"Wichita" By Justin Balancier
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Being around Cheyenne Indians, some boys throughout the west, by the age of nine, could speak two languages. I am one who can speak English and Comanche. It's nothing major, for sure, but has gotten me out of a few situations with Comanche Indians on the trails around Kansas, and across the Great Plains.
The Cheyenne were excellent students of horsemanship, excellent hunters, and feared warriors. As covered wagons and folks traveled across the plains, the settlements in Kansas increased to where settlers rested on the miles they did yesterday. It wasn't pretty, for sure, but nobody could have done it any better.
My pa always wanted a son, as most men did – well, he got me. I'm grown now, and a hefty young man, tough as rawhide, I can hunt, ride and track, like an Indian scout, all that plus being gay.
Nobody thought that Elmer Preston's kid, whom he named Curly; (me) was anything but a sexy stiff-neck, hell-raising, gun-toting cowboy.
Gotta admit though, I never like the name "Preston," for myself. I'm just throwing it out there, because, (unless famous) one's name means nothing to strangers.
Life is about love when the odds are against you. When there is love, nobody cares what you're called, yikes, that sounds gay. Well, maybe a little gay!
From at an early age I discovered how to steal candy from the general store in town. I took only peppermint sticks, which tasted better when I could swipe them. I knew it was stealing, but gosh they had so many of them, and I didn't have any money. How dumb is that?
Now, as an adult, I buy peppermint sticks to hand out to young folks in the street. Children only get peppermint sticks at Christmas time, or maybe on one's birthday.
I am a rooster cowboy in disguise, when my pecker gets out of control, if you can believe that. I never talk about being a "homo "it's a word used for "different," a slam-dunk synonym for "queer." Okay, I'll buy that.
Ma and Pa, live on a non-working farm raising chickens, so chores are not a big concern, although there is plenty to do. Anybody can feed the Rhode Island Reds, and gather eggs. Ma feeds the chickens and pa and I take turns shoveling Chicken shit.
Poking around Wichita listening and looking for action, one has to get a grip. However, taking a gander at cowboys in tight pants is an easy way to check under the hood. Simply looking and dreaming, can reveal hefty packaging on certain cowboys. I'm not saying you should look, only if you want too. Folks come and go all the time either by stage or train. With a whole lot of looking going on, it's something to do besides work.
At one time the Overland Stage ran from Topeka to Wichita, and beyond. I would watch people getting off the stage after a long and dusty trip. They were tired and willing to talk with anybody who wanted to help them. I saw cowboys with tight butts and bulging crotches needing mostly directions to the nearest saloon.
I met a cowpoke, (years back) that got off the stage from Laramie. We drank and raised hell together until it came time to go to sleep. I didn't believe him when he said he didn't take kindly to strangers. Whisky has a way of changing that.
We had a rip roaring, bed shaking fucking night, and when morning rolled around, he was gone. I don't even remember his name, but I remember the rock hard body and how cowboys from Laramie, poked other fellers in the ass with a big ole greased up dick. Dang, that's a muscle strain moment. Now I am waiting for a wrangler homo to get off the stage. That ain't gonna happen.
This is hard country, and it's made for hard men, I keep telling myself it all balances out, when I'm not working, I'm waiting for a stagecoach to arrive in town. It's something to do.
I dropped down in one of the chairs in front of the stage depot. Sitting next to me was a ranch hand who was friendly and talked his head off about things I cared nothing about. He wasn't much more than a weasel, yapping away, but I nodded as if I was interested in what he was saying. It's just what cowpokes do.
A sound of six galloping horses and a fair amount of road dirt came from the north end of town. It was the Overland Route into Wichita. The stage was coming, and only forty minutes late.
There were five passengers who exited the stagecoach, greeted by family, or went off alone by themselves.
The last person was a cowboy travelling alone. He looked similar to a Latino Mexican. However, I recognized the sun blazed tan skin as not Mexican, but Comanche. He carried a small suitcase. He stood there looking lost, `or confused at best. This Comanche stud needed help and I was on hand to be friendly.
"Are you looking for somebody," I asked.
He heard me, but didn't respond.
Then in Comanche, I repeated myself, with the same question. He smiled and shook my hand. "I am Jack, he said in Comanche.
"Do you speak English," I asked.
An even bigger smile came across his face and he said in English. How did you know I was Comanche? Folks think I am Mexican and I don't correct them. They seem to be more forgiving of Santa Anna, than Quanah Parker, chief of the Comanche Nation. I find it best keeping it to myself.
"How did you learn Comanche? Jack asked me.
"I grew up with Comanche's as friends of my pa. My best amigo was "Little Fox," but used the American name "Freddy."
"Can we talk about something else?" Jack asked.
"Sure, of course."
"You didn't tell me your name," said Jack.
Oh, I got wrapped up in having a real cowpoke, to talk with that I forgot. My name is Carl Preston, but everybody calls me Curly."
"Curly it is," he replied. "Jack it is," I responded.
We shook hands again, and this time with feeling. He was pleasingly hot from his ears to his crotch. I didn't want to suggest the wrong thing, although he was equipped for sex starting with his mouth, all the way down his body to where the Beef, no doubt stayed hiding."
So tell me," I asked Jack. "Is there anything, I can do for you?"
"Yes, can you tell me where to find the Marshall's office?"
"Yup, three doors down the street. Good luck to yuh," I said thinking, "so much for that."
What you see on the surface of a person, is only a fraction of who they really are. The strangest feeling flowed through my thoughts, and I felt good about Jack
Jack walked away moving a bull-bred friendly butt, this half-breed cowboy wasn't history yet.
Strike me as shameless, but don't let that bother you. I'm spot on when I feel somebody like Jack is available by the look in his eye. If getting together doesn't work – then it doesn't work, and that's the truth of it.
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