Free Marathon Cowboys by Sarah Black

when Jesse came strolling in. He was whistling “El
    Paso,” that old Marty Robbins song. I put down the paper,
    stared at him. He was wearing tobacco-brown jeans, so old
    the denim was soft and faded at the seams, and polished
    brown cowboy boots. His button-down shirt was silk, a
    strange green, somewhere between teal and spruce. He had a
    brown straw Stetson that he set down on the table. The shirt
    gave his eyes a bit of green, and his hair curled around his
    ears and down over the collar of that beautiful shirt. I think
    my tongue was hanging down to the table.
    “Sweet Jesus.” The Original stood up, brought the
    coffeepot to the table. “Boy, what are you up to now?”
    Jesse ran a finger down the nape of my neck. “You need
    a hat, son.”
    He smelled good, something green and lemony, and I
    wondered if we were gonna get very far down the road before
    I lost my cool and dragged him into the bushes. Oh, wait,
    there were no bushes. We were in the desert. It was only
    teddy-bear cactus and scorpions out there. We needed to get
    an air mattress for the back of my truck. “Are we dressing
    up?”
    “Nope.” He sat down at the table. “You look just right in
    jeans and a black T-shirt. You thought about getting a pair
    of boots?”
    “Not very hard.”
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    “I’ll go with you. Make sure you get the right ones. I’ve
    got a friend over in Lajitas, Gary. He makes handmade
    boots.”
    “I can’t afford anything expensive, Jesse. How about
    let’s get me a straw hat at the General Store and let it go at
    that.”
    “You only need one pair for your whole life. When it’s
    time, you just get them resoled.”
    “Well, now, that’s true. A fine pair of boots is good for a
    lifetime.” The Original joined the discussion, slid a cup of
    coffee across the table to Jesse.
    “When you’re a famous cartoonist, people will be
    begging you to wear their handmade boots.” He stretched his
    feet out. “Like these.”
    They were gorgeous, beautifully classic handmade
    boots, the brown leather rich and shiny with polish. Jesse
    pulled up the edge of his jeans under the table so I could see
    the shaft. A naked cowboy, from the back, a holster and six-
    gun slung over his curvy butt. He shoved the cuff back
    down.
    “Nice.”
    “I’ve got an idea for yours. Black crocodile, and smooth
    leather on the vamp, with a pair of crossed six-guns. I’ve
    already drawn it. You know that symbol, the rope and the
    crossed six-guns the US Cavalry used to wear on their hats?
    About the time they were rounding the Navajo up for the
    Long Walk? I thought that might be a good symbol on a pair
    of fine, shit-kicking boots for a USMC Navajo warrior.”
    I grinned at him.
    “Just look at them before you decide, okay?”
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    “Yeah, okay. I’ll look at them. What happened to the
    Bathtub Marys?”
    “They’re on our way.”
    We walked around the back of the house, where my
    truck was parked, and I pulled him into my arms, buried my
    face in his lemony neck. Just that fast, and my cock was
    knocking hard at my Levi’s, wanting to be let out.
    Jesse was laughing, but he slid his arms around my
    waist, pressed close enough he could feel my cock. He
    caught his breath. “You’re a raging bull in the morning? I’ll
    have to remember that.”
    “Did you dress up for me or your boyfriend the
    bootmaker?”
    Jesse gave me a slow grin, sharp as cold tequila,
    unsnapped my Levi’s and filled his hand with my cock faster
    than I could draw a breath. He squeezed, then gave a hard
    stroke. He looked up into my eyes, his own a swirly mixture
    of stormy blue and the green reflected from his shirt. “You
    want to fuck me?” I could feel the breath choking off in my
    throat. I couldn’t have spoken if my dick was on fire. Which
    it felt like it was, actually. “It’s all for you, zo-zo. I’m gonna
    spend all day keeping you on a slow boil. Then tomorrow we
    can have a