Write 'Em Cowboy

As dinner wound down, a few of the ranch hands pulled out instruments and started playing. Cute and perky cowgirl Jessie now wore a big white Stetson. She started pulling people onto the dance floor and teaching them a simple line dance. I don't mind dancing now and then, but I wasn't feeling very sociable at the time. I slipped out the door and headed for my room.

One of the other dining hall doors swung open in my path. I stopped abruptly — just in time to keep from running into the Harridan from Down the Hall. I said, "Looks like I managed to avoid trampling you this time. Good night, ma'am." I touched the brim of my imaginary hat and walked past her.

"Wait!" she demanded. I stopped and turned around, ready to bolt at the first sign of impending mayhem. But she surprised me.

She pursed her lips, and in a somewhat less strident tone, said, "I'm sorry I was a little grumpy this morning."

I arched one eyebrow. "If that was Little Grumpy, then I'd hate to meet Big Grumpy." I couldn't resist jerking her chain — I felt like I owed her some flak after the trail ride that morning.

She grimaced. "It's not your fault that your horse shied. I may have jumped to the wrong conclusion."

"Ya think? But not gonna lie, I was impressed by your conclusion. Something about a 'boil on a mandrill's ass'?"

You read about people blushing, but rarely see it in normal life. This was no faint color adorning her cheeks. She gave a great blush job — maybe the best I've ever had.

I beckoned for her to continue. "You were saying?"

She took a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry."

I could see how hard that was for her. So I reined in my natural snarkiness and replied, "Thank you. I accept your apology. I'm Harry McMurtry." I held out my hand. She looked at it for just a second, then shook. Her grip was warm and firm.

"I'm Portia — Portia Mueller."

"Pleased to meet you, Portia. And how long were you in the Marines?"

"What!?"

"Your command of the profane this morning was quite impressive. How long were you a drill instructor?"

"I'm not! I'm a writer!"

"Oh! In that case, let me guess — IKEA manuals?"

"No, asshole! I write romance novels."

"For drill instructors?"

"Oh, for... Go fuck yourself!"

She stormed off to her room.

Shit. I rubbed my face with my hand. That was pretty dickish of me. I had wanted to tease her, but that was over the line.

===

PORTIA

Fucking jerk. Try to be nice and this is what happens? I threw myself down on my bed and tried not to cry. Then I heard a soft knock.

I strode to the floor and flung it open. "WHAT?"

It was the asshole. Err, Harry. He had his hand raised to knock again. He blinked at me, then slowly lowered it.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? After what happened this morning, I wanted to tease you a bit. I went too far."

Well, this was new — an asshole with manners. What would that make him — a sophisticated sphincter? Or, maybe this was just one more manipulative, dickhead ploy that I hadn't seen before. Anyway, who cared? I'd never see him again. Just a few more days here and I could get back to my life.

I said, "Okay, fine. Apology accepted." I shut the door in his face, but I did feel a bit better.

I went to bed early and slept soundly. If Harry snored, it didn't wake me up.

===

HARRY

Well, that was special. At least she didn't slam the door this time.

I felt better having apologized, but I wasn't sleepy. I briefly considered reading myself to sleep with a book on my iPad. Instead, I decided to do a little writing before going to bed. I write for my own amusement, and had started doing it a few years ago.

I have always been a demon reader, with a daily diet of all sorts of digital and physical media. Last year, I discovered an online erotica site, and greatly enjoyed reading one wild and wicked wonder after another. However, the quality of materials varies widely on most fan fiction sites. Some of the stories are magnificent and are worthy of any mainstream publication. Others are pretty bad, with gross grammar, puzzling points of view, constipated story arcs, and plot holes you could drive a herd of flatulent hippopotamuses through. After reading one of the latter stories one day, I said to myself, "Jesus — I could write a better story than that!"

My inner devil's advocate said, "Talk is cheap, smartass. Prove it!" It was a dick thing to say, but he wasn't wrong.

What to write? I mused for a while, and then remembered a story I'd heard from Linda, one of my company's developers. She had caught her husband 'outsourcing' his love life to another woman. The moron had accidentally outed himself in a rather embarrassing social media own-goal. Linda's discovery of his perfidy and her ensuing technological takedown were harrowing but hilarious.

I decided to fictionalize her story. I changed all the names, added some dialogue, and was smugly pleased with myself. It then sat on my computer for a month while I got distracted by other matters. Then I reread it. Wow, absence did not make the heart grow fonder. What a steaming pile of shit! This writing stuff was a lot harder than I realized.

But I persevered, and went through several rewrites before finally posting it online. My story didn't win any awards, but it did stimulate a number of interesting comments. The inevitable trolls weighed in, but most of the comments were encouraging. Several gave me some very helpful advice that I took to heart. I kept on writing stories — mostly to amuse myself, but sometimes to exorcise some of my inner demons. Tonight, I decided to indulge myself in a little of the latter — maybe a demon from this morning...

The next few hours flew by. My new story almost wrote itself, and I ended up incorporating some of my interactions with Portia into the tale.

I was happy with how it turned out, so I posted it and then went to bed.

===

TUESDAY

===

PORTIA

I saw Harry sitting alone at breakfast the next morning. I realized that I may have been a bit of a bitch, but he had volleyed that attitude right back at me, Now, since he had apologized, I resolved to try to be less bitchy. So... I took my tray and sat down across from him. I said, "Good morning."

"Morning, Portia."

I glanced at him, looking for signs of sarcasm, but there weren't any. Hmm... I continued, "Look, I'm sorry again for snapping at you yesterday. It's just... my publisher made me come on this trip, and I really don't want to be here."

When I mentioned the word "publisher", his eyes brightened, and he smiled. He had a nice smile. I mentally smacked myself though. I was not here to flirt with the first random guy who acted halfway nice. However, this was the first time I'd been around him that I didn't hate him with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns. I was surprised to realize that he was an attractive man, with sandy hair and twinkling blue eyes. He was about my age and was a few inches taller than me. My gaze lingered for a moment on his broad shoulders... I smacked myself again. Focus, Portia!

Oblivious to my internal monologue, he said, "You're a writer? Anything I might have read?"

I laughed. "Sure, if you like trashy romances. "Whirlwinds of Desire?" "Passionate Pleasures of the Pirate Prince?" "Secret Agent's Seduction?"

He started laughing, and despite myself, I chuckled too. "Hey, those books pay my rent!"

"Sorry," he said. "I shouldn't laugh. At least you're published."

"Oh? You write too?"

"Umm... yeah, just for fun. But tell me more! Do you do book tours and stuff? Is it as tedious as I've heard?"

That was a rather sudden change of subject. He seemed almost embarrassed about his writing, which was weird. Usually, amateur writers love to tell me all about their masterpieces — aka self-indulgent accounts of their literary disasters.

I rolled my eyes. "You have NO idea." I told him about a few of my book tour breakdowns, including my own personal Gig from Hell in North Dakota.

"It was snowing so hard in Fargo that even the locals stayed at home. Hell, if the event hadn't been in the hotel I was staying at, I wouldn't have shown up either. But that didn't stop Mort the Mouth-Breather, oh no!"

Harry snorted. "I think I need to hear some more about Mr. Breather."

"My agent had set up a meet-and-greet in the hotel dining room; nobody showed up except for Mort."

"Mort, as in death?"

"You could say that. And we're not talking about la petite mort here — we're talking about 'Muerto Grande El Mucho'. Mort who weighed at least 300 pounds and lives in his mother's basement. An evening with him was like the Death of All Hope for me. It was supposed to be a reading, followed by hors d'oeuvres with my local fan club. Sadly, the rest of the club were no-shows. He spent most of the evening eating all of the food, staring at my chest, and asking where I drew the inspiration for my sex scenes. Fortunately, I was able to cut the evening short with a feigned headache, before he could get around to an outright proposition."

"Ick!" Harry shuddered.

"Yeah, my boobs still have PTSD." As I said it, I realized that that was almost an invitation for Harry to ogle the girls. But he didn't — he just laughed along with me. My opinion of him went up a notch.

Plus, Harry had a great laugh. I wanted to hear more of it.

"Well, I'd love to hear more about your experiences..." His wrist buzzed, and he glanced at his Apple watch. "But... we have the Inner Tube Armada coming up; and I don't want to get on the bad side of Jessie, the perky cowgirl."

I rolled my eyes. "I can just imagine which parts of her you find perky," I smarmed.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He had the nerve to sound offended.

"Suuure. Let's gooo, we don't want to be laaate." I didn't actually sprain my eyes, but I did roll them pretty hard before I flounced off.

===

HARRY

I had very much enjoyed having breakfast with Portia. What I liked most about it was the conversation. She was a great storyteller. I liked her agile, creative mind, and wanted to chat with her for hours. Also, she had a potty mouth that could make a sailor blanch.

She had a lovely smile when she wasn't actively roasting my ass. She looked to be in her early thirties, the same as me. She had shortish dark brown hair and hazel eyes, and a fine figure, which filled out her shirt and jeans nicely. I tried not to let my gaze linger too long on her; the sad saga of Mort the Mouth-Breather was a cautionary tale that I took to heart. I certainly didn't want to get busted for staring at her bust. I'd already been on the receiving end of one of her tongue-lashings, and not in the good way.

My watch alerted me that the Inner Tube Armada would launch shortly on the Medina River. Finally — a dude ranch activity that actually appealed to me! I was also looking forward to seeing how Portia filled out her bathing suit.

===

PORTIA

A leisurely float down a shady river sounded like a lot more fun than that damned trail ride. I had really enjoyed chatting with Harry over breakfast and was looking forward to more of it.

I changed into my two-piece swimsuit after making a long-overdue landscaping run at the shrubbery on the lower deck. I put on a sun shirt with long sleeves, rubbed sunscreen everywhere I could reach, and donned a big floppy hat. I had had a come-to-Jesus moment during my last dermatology appointment. Instead of admiring my tan, my doctor just shook her head and asked me where I'd gotten all of my 'damage'. I have her to thank for my current Dracula-like approach to sun exposure.

I slipped on a pair of water sandals and walked next door to Harry's room. He answered my knock dressed in a set of baggy board shorts and a black T-shirt with the words Law and Mordor across the front.

He said, "Hi — be ready in just a second." He rubbed one last patch of sunblock into a set of nicely muscled legs, and then donned a pair of high-tech river shoes. He flipped a well-worn cowboy hat on his head to complete his ensemble. "Okay, I'm ready."

===

HARRY

We moseyed down to the riverbank together. The river wranglers gave us each our own, fairly luxe inner tube; certainly big enough for a comfortable sprawl. A wrangler hooked a floating cooler to my tube, and we filled it with a few water bottles, a flask of wine, and some munchies. Finally, he clipped a paddle to each tube with several feet of safety line.

Most of the other tubers were already a ways ahead of us, and we cast off into the Medina River in our own private flotilla of two. The gentle current was sufficient to keep us moving without having to paddle at all. It was a gorgeous day, with just a few scattered clouds to keep the sun guessing. The temperature was already in the high 80's, and the water felt great.

The banks were lined with pecan and live oak trees. As we floated along through the dappled shade, Portia told me a few more war stories about writing and the book biz. I was impressed, and maybe even a little in awe of being this close to a real, live professional writer. After hearing some of her thoughts on the craft of writing, I felt more and more like a poser. She asked me about my writing, but I deflected her questions by suddenly spotting convenient turtles or interesting trees.

I was running out of turtles and trees when I thought of a way to kill two birds with one stone. I could distract Portia from my writing, and also interweave a few innocent innuendos into our conversation as we drifted down the river.

I looked over at her and grinned charmingly.

===

PORTIA

I turned my head to see Harry smirking at me like an idiot. "What?!"

"Umm... I was just thinking. I, uhh, had a question, but I'm not exactly sure how to ask it."

"Just ask, Harry. I promise I won't bite."

"Well... I'm curious about romance writing. Are there different kinds? Like, rules and stuff? For example, what's the difference between, say, romance and erotica? I mean, I get the explicit sex part, but is there more to it than that?"

He was trying to be subtle, and for now, I let him.

"Sure," I replied. "A lot, actually." And I launched into an explanation of the various, err, variations, starting with straight-up pornography where there is basically zero character development, through erotica, erotic romance, sexy romance, and finally standard romance.

Harry was nodding along, and I felt like I was giving a Creative Writing lecture. Harry actually raised his hand, and I splashed him. "Idiot," I chided.

He gave me a bit of an eyebrow waggle and laughed. Then he said, "Can you give me a few concrete examples?"

"You just want to hear me talk about sex some more, you pervert!"

"Well, you're not wrong," and his grin was back.

"Fine," I sighed. I cleared my throat. Why was this awkward?

"Some easy examples. All right, let's see... okay. In Erotica you can say 'fuck.' In Romance, you'd generally say 'make love.' In Erotica, you can say 'cock.' In Romance, you'd say "tumescence,' or even 'turgid member,' if you're feeling especially naughty."

I couldn't believe it, talking about dicks with Harry had me blushing again. Jeez! I glanced over at him from the corner of my eye.

He was nodding again though, and just said, "Okay, I've got one! In Erotica you can say 'tits' or 'funbags'..."

I spat out the mouthful of water I'd just taken. "Funbags? What the fuck! No, you can never, ever say 'funbags' in any context. Ever again. Oh my God." I shook my head. That dipshit was just laughing.

"Okay, okay, sorry. Never again. So, 'tits.' But in Romance..." and here, he paddled closer and lowered his voice, "they're 'heaving bosoms'?"

His sexy baritone had my own bosom starting to heave a little bit, as I could feel my heart rate pick up a notch or three.

"Uhh... sh-shouldn't we c-catch up with the others?"

He looked down the river, and there was nary a tube in sight. "Shit! You're right." And we resumed our journey downstream.

===

HARRY

After we'd caught up a bit, we both fell silent, and I lay back in the tube for a bit, just chilling and enjoying the day. It was so relaxing that I almost nodded off, until I felt the current picking up a bit. I opened my eyes to see Portia going around the bend ahead of me. A second or two later, I heard her scream! I jerked upright and grabbed my paddle. As I came around the corner, I spotted Portia in an eddy near the bank. Her tube seemed to be caught in a pile of branches that had collected there. She continued to scream, but I couldn't see what all the commotion was about.

As I got closer, things suddenly snapped into focus. What I had thought was a branch was actually a large water moccasin, sitting on a log about two meters downstream from Portia. She was hanging on to a tree root for dear life, trying not to get swept onto the log.

I wasn't sure what to do, but I damned sure knew what I didn't want to do. The current was carrying me toward Portia like a giant curling stone, perfectly on track to knock her loose and propel her right into the snake.

I dug deep with my paddle — a few strong strokes were just enough to send me floating past her and onto the bank a few meters downstream from the snake. I grabbed a tree limb and held on until I could drop my legs down through the tube.

Huh! The water was only 3 feet deep, and the current wasn't all that strong at that point. I unclipped my paddle, and then lifted the tube over my head and pushed it up on the riverbank. The cooler stayed in the water but didn't seem to want to go anywhere.

Okay, now what? Portia stopped screaming when she saw me but was still pretty agitated. The snake seemed to resonate somewhat with her emotions. It wasn't acting aggressively, but it had assumed a defensive posture, with a quivering tail and gaping white mouth.

I decided that Plan A started with calming Portia down. Maybe that would calm the snake down too. Just in case, I held my paddle ready for Plan B, which was to whomp the sombitch with it if everything went to hell.

"It's okay, Portia. I'm right here. Nothing's going to happen to you. Deep breaths — nice and slow."

I kept on droning soothing sounds at Portia and the snake. Every soporific syllable I could think of. Hell, I channeled my inner fucking Bob Ross. I had no idea if it would actually work, but after a bit, Portia seemed to calm somewhat, and the snake appeared a bit less twitchy.

Keeping a close watch on that beady-eyed bastard, I whispered, "The water's not that deep here. Keep holding on to that root but see if you can stand up."

She contorted slightly and slipped her feet down inside the tube. She kept a death grip on the root and then slowly extended her legs. When her feet hit the bottom, she sighed and relaxed noticeably.

I gave her a moment, and then said, "All good?"

She nodded.

I looked at the snake. "You good too?" The snake hissed at me but closed its mouth and kept watching us intently.

I said, "Okay. Slowly walk away from the bank a step or two. When you're ready, use your legs to launch yourself out toward the middle of the river. The current will carry you down to me, and I'll catch you. Okay?"

She nodded.

"Ready?"

She nodded again.

"Okay, on the count of three..."

Portia gave me a panicked... well, still panicked... look. "Wait! Do you mean on three? Or one - two - three - go?"

I stared at her, nonplussed. The snake looked back and forth between us.

Giving myself a mental shake, I said, "Uhh... the second one. Ready?"