May 24th, 2010 | 
Author: Hunter's Return
You precede me up the stairs to the bedrooms I keep for rent above the saloon, and I can tell from the sag in your shoulders and the unusual lack of spring in your step that you have *really* been ridin' hard and steady for a long time. The curve of your fine ass in those dark brown rawhide trousers--dusty, worn, fragrant-- reminds me of past pleasures and my need to renew them. I'm more concerned right now, however about taking care of your trail fatigue and enjoying one solid night of quiet old-buddy lovemaking. I know that tomorrow your animal spirits will be back and there'll be hell to pay with complete, continual uproar, but tonight is ours.
When we reach the head of the stairs, I gesture to the big room at the end of the hall, through which you can see my sturdy four- poster. When we enter, you look around and give a tired smile at the things you find...my old, familiar saddlebag hanging on a peg, an indian blanket we used many times, the books, pipes, guns, bottles you've come to expect around me, and on the wall in a frame, the badge I gave up wearin' after I hadda shoot down that last young stud who challenged me to a senseless duel, long after the last time you saw me. And then your eye falls on the bedside washstand, where--next to the pitcher and basin--a tintype in a leather case shows two smilin' boy-men staring stiff with pride in their new-grown whiskers and store-bought suits.
The younger one, you, sits with a bowler hat in hand (the camera man had to loan it to you) and knees apart, a view that guy with the camera knew would please much and often, later, even if his subjects hadn't yet caught on. Your whiskers drift down both sides of your mouth and overhang your chin, and though you're tryin' to look stern, a relaxed pleasure shows in the curve of your mouth and in the glint and happiness in your eyes. The other guy is older, but not much, and stands with a hand on your shoulder, bowler in hand at the other side, and the light glints off his dark hair, parted in the middle and slicked back. There's only a shadow where the beginnings of a beard sprout, but his bushy mustache sets off a half-smirk and the musculature of his cheeks accents it even more. In his eyes are pride and an earnestness, and not a little humor at the situation that put him there. There's a noticable bulge in his rough trouser material where it's brought tight against the top of the thigh of his forward leg.
The older guy, you well know, is me--and always will be, podner-- and my hand is not just lyin' on your shoulder casually, but graspin' in a gesture of possession, need, and protection, just like it has been ever since both sets of our parents died on the wagon ride from the east and the party decided we'd have to continue the trek in each other's company, me in charge. The watch on my vest in the photo catches your eye.
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