My arrival at Ranch Brooks in Stockton County, Oklahoma is sweaty-sweet. My instructions are simply stated on the back of Dallas Brooks’ business card: Go to Cabin Longwood, unpack, rest, and meet up with the staff at eight P.M. in Custers’ Hall for introductions.

I’m early, I realize. After unpacking, I decide to meander around the ranch to become acquainted with my new surroundings instead of resting. Dallas Brooks’ ranch is over three thousand acres, and tucked away in the northwestern part of Stockton County, next to the one-light town of Dunford. There are currently four ranch hands; I’m the newly hired fifth. The ranch is spacious and arid, a cowboy’s dream. Everything is thick with the scent of hay and barbecue, and sweetly tainted with ragweed and Queen Anne’s lace.

I find my way to the barn, kitchen, and other various sites of interest on the ranch. A charming and smiling dark-haired Sioux Indian boy tells me that the plumbing on the ranch has gone bad, and if I need to bathe, I’ll have to use the nearby stream, Copperhead Creek. The guy takes me in with a heavy interest: five-eleven frame, one hundred and ninety-five pounds, scruff on my chin and cheeks, short black hair that’s mussed, muscular chest and thighs, too-tight jeans. The bronco kid wants me, but can’t have me. Oh well.

Of course I need a bath and end up on the southernmost side of the property where I find Copperhead Creek. I ease up on it slowly, listen to its rushing waters, and feel the sullen breeze lick at my bare neck and hands. Crickets chirp in the surrounding fields as I see a Mustang tied to the limb of an ancient oak tree. Keeping my view on the horse, I walk directly to a pile of clothes on the hard ground by the stream, stop dead, and stare down at the lump: tan-colored Stetson hat, jeans with a silver Dustin Stockyard belt, and Ariat Heritage Lacer boots.

* * * *

Nervous as hell; this is how I feel about being at Ranch Brooks. Out of my head for getting the guts to come here. Money is needed, though. A life. My life. I need a change and a cowboy’s world is what I want. Anyone will agree with me. Anyone at all.

Stinking hot here. Too hot when I arrive. Sticky and wet all over. Smell like a horse’s ass. I like summertime, but there’s a little price to pay for the nice weather, isn’t there?

The heat always makes me horny, and it makes me want to come. Never fails. Horny as a bull. I’m the kind of man who needs to unload his dick and often. Pent energy swirls within my balls. A man has needs and I want to get laid. Maybe another ranch hand can help me out. They’re handy, right? There’s a lot of privacy on the ranch, though, and I can jerk off if I want to in one of the pastures, next to a set of birch trees. Brooks doesn’t need to know about it. And neither does his hands. It’ll be nice if Brooks will get the job done for me, though.

I want to stay calm, cool, and collected. I have to. Don’t want my nerves to get the best of me. This will be failure. I swear to God in heaven I have to keep it together, but I’m not the type of ranch hand to take the Lord’s name in vain, am I? A sinning man doesn’t get to heaven, right? Nosiree.

Truth is I don’t know if I can keep it together: mentally, physically, and emotionally. I know how to be a ranch hand, but am I going to be good enough? Is a cowboy ever good enough? Don’t know. Not sure. Another mystery that is somewhere in my near future, whether it has an answer or not

Maybe, just maybe Brooks and I can share some cowboy talk together. He and I. Alone time. The two of us. He’s not queer, though, is he? I’m dreaming, fantasizing—something. Cowboy talk with the man will never happen. Never. Who am I kidding?

* * * *

I look into the shimmering water and take in the sexiest, most handsome, and naked cowboy with soap in hand, bathing. The site of the cowboy catches me off guard, causes a flurry of embarrassment to skitter up and along my neck, and redden my pale, boyish cheeks. Out of curiosity, I stand behind a nearby oak and keep a steady gander on the prime, grade-A beef in Copperhead Creek, and discover a sexual longing for the cowboy.

Everything about the cowboy is chiseled and hot. As he sits in the clear stream, rolling an orange bar of soap over his dark-golden skin, I study his hazel eyes as they reflect brilliantly in the evening’s light. The cowboy’s muscles are lined with hard veins that cover his pumped limbs like the lines on a map. He has wet blond hair grazing his abs and pecs. As I lick my lips and feel something stir within my Wrangler’s, my eyes gawk at the two hard nipples that are covered with white suds on the man’s bulky chest. Slowly, the cowboy rinses in the clear water, stands up, spreads his legs, and begins to lather up his firm thighs.