She sold boots—there were Redwings and Timberlands, steel-toed industrials and hikers. There was a practical section of muck boots and barn boots. And a whole waterfall of Westerns–brown and black tooled leathers with red and yellow stitching, snip toes, and pointed—solid Cuban heels. Tony Lama, Lucchese, El Dorado—the finest selection in Kenedy County.
At the bottom of the display were a couple of Justin round-toed ropers—low heeled with a shorter shaft—show boots for the dandy. One model had small decorative spurs with silver etched-in swirls—out on the town boots.
There were only two models of women’s riding boots, one tall and sleek, the other low on the calf: the Mendon in brown, and the Hombre Roper in a matte black. Both required a set of strong and able hands to pull on. A certain kind of woman shopped at Clancy’s, the kind that kept horses for pleasure, a woman who knew the softness of coarse hair and the penetrating and unapologetic gaze of a mare in heat.
Mostly men lounged around the burgundy vinyl seats of Clancy’s while waiting for a fitter. After selecting a half dozen boots off the wall, fingering the stitching, bending the soles to test flexibility, they were ready to size up on a particular model. Now they waited turn, trading stories and local gossip.
It was the smell of leather that she adored. Back in the stock room, where metal shelving housed rows and rows of manufacturer-named and model-numbered boxes, there was a pervasive, earthy-smell of leather. Reaching for a box and popping the lid to check a size match never got old. Reflexively, she paused to inhale the smell, allowing it to perfuse through her lungs like that first cup of camp coffee on a cold morning. New leather—sensual as a smell can get.
She placed her right foot up onto the first rung of the hinged stepladder, her dark plaid wrap-around skirt brushing the backs of her calves. Reaching for a Western El Dorado in a chestnut brown, she started to pull a 9.1/2 and a 10 for her gentleman customer. It was precisely at this second when she felt his presence. He must have followed her back into the stockroom through the curtain. It was a purely electrical surge as her adrenaline started to rush.
Her petite frame was frozen—one foot up on the stepladder facing the library of boot boxes. Breathing in all that leather, she felt his large hands slide up the backs of her legs and up under her skirt. She flinched.
Then he murmured something, his voice like blackstrap molasses, “Be still, Sugar”.
At that moment, she wouldn’t have moved a scrap for a charging bull. She felt his warm breath on her neck. Her damp legs opened slightly as he slipped his fingers round front, deftly moving under the band of her lace briefs. She leaned forward into the shelving, bending at the waist, arching her back.
“Cowboy?” she whispered.
“Shhh, Darlin’.”
Almost noiselessly, she groaned as he plunged his finger again and again deeply into her holster, the base of his rough palm courting her rhythmically. She felt the bulge beneath his denim pressing firmly into her with each thrusting motion. She clenched—and then she burst. Exhaling, she shuddered in spasms—momentarily lost to herself.
And then it was over. That quick.
Wordlessly stepping down from the ladder, her body moved like fresh linens on a laundry line dancing in a Texas breeze. Smoothing her skirt and tucking her blouse, she turned deliberately to see her lanky Cowboy disappear through the curtain.
Unfazed, she remounted the stepladder and reached for the long 9.5 and 10
El Dorado boxes stacked one on top of the other. Balancing her stock, she stepped down and turned again to make her way back out toward her Saturday morning customers. Briefly, she scanned the burgundy vinyl seats—knowing already that her Cowboy was gone.
Kneeling to place the boxes at the feet of a burley older gentleman, Syd smiled at no one in particular—next time, she thought, “I’ll ask him to wear his chaps & spurs.”
* * *
(And this, my attentive Cowhands, is the true story of how The BOOTY CALL came to be.)
A poet at heart, Lise, has been writing for fifty-five years–her first poems for Mrs. Cunningham in second grade. She’s centered on loss, death and dying in much of her writing. These themes seemed to have influenced her career choice as a Hospice Nurse. Though for the past year and a half she has worked in a sexual health clinic for the underserved. And perhaps this career move has influenced her choice to experiment with erotica short fiction. Raised Quaker, it took this long to say erotica out loud.