Hey, Cowboy…

“That’s the one who got away?”

“Yes. I used to call him my muse. Used to make him stand naked next to my writing desk to keep me amused when I was having trouble focusing. Not to say that his presence really helped me concentrate, but when I was mulling an idea or trying to think something through, I’d reach over and fuck with his dick…tickle his balls…suck him off until he could barely stand…until his thighs were twitching. I’d edge him for hours while I worked on a story. It seemed the longer I dragged it out or the more I teased, the easier the ideas flowed. And once I had hold of it, I’d tell him to bend me over the desk, pull my hair and fuck me so hard the edge of the desk imprinted into the tops of my thighs, leaving bruises to admire later.”

Wearing nothing by a leopard-print g-string and a cowboy hat. he made his way across the stage, gyrating for squealing audience, made up mostly of drunk, middle-aged women.

He was still beautiful. A square jaw covered lightly in rough shadow, sparkling eyes, and perfectly straight, white teeth. A sparse dusting of hair glinted with sweat between his pecs and created a dark trail to his navel and lower. Like an arrow, it pointed directly down, into the satin fabric, where the bulge of hardening cock was growing in response to the crowd.

“He was always a slut for attention. Doesn’t surprise me at all that he ended up here.”

Looking down, catching my eye, momentarily, I saw recognition in his eyes. He reached down, offering me a place on the stage, but instead, I grabbed hold, pulled a pen out of my purse, and wrote my number on his wrist. The women nearby issued words of encouragement and surprise at my brazenness. But he knew better.

He knew what I wanted. What I needed.

I hadn’t written in weeks.

Maybe I just needed his cock, hard in the palm of my hand.