Cowboy Jon Jon rides into town on full moon nights with his spurs the same color as starlight. His horse is six feet tall, all black, and you can hear its sound a half mile out. Jon Jon is also cloaked in black, whistling as he rides, hungry and thirsty for something new.
There are precious few women this far west. The long term residents are hard as sunburnt desert rock, ugly and sharp. And the new maids are untested, locked up, hidden, white because they are afraid and misplaced. But even a girl stepping off a new train knows about Cowboy Jon Jon and his black horse.
They say on these full moon nights, you will hear him coming for a full half hour. His whistle will move down from the hills around your daddy’s home and travel down to your bed. You will sit up in the creaking brass frame and hear your own heart pounding. Is he coming for me? Is it me? You will listen to see if your father and mother stir. You are afraid.
But. You get up from the bed, toss off the sunbleached linen. You go to the window and look out at the desert. It is ugly and naked, immodest as a harlot compared to your city hometown. The flesh of the yellow sand is spotted by hard stone breasts, cresting up in peaks. They look like your breasts, and you shut your robe tight.
Cowboy Jon Jon orders the top shelf whiskey at every bar. He has secret pockets in his coat that he sewed himself, filled with bedroom keys and gold. The desert is a long carpet, rolled out before him. He rides until he sees a thing he wants, takes that thing, and rides off again.
Now you can see his black shadow approach, riding to the corner of your daddy’s fence. You are sick with worry, you are shaking with want. His whistle is so loud in your ears that it gives you a headache. You grab the little silver pistol under your pillow and run down to stop this lunatic, this terror, this devil.
Cowboy Jon Jon waits outside, but not on the porch. His horse stands by untied. He laughs when he sees your little pistol, no larger than his pinky finger. And then you laugh too and drop that stupid gun, and you stand there and tell Jon Jon that you have waited a long time. He reaches for you, you fall into him.
He takes you to the stable and lays you in the hay, ripping your nightgown so that the seams scream. And he undresses so that you’ll know what a man looks like, dark with curly hair and thick as a monster. You are scared that it’s going to hurt, and it hurts so bad that you cry into the hay. The cowboy, although there are many flattering stories about his love, is too large to be gentle. He smells like sweat and you cry some more, because this is the smell that you know from thousands of unwashed men in trains, on the street, in tight shops, at parties.
When his prick moves inside you, you feel your body move up. You are a turkey dinner. You are all stuffed. You are a puppet doll. Pleasure and pain are the same now, and you assume this is what it means to move out west and become a woman. It is! In the dark, Cowboy Jon Jon has an evil face, wrenched up in one corner with his eyes squished shut. Now you know what it is like to please a man as a woman.
He fills you just before you start feeling good. The white milk from his pick pours down the sides of your little thighs, thicker than cream. He looks down at his work and laughs, then dresses himself like a gentleman. You can’t move because you want more, but also because you have to see his prick wet with what you have inside.
Cowboy Jon Jon doesn’t whistle when he leaves, he just rides away. He never visits the same house twice, and you don’t want him to either. All that is left is the desert, the horses, the naked girl, the farm, and the west.
Photo credit: nate2b via VisualHunt / CC BY-NC-ND