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© 1999 by W. S. Dean


Well, I gotta tell ya, ya won't be a-ketching my old white ass out there with my sexual brothers, as ya might say.  Oh, I knowed it's the parcel these days.  But I'll tell you something about stonewallin', old friend.  They ain't a one of em out there as was a young handsome cavalryman captured by homosexual Native Merkans back in ‘89.  Ya can bet yer boots on that.  So's ya can understand why I ain't exactly partiklarly interested in marching around with a herd of protesters fer my rights.  At one hundred and twenty-seven, I'm damned lucky to be able to wheeze a little seductively at the buff interns here at the home.

Hell, I knowed all them famous jerk-offers and bum pirates, dykes and sissyboys.  Right on down through history, ya see? Hickock.  Now there was a man well named.  And Calamity Jane.  She swung both ways against the middle.  They ain't made a western picture show yet that showed the real West.  And that's a fact.  Not until they put that Eastwood feller in a satin barmaid's dress with ruffles on his thighs.  But then he's right too purdy for a cowtown ho.

The Man Who Sucked Libery Valence.  Two Rode West.  He Wore A Yeller Scarf...and Matching Bloomers.  There was a West you can't even believe to understand.  What ya might call yer ‘underground West.' And that'd be right smack dab where I put my cavalry boot when I come out from New York City.  Yep.  Right there in the ass end of The Old West.

For three days, I was so spit-and-polished up that I didn't need a candle to read nor write.  I changed my long-johns every day and marched around that fort with a throbbing hardon in the searing Arizona heat.  On the fourth morning, I woke to find a strange man in my bunk.  I knew he was strange on account of none of the cavalry men wore make-up, except a few of the officers, and they all had moustaches.  This feller was one of yer genuine Apache warriors.  The kind as had been making bold soldiers leave a streak of yeller shite in their drawers for years.  And he had ahold of my cock, ya see?

Now I wanna tell you that no matter how brave, how intrepid, how downright hetrosexual you are...when a six-foot, devilish handsome Apache warrior is sucking on your cock, you let him.  Well, cuz he's got that damn big knife at your throat, ain't he? Now, I also wanna tell you that an Apache's got a savage mouth.  That tongue of his is part panther, part Great Spirit, and that's no shite.  And he can run them desert-dry lips over the head of yer cock til you think he's done swallered a crate of sandpaper.  And, yessir, I cannot tell a lie.  When that big ol' feller growled "You come.  Now." Why, I just naturally complied.

Now being what you'd call today the only gay cavalryman in the whole damned Territory of Arizona was not how I had originally forseen my military career, you see.  But Thickhead changed all that for me.  That was this here Native Merkan's name.  Thickhead.  And though it's been over a hundred and ten years, my sphincter still shows the truth in them Apache names.  I wished, sometimes, I could say that was it for me.  That I'd stayed on in the cavalry and risen to every occasion, so to speak.  Got them medals and shoulder boards.  A uniform always impresses the hell out of the handsome boys.

But no.  The honest to God's truth is that that very night, me and Thickhead eloped.  He drug me up one mountain and down t'other til I plumb fell down in a heap.  And then he showed me as how he was a bonnyfied member of the Dog Brotherhood.  By fucking me dog style, I mean.

Now in some circumstances, I'm here to tell ya bear-grease has its place.  It's a fine hair pomade and it's extra good for slathering up a wheel axle.  But up my ass was a bit of shock at first.  On hot, wasting days here at the home, I sometimes catch a whiff of a greasewood tree and my butt aches.  Just psychological, I reckon, don't you? Ain't no telling what our creative Native Merkans used to add on to the grease.  But whatever it's made out of, it shore as hell slid that Apache cock right deep in me.  It made me cry at first.  I ain't proud of that, but there ya are.  Then I kinda squirmed around some.  He was a-pumping my ass and singing some chant that sounded sweet and angry.  So don't you go talking to me about how sexy ya think rock and roll is.  You ain't got a clue.

Well to cut a long story to the bone, me and Thickhead we got along.  Til he died.  Was killed by a drunken soldier, of course.  Shot.  bang.  Right through the head.  So there I was.  Gay cavalry deserter in Arizona a hundred years ago.  You think cruising is hard these days? I'm here to tell ya, it was a desert.  Well, it was a desert, of course, but I mean...

Copyright 1999 W.  S. Dean   All rights reserved.

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