Author: xanthofile PM
blatant slash reference We're just passing through, and I hate cowboys. one-shot snippetRated: Fiction M - English - Words: 1,115 - Reviews: 7 - Favs: 5 - Published: 08-30-06 - Status: Complete - id: 2239130
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
it feels good to write something, even if it's more of a snippet than anything. i'm down to even less computer time than before, most of which is taken up by sweating through my algebra homework that has to be completed upon an online database. my second week of courses, and i've put in a good ten hours already. (beepbeeprichie)
anyway, hope you enjoy this as much as i do. still ol' me, ya know. no sexual warnings
wednesday, august 30, 2006. 2:16 pm.
This is the only place for good and cheap beer out in the sticks.
"I hate cowboys."
My muttered words caused the man at my side to laugh, the stogie between his teeth was still trailing smoke upwards as the brim of his hat moved to shadow his dusky skin and eyes.
He even managed a smirk around that cigar, allowing me to retort, "Well, I do."
When I saw his eyes, they were full of laughter, an arm coming up to remove the stogie so that ashes could be tapped into the nondescript ashtray before us. He wore a long sleeved button-up, which ws tucked into his form-fitting Wranglers, his belt buckle large and lickable. Sturdy cowhides on his feet were tucked into the bottoms of his jeans.
His quiet and sullied backwater Spanish came to me, and I flipped him off in the process of reaching for my bottle of beer.
"Only for yours, Pavo."
His answering laugh at my name-calling also held a challenge coursing within the vocal sound, leading him to smother the tip of that cigar before standing and striding confidently back to where the pool tables are located. I drained the dregs of my Samuel and followed up on his challenge, alive even though eyes were upon me, as they always are. I'd say that one never gets used to it, because the idea of getting used to such curious alienation is a foreign concept to me, even now…but I've grown accustomed to manually filtering it out of my forward perceptions.
In other words: I've learned to just ignore the staring.
He was cueing up as I leisurely selected a pole from the rack mounted up on the wall, testing its weight in the palm of my hand before putting it back and choosing another more balanced to my liking. We didn't speak as we circled the table, knowing our cues from each other; he accepted the glint in my eyes as the invitation for him to break, quickly rocketing the white cueball to break the formation with that sex-maddening crack that always sends rivers of iced-chocolate down the back of my neck. He managed to pocket a solid, and then proceeded to smoothly pocket four more in easy procession.
The damn cocky bastard.
We had a crowd by the time I 'd taken my fourth shot, which had me set two ahead of him and nearly winning. His face was gentle and serene to onlookers, but I read his mental "fuck you" loud and clear, allowing me to grin as I botched my last shot. He took his time setting up his shot…scratching on purpose in order to cause a ball to pop up right at me…a muted cry of the onlookers…and a louder exclamation when I plucked it like a baseball.
"Now, now…play nice."
My deep voice was playfully reprimanding, and he did flip me off, much to the growing amusement of our crowd. I wonder how much they're aware of our ruse, this richly crafted and improvised play-acting that we're putting on. This strut and jive that's almost as much a sex act as the real thing. Both of us are amateur champions of varying pool tourneys; it's how we met in the first place.
Pool and Dwight Yoakam are fierce loves shared by the two of us…among other things.
Kenny Chesney's She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy rent the air, and he grinned, especially as I abruptly put the pretense behind and sunk the eight ball, winning the game. Hearing this song makes me want to do a boot stomp, and he knows it…Kenny could always make me want to dance. Not too sure how well that'd go around in this joint, because when I dance, I'm a countrified boy who ain't afraid to show it. Well, a countrified black bulldozer, really.
6'4 and dressed like the man I just bested, I'm no better than any of these hicks surrounding us. I sing country, talk redneck, and look as brown as any rap singer.
We're just passin' through.
"You owe me a Samuel, Pavo."
Money crossed our palms, and beer was exchanged as the jukebox switched to Travis Tritt, making me pull a face. But the beer's cold and the Spanish voice is dripping into my ears again, so life is good. And later, there's a motel bedroom with my name on the tab, and my name panting from a Hispanic's throat, and that's even better.
A fight broke out somewhere, not too long before we deigned to leave. I really do hate cowboys…but god damn…those jeans make every ass look good.
Samuel- Samuel Adams beer
the number of pool balls in a standard set equals fifteen plus the white ball. not that it has any direct relation to this, but i thought i'd let ya'll know that.
random movie quip: i recently saw Twin Town, which is bloody awesome. i laughed like mad. if you've ever seen Notting Hill, and you remember the grungy flatmate...the same guy from The Replacements...well, this guy was in it. (can't remember his name right off hand). it's british/whales, so it's that kind of movie.
basically (without giving away a lot of plot bunny), it's about two brother's revenge against their father's employer after he refuses to pay compensation for their dad's broken leg on the job. they're drug dealers/users who constantly steal cars. fucking hilarious.