She sold boots\u2014there were Redwings and Timberlands, steel-toed\nindustrials and hikers. There was a practical section of muck boots and barn boots.\nAnd a whole waterfall of Westerns–brown and black tooled leathers with red and\nyellow stitching, snip toes, and pointed\u2014solid Cuban heels. Tony Lama,\nLucchese, El Dorado\u2014the finest selection in Kenedy County.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the bottom of the display were a couple of Justin round-toed\nropers\u2014low heeled with a shorter shaft\u2014show boots for the dandy. One\nmodel had small decorative spurs with silver etched-in\nswirls\u2014out on the town boots. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
There were only two models of women’s riding boots, one\ntall and sleek, the other low on the calf: the Mendon in brown, and\nthe Hombre Roper in a matte black. Both required a set of strong and able\nhands to pull on. A certain kind of woman shopped at Clancy’s, the kind that\nkept horses for pleasure, a woman who knew the softness<\/em> of\ncoarse hair and the penetrating and unapologetic gaze of a mare in heat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mostly men lounged around the burgundy vinyl seats\nof Clancy’s while waiting for a fitter. After selecting a half dozen\nboots off the wall, fingering the stitching, bending the soles to test\nflexibility, they were ready to size up on a particular model. Now they waited\nturn, trading stories and local gossip.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was the smell of leather that she adored. Back in the stock\nroom, where metal shelving housed rows and rows of manufacturer-named and\nmodel-numbered boxes, there was a pervasive, earthy-smell of leather. Reaching\nfor a box and popping the lid to check a size match never got old. Reflexively,\nshe paused to inhale the smell, allowing it to perfuse through her lungs like\nthat first cup of camp coffee on a cold morning. New leather\u2014sensual as a smell\ncan get.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She placed her right foot up onto the first rung of the hinged\nstepladder, her dark plaid wrap-around skirt brushing the backs of her calves.\nReaching for a Western El Dorado in a chestnut brown, she started to\npull a 9.1\/2 and a 10 for her gentleman customer. It was precisely at this\nsecond when she felt his presence. He must have followed her back into the\nstockroom through the curtain. It was a purely electrical surge as her\nadrenaline started to rush.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her petite frame was frozen\u2014one foot up on the stepladder\nfacing the library of boot boxes. \nBreathing in all that leather, she felt his large hands slide up\nthe backs of her legs and up under her skirt. She flinched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then he murmured something, his voice like blackstrap molasses,\n“Be still, Sugar”. <\/p>\n\n\n\n At that moment, she wouldn’t have moved a scrap for a charging\nbull. She felt his warm breath on her neck. Her damp legs opened slightly as he\nslipped his fingers round front, deftly moving under the band of her lace\nbriefs. She leaned forward into the shelving, bending at the waist, arching her\nback. <\/p>\n\n\n\n “Cowboy?” she whispered. <\/p>\n\n\n\n “Shhh, Darlin\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Almost noiselessly, she groaned as he plunged his finger again\nand again deeply into her holster, the base of his rough palm courting her\nrhythmically. She felt the bulge beneath his denim pressing firmly into her\nwith each thrusting motion. She clenched\u2014and then she burst. Exhaling, she\nshuddered in spasms\u2014momentarily lost to herself. <\/p>\n\n\n\n And then it was over. That quick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Wordlessly stepping down from the ladder, her body moved like\nfresh linens on a laundry line dancing in a Texas breeze. Smoothing her skirt\nand tucking her blouse, she turned deliberately to see her lanky Cowboy\ndisappear through the curtain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Unfazed, she remounted the stepladder and reached for the long\n9.5 and 10 <\/p>\n\n\n\n El Dorado boxes stacked one on top of the other. Balancing her\nstock, she stepped down and turned again to make her way back out toward her\nSaturday morning customers. Briefly, she scanned the burgundy vinyl\nseats\u2014knowing already that her Cowboy was gone. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Kneeling to place the boxes at the feet of a burley older\ngentleman, Syd smiled at no one in particular\u2014next time, she thought, \u201cI\u2019ll ask\nhim to wear his chaps & spurs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n * * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n (And this, my attentive\nCowhands, is the true story of how <\/em>The BOOTY CALL came to be.)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n 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. <\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":338,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-316","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/12\/andreas-dress-1w7OXUu83cM-unsplash.jpg?fit=%2C&ssl=1","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/316","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=316"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/316\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":344,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/316\/revisions\/344"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/338"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=316"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=316"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=316"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}