"Stagecoach to Laramie"
By Justin jbalancier9@yahoo.com
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Disclaimer
The characters in the story "Stage Coach to Laramie," are a work of fiction, not connected to any person (s) living or deceased.
A farm boy, Skipper Carlson, familiar with rural drama, tells the Stagecoach story. The events were unveiled towards the end of the last century. The date doesn't matter; however, the words and gayness do.
Six galloping horses kicked up a powerful heap of trail dust rounding the bend leading into Laramie. Riding inside the coach was Jonathan Ricket and his wife Sarah, with their twenty six year old son, named Slater. He is a cowboy right out of the history books, except for the timing. A gay amigo completely closeted and 100% homo. Slater was the most intriguing person.
Sitting across from the Rickets were Herman Jenkins and Jake Jenkins. Jake was a thirty-year-old rancher with Herman, his father, an old Laramie trailblazer.
Jake grew up farming and disliking women sexually. He longed to corn-hole a hot cowboy's butt. He was a gay man also, but not a flighty queer.
"It looks like we made it, Mrs. Rickets," said Herman to Jonathan's wife.
"Please—it's Sarah. It's been nice talking with you and your son on this long bumpy ride from Cheyenne to Laramie, with no Indians to worry about and not a hold-up bandit in sight."
"Please ma, I would have taken on a few mangy injuns," bravely howled her son Slater. No doubt, he was solid and packed in all the right places.
"Oh, stop."
"You know I would, they don't scare me. Dang, I could pop off a few injuns."
"This whole blasted territory scares me," piped in Jonathan coming from Philadelphia and settling in Wyoming. Here stages are held up; folks are getting shot, drunks and saloon brawls and whores everywhere in town.
"Johnathan, we don't say "whore." corrected his wife.
"Oh no, dear woman, John is right, then there bitches sure enough are whore for $2.00 a poke," interjected Herman, a rusty old cuss.
"I don't care to hear that," mumbled Sarah, slightly proper but not serious.
"Yesum, but I know what I know."
"I'm sure you do."
Jake, Herman's son, remained mostly quiet, having something more enticing on his mind, and it wasn't Injuns or saloon whores.
For at least twenty miles or so, he stared between Slater's open legs at the moving frog in his pants. Dang, he smelled good to the where one could tear their britches off and munch away barn dirt like an Apache medicine man.
Hard beef was between Slater's legs, and availability for raunchy sex, something Jake had the strongest feeling about, just by watching his face.
Slater projected himself as a pure ladies' man, but Jake knew otherwise – he just knew it. How often would two cowboys be riding in the same coach, both gay? Not often, but here they were; their eyes told it all.
A terrific clanging of wheels hitting the ground and kicking up stones cleared the way for the stagecoach to rumble through town. It stopped in front of a depot with a huge sign saying, "LARAMIE WYOMING."
"All out folks – we are here," announced the driver.
The parents exited first followed by Slater and Jake being last. Slater, an impressive chunk of a man, was six feet tall, with a nonstop body and a butt that could put a smile on a prairie chicken's face, bent over so as not to miss a step off the coach.
Jake, without caring, or thinking, patted with a five-finger pick-up, Slater's ass following him to the ground. Nobody noticed, but Slater surely did. He stopped, paused, said nothing, and stepped ahead of Jake.
A new day in a town called Laramie had begun, and all was well.
Johnathan and Sarah went off to the hotel, and Herman crossed the street to the land office.
"I guess that leaves just us," said Jake to Slater."
"I guess it does; let's go for a beer I'm buying."
"Okay," Jake replied, looking at Slater as if he was a peppermint stick in need of licking. He knew he had to stop doing that before people cried "homo." He surely knew it, but pretending was difficult.
At a table in the Laramie saloon, they talked quietly sitting across from each other. "What kind of a homo are you?" asked Slater.
"I didn't say I was a homo."
"Yeah, you did; you have checked out my crotch for miles and squeezed my ass; if that's not being queer, I don't know what is." smiled Slater obviously enjoying the conversation.
"Okay, I like your ass. You have a great butt and probably everything else too. I'm a little older than you and don't claim to know stuff – but, believe me, I have been around."
"We are not that different in looks and close in age, (four lousy years) we could pass for brothers," said Slater.
"Yeah, I believe so; I probably have a bigger pecker than you, but I can't be sure with that frog moving around in your crotch. Not that it makes a whole heap of difference – I'm just sayin...
Two attractive women were working the room for drinks when they came to their table, sat down, said nothing, and just moved in.
"Buy a lady a drink? Asked a redheaded hussy named Rose. "I'm Fanny," said the other.
"Slater here, and my brother Jake, we are just passing through," Slater commented, winking at Jake.
Rose rubbed her hand over Slater's unshaven face. "Why don't you come to my room, big fella, and I will shave that stubble off for you. Who knows, there might be a pussy poke in it for you."
At the same time, Fanny removed Jake's black cowboy hat and ran her fingers through his hair. He was very good-looking.
"Don't touch my hat, and keep your hands out of my hair," he growled at her.
"What the matter, baby? Don't you like women?"
"I don't like being touched, and I don't like you," he responded.
Rose wondered if Slater felt the same way about whores.
"Beat it," Slater rumbled, and both women left, taking their drinks with them. It was off to find two new suckers. It was all in a whore's day's work.
"My pa tried to tell Sarah that's what happens in a saloon. I'm thirty years old and used to it. I tried fucking one bitch, but she was so drunk, stinking, and wet that pussy cured me for good. Give me a good man anytime.
"I'm a good man," said Slater.
"You're beyond good. I didn't like that Rose whore touching your face, but it isn't my business, it's your face."
"You wanna touch my face? Smirked Slater.
"Shore `nuff I do. Can I touch your pecker too? You said we were brothers."
"Wanna lick on it," asked Slater, now becoming serious.
"Your face or your pecker?
"Both."
"I can do that; let's get out of here; I know a bushy-covered deserted area with a miner's shed where we can mess around. It's not far, and our folks will never miss us."
"You were fuckin hot, when that hat came off. See, I noticed."
"Fuck the hat when my pants come off, It's springtime in the bushes.
They couldn't stand up to leave just yet since cock filled their crotches very obviously. Therefore, they sat quietly and waited. Slater was now mesmerized looking at Jake's trim body. Ahh, heaven on earth, horny desires with untamed hunger crept over both of them. It was time to do something about it.
"Yass indeed, young feller, I have two mighty fine mustangs; I can let yuh have for half a day. Goin fer are yuh?" Old Samuel commented while bringing over the horses already saddled to them.
"Not far, Sam, about three miles west of here to look at pasture land. Should be back in a couple of hours,"
"Heh, there shore is a lot of land out there to look at."
They rode slowly and quietly west, out of town, talking as they rode.
"It's good to get away from that whore Rose in the saloon," said Slater. "Sure bet she was after your money."
"Likely, she was after my pecker; I know how they operate," laughed Slater bouncing up and down as he rode a stallion called Chester.
"What's so special about your pecker," Jake mumbled, grinning slightly.
"You tell me, yuh spent enough time lookin at it in the stagecoach."
"That's for later - The other slut messed my hair and put a hand on my leg. Fanny, the aggressive whore; do you know what I think?" mumbled Jake.
"What does my brother think?" Replied Slater as if the conversation was actually importin; however, nothing but crap. It's passable calling you my brother," Slater added, horny as fuck.
"I think whores take on sloppy drunken cowboys to make money. When a couple of hot studs like us show up, they come running for hard cock. Oh sure, money too, but they want a good stiff pecker in their twat."
"What do you want?" asked Slater as if it was a real question.
"I have what I want. I just need to unwrap it."
"Your talking is crushing my balls, after that stagecoach ride." He smiled and said, "It's not much further, you're going to like this."
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