed her out the door and into the thunderstorm, and somehow she managed to make it across town to the place where they agreed to meet.

This boy, Bryce Baddy, was waiting for her on the street corner, sitting on an old green bike with high handlebars and a basket on the back. He says hello to her in a French accent.

‘I don’t speak French…’ She tells him.

‘Nor do I! I’ve just been talking to myself in a French accent for the past half hour.’ He sounds as if he is speaking to the entire street instead of to her.

‘Are you drunk?’ She asks.

He starts to ride along the sidewalk expecting her to follow along. His green and purple plaid shirt is spotted with raindrops, but the sky is dry and friendly now.

‘NO!…. Yeah. Maybe.’ His loafered legs stick out on either side of him as he nearly drives his bike into a bush.

He takes her to a park somewhere near Ossington and he plants himself against a tree. Staring straight ahead, while talking much too much and much too fast, he pulls out two beers and hands one to her, motioning for her to sit while he continues his soliloquy. He says something he thinks he shouldn’t’ve and stumbles awkwardly into his next sentence, but she stops him:

‘I like your honesty.’ She doesn’t want him to have censors.

He pauses in his speech and nods his head to himself.

‘It’s really important to me to be honest with everyone.’ He looks up at her from the strand of grass he’s been fiddling with, staring her in the eyes for the first time all night. Then he adds: ‘And I think you are fucking gorgeous.’

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They relocate to a clothing store launch party – mainly for the free booze. Browsing the vintage clothing items hanging from the rows of racks, gawking at the hilarious, and chuckling at the items they could only imagine wearing in public, they slowly begin to stand closer to each other than the two strangers who’d met moments earlier.

He pulls a sweater out from the cascade of hanging clothes, and they both voice their opinion about the garishly wooly garment. When she stops talking, he holds his glance and bends his neck to kiss her. Not a moment gone or in between, a kiss folded within the last item of clothing and the next, a perfect fitting. Whoever witnessed that first kiss, did not once recognize it as a first kiss, but rather one of many kissed by two people who have gotten used to kissing. A comfortable kiss.

As they stumble outside and down the side streets, making their way somewhere, he nonchalantly questions her as he zig-zags his bike all over the sidewalk:

‘So what’s the likelihood of you not going home tonight?’ His eyes stare straight ahead, not one glance at her.

‘Not likely’, she laughs.

The night is dark now and the streets and sidewalks are glistening under the streetlamps from the pre-evening rain. Her cowboy boots clomp loudly on the pavement, every step echoing in the empty street. His bike is buzzing quietly as the tires spin.

‘Hm. That’s a shame. I was really looking forward to cuddling you… and maybe copping a feel.’

She turns her head, eyebrow raised to scoff, and looks at him perched on his bicycle. He is dead serious, in the way that he felt no need to convince her that that was actually ALL he wanted to do. He really just wanted to cuddle.

‘I’ll tell you what. If you can keep me here until 1 AM, I won’t go home. My last bus will leave without me.’

‘I can definitely do that,’ he smiles.

She liked how comfortable she felt, removing her stockings while she sat on his bed at 1 in the morning. She liked the way that there was no awkward pause in the moment between looking at each other and kissing each other. She liked his kiss. She liked the thickness of his skin and the mole above his lips. She liked his hands on her hips and her cheek on his chest, the feeling of sleeping in one of his old t-shirt’s and his cat licking her ear in the morning.

She slipped out of his sleepy embrace at 7 AM, not wanting to ruin a potentially perfect date with the sobriety of morning.

– Bareback Cowgirl.

The true tales of our Bareback Cowgirl’s steamy life behind the barn.

Courtesy of Weheartit

She slept with Bryce Baddy last night. Taking advantage of his desire to “ravage her”, she opted that they rent a motel room for the evening, out in the middle of Scarborough where no one will recognize either of them. In her bag are two bottles of wine, apprehension, and a change of clothing for her desk job tomorrow.

She waits for him at Warden station, looking for a misfit hipster amongst the crowd of ethnicity and teenage boys of questionable character. He struts through the empty subway station like the fluorescent lighting is his personal Hollywood spotlight. She’d come to terms with Bryce’s egotism while they were dating (his lips made up for it). He hugs her with such a nonchalance it’s as if he were doing her a favor, like painting her garage or doing her taxes… She is used to this.

What type of conversation does one have with some form of ex at 10:00 pm on-board a bus full of suburbanites heading Eastbound towards the motel that you’ll be abusing for one night of nakedness, booze and smoke?

“How was your day?”

“Shit. But I made an awesome latte.”

They were always better at the physical portion of communication.

The Greek man at the shady motel drones on about his trust issues with customers and the rules and regulations they must pertain to. Bryce stands beside her, arms to himself; a lost hipster. He has safely tucked away his know-it-all demeanor, putting his faith in her for the evening. He holds her purse while she fumbles to find the appropriate card.

They dawdle down the laneway together searching for the door that matches the number on their key. Upon arrival, she fumbles to unlock the doorknob and turns the light on – illuminating the faded floral bedspread and bad artwork nailed to the wall. The shower is stained and the sink is cracked. She loves it and all of its cheap-motel glory. Bryce is checking himself out in the sepia-tinted mirror on the wall and turns to pour some wine into plastic cups.

He takes a sip and looks at her standing beside the bed, smiling at the decor. He walks up and kisses her. His lips have somehow managed to encapsulate everything that all lips hope to be. They pull off being sensual while applying just enough force and pressure for a girl to melt with the notion that she is in the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing.

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This is what she likes about Bryce. He does not feel any hesitation about making the first move. There is no ‘When can I do this and not that? What can I touch and not touch?’ Bryce has no issue with diving into unknown waters; no issues with germs, no issues with limitations. You will always know what he wants and when he wants it, for instance, whether or not he wants to ravage you. You will always know if he wants to kiss you because he probably already has, and you will always know whereabouts you stand in his heart. With him, there’s no need to cover the ugly bits of truth and turn them into something beautiful – a dirty motel room will stay a dirty motel room, but you’ll appreciate it as it is.

He lies naked on the cheap mattress afterward, smoking a cigarette: his prize for a job well done. She crawls onto his lap and holds a camera a foot away from his face: the red light is blinking. She is recording him.

He puffs away for five minutes staring directly into the lens. Nothing is said. He knows that she wants to leave it at this, and she knows that she can’t let him fall in love with her again. Either way, she enjoys capturing this rare moment of frailty within her lens, both of them trying desperately hard to remain closed off to vulnerability. Eventually, the camera closes off as well, and her eyes follow suit.

– Bareback Cowgirl.

The true tales of our Bareback Cowgirl’s steamy life behind the barn.

Courtesy of iheartit

She bumps into Bryce Baddy while she’s rushing along Bloor St. like she’s someone important. He hollers at her and she stops mid-step as her heart jumps into her throat. An ex. Or something like that. Their on-and-off relationship with each other was never clearly defined. He bursts out of the coffee shop he works in, looking like he was cast to play the heart-breaking coffee-grinder with ripped jeans, vintage t-shirt and three days of facial scruff. He runs up to her and kisses her on the cheek.

She shuffles through his small talk, staring bug-eyed at his face full of photographic intrigue and lips worth slobbering on. After realizing she hasn’t blinked at him in over a minute, she makes an excuse for escape, scurries away, and leaves that potential train-wreck alone. Who knows what trouble she’d manage to get herself in. Besides. She is still dating someone. She thinks.

What’s odd is that Mr. Carlton also lives in that area, and if she were to bump into anyone, she would’ve thought it’d be him. So you can imagine her utmost confusion when the universe decided to throw Mr. Baddy into the picture instead – popping back into her life like a bad 90’s song that sad to say, you still know the lyrics to.

Speed walking away from him, she calculates the likelihood of bumping into him again. He works at Yonge and Bloor. She works at Yonge and Bloor. Her insides groan at the idea of this all happening again; him reappearing back in her life like he and his lips never went anywhere to begin with. More kisses on her cheek as if he’d just done it last night.

At this moment, she makes a decision: She will befriend the un-befriendable. A terrible decision based on her track record with these sorts of interactions, but she vows to herself to return the next day, to smooth over awkward reunions and initiate some mundanely average conversation.

Following through with this decision, the next day she finds a much more composed version of herself sitting across from Mr. Baddy outside the café he works in drinking a free latte he made for her with a heart etched into the foam. Despite the symbolic heart slamming into her face every time she takes a sip, it’s all very conserved and polite, and for a brief moment, she excites herself with the idea that she might be able to pull this friendship thing off. All until he says it.

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“I really want to have the option to r- … No, I shouldn’t say that”

“Want the option to what?” Her curiosity will always get the better of her.

“I really want to have the option to ravage your body right now. If I could just have one night, one night to…”

“Okay.” Her libido will always get the better of her.

“What? …Really?” She feels like this shouldn’t be of surprise to him. She’s not even sure if he ever fell out of love with her.

With that, a customer approaches and he has to go make coffee, but before he does, he touches her back whispering, “I’ll let you know” into her ear.

–Bareback Cowgirl.

The true tales of our Bareback Cowgirl, and her steamy life behind the barn.

Courtesy of iheartit

“It’s cyclical. I think you’ll like it.” Mr. Carlton takes her to a school playground at midnight – where she took him on their last date two weeks ago. “It’s cyclical.” She tries the weight of the word in her mouth and likes it. Likes him more for using it. His arm is around her shoulder, her hand is clinging to the fabric on the back of his baby blue V-neck. Two strangers too close.

When they arrive at this primary-coloured fun-ground, she takes off her shoes and he keeps his on. He does pull-ups while she hangs upside down in a dress. “Well, now you’ve seen my undies. It’s only fair I see yours“, she tells him with a smirk.

To her surprise, he unbuckles his belt and pulls down his pants, revealing boxer briefs that all too clearly describe his personality; black, hemmed with a stark white; fashionable, but indistinct. They are both alcohol ridden and questionably into each other.

The alcohol has given her drunk-goggles, which, happenstance would add, are making him unbelievably good-looking to her. Sitting across from him in the bar earlier, She’d noticed how all the traits she usually backed away from were suddenly fading into the distance: his small set mouth no longer made her skeptical about his kissing abilities, but blended into the undeniable symmetry of his face, and his apparent nerd-lisp was overridden by the chiseled charm of his jawbone. His eyes, his skin, his hair; he looked almost like a movie star, sitting there across from her, drinking a foreign-brewed beer.

Still chuckling to herself at this blatant revealing of his underpants, she plays mouse to his cat on the jungle gym, taking great pleasure in the fact that he’s been edging closer and closer, while she’s been deviating away. He steps up onto a ladder that reaches the platform she is standing on. His eyes are staring at the back of her knees. She turns to face him. He tells her that she should probably come over to him. so she steps.

“Closer.” She obeys.

“Closer.” His hands come up to rest upon the back of her calves. He is examining her legs up close, rubbing his hands up and down her thighs “Mmm…”; a body worshipper.

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He climbs up onto the platform with her. His face is at her face. And he kisses her. Passionate. Tongue. Pressure. No teasing. His hands are devouring her. They’ve taken complete and utter interest in the figure of her waist. Every now and again bringing his fingers under the straps of her dress, playing with the idea of pulling them off her shoulders; debating whether it’s a no or a go.

It’s a go: she feels her straps fall. She feels his over-stimulated hands momentarily cupping her boobs. She smiles. He says “may I?” but doesn’t wait for the answer. Next thing she knows, his lips are around one of her nipples and her head falls back to see the stars.

He pulls back. Pulls her straps back up. She can’t remember how it comes up, but he asks her if she’s emotionally attached to him. She says “I’m getting there.” He retracts like he’s been shot. He doesn’t understand what this means to a girl who dates boys just to see if she is capable of forming some long-term commitment.

“Sorry?“ She tries to explain her lack of emotional attachment, but her explanation seems vague and lengthy. And since she really just wants to sleep with him, she dramatically throws her arms around his neck and says “YES MATHEW! I expect you to marry me come morning. Hope that’s alright.” As planned, this exaggeration seems to ease his mind as the next question he asks is: “So, my apartment is a mess, but it’s a bit more private than this…What do you say?” So she smiles and says “sure” because that is something she is capable of.

They walk to the subway not touching. They sit on the subway not touching. He says with his gut, “This is going to sound crazy, but I can’t do this.”

She says, unaffected, “Okay” because all she had been thinking about at that moment, was, in fact, THAT particular moment sitting on the TTC with a cute boy beside her. No further, no farther. No hopes, no wishes. Just easy-peasy.

Later that night, upon returning home, she sees him online:

“I have one request” She writes.

“Yes?”

“Whatever it is you decide you do or don’t want, don’t try to friend me”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll end up sleeping with you anyways.’’ But she gives other reasons.

“Okay.” He accepts, albeit somewhat perplexedly.

–Bareback Cowgirl.