The cowboy looks like glowing leather in the evening sun. Moistened just right with droplets of oil. Working leather that is smooth and soft, so perfect for my bare hands to manhandle. The stranger rinses again and causes his long dick to grow slightly hard, arched and pointing to the south. Our eyes meet in a questionable, blending action that usually doesn’t take place between assumed straight men. “Who are you?” the cowboy squints his shimmering grass-green eyes and asks from the water. He stands with dripping liquid over his iron-crafted body, completely trim and perfect, already beginning to dry in the evening breeze.

“Randy. Randy Marke is the name. I’m the new ranch hand.” I’m nervous and hard, and lick my dry lips. I can’t come out from behind the strong oak because of the limb that’s under my denim. With my head cocked to one side of the oak, I affix my solid gaze on the erection.

My history is rather simple: ranch hand since I was a young boy; born and raised in Houston; often visit my aunt and uncle in El Paso; anti-Facebook or any other modern social communication with the world; Louis L’Amour reader; interested in working with wood and building things; aggressive and butch mannerisms; have never really had a long-term relationship with another man.

* * * *

“Randy the ranch hand.” A crisp smile is on the cowboy’s rugged face as he begins to walk out of Copperhead Creek. He steps up and onto the dry bank with his arched dick swinging in the wind. He introduces himself, “Dallas Brooks. I believe we talked on the phone. I was the one who offered you the job.”

I have to step out from behind the tree to shake his outstretched hand because it will be considered rude and unmannerly not to. Almost immediately he notices my long cock hidden by Wrangler jeans, meets magnetic eyes with my denim, smiles, and rubs the blond bristles on the end of his chin with a free hand. As he shakes my nervous palm, still observing and concentrating on my handy goods, he says, “By your look, Randy, I think you’re going to do just fine on my ranch.”

“Thank you.” I become crazy-hard. Crazy hard. My hand is strong in his grasp, steady and all power.

Brooks is beyond rock-sharp and stud-like. He is a rugged rancher of perfection in front of me: six-two, two hundred and ten pounds, muscular from head to toe, naked with a semi-hard and drooping cock. The cowboy smiles like a Hollywood actor and is candy-handsome…and looks like a legendary actor. I place him at thirty. No, thirty-two. He eyes up my bulky chest, Mexican-dark eyes and hair. Eventually, he ends our handshake and brushes a palm against my tight jaw, turns my head from left to right in a steady and stern action, and checks out my smooth and boylike features. He drops his hand and says, “I know I asked you this on the phone during your interview, but how old are you again?”

“Twenty-four.”