"Hey, ol' buddy," they'd say, "that's the purti-est truck in the valley! You got yourself a winner!"

You bet your buns it was a winner, and what it won me was just enough attention from those bandy-legged bronco-riders to start the conversation I hoped would lead me right into their Levis. Hee hee! I was a shameless sonuvabitch when I took my pickup on the prowl in search of nookie up a cowboy's hot behind!

Now, I won't say I planned to beautify the one-ton enough to attract a cowboy's eye. It was pure happenstance that a truck loaded with sand passed me in a desert windstorm on Highway 395 and literally sandblasted the paint off one side. I didn't know till I got to my destination, when it was way too late to catch the sucker whose uncovered truck bed had done the job. I'd been driving into Reno where 395 separates it from its sister city, Sparks. Never till then had I taken to heart a remark attributed to Mark Twain about the proximity of the two wild-west towns: "Reno is so close to Hell, you can see Sparks!" Looking at the damage, I had to agree. I had indeed made a passage through Hell.

The darkest times, however, often give way to light. A few days later my cloudy opinion reversed itself to a perception of splendid opportunity. I drove the pickup to the shop and had it repainted from stolid black to lemon and jazzed it up further with running-board lights, white stripes, dark-tinted windows, a loud-blasting, chromium horn perched aggressively on the passenger side of the hood, and a silver hood ornament, front and center over the grille, of Pegasus, Greek mythology's flying horse!

It dazzled the eye, particularly at sunset when the running-board lights and the row of lights over the cab came on, but unseen inside the cab hid my pickup's crowning glory----a back seat covered with soft sheepskin that folded down and became a bed!

I tried it out the first night at a country-and-western casino down the road. Hardly had I pulled into the lot and parked than this rodeo-type slightly loaded on booze ambled over as I set foot on the ground. He delivered the line that, with small variations, would become a standard as long as I had the renovated truck.

"Hey, ol' buddy," he said, stroking Pegasus right on the ass, "this here's the durned purtiest truck in the valley! Shit, you got you a winner! What's it like inside?"

Bingo!

I folded down the back-seat bed, inviting him to give it a try.

"Well, don't that beat all!" he murmured, stroking the sheepskin with a rein-worn, leathery hand as he stretched his husky body across it. "Sure could use somethin' like this on the rodeo circuit. Goin' out to Winnemucca next week. Wouldn't have to pay for no dang hotel!"

"Yeah," said I, "it has its advantages, and that bed's big enough for two."

I climbed in beside him. It was a cozy squeeze, given our respective sizes, but he didn't seem to mind.

"It's private, too," I said, pulling the curtain dividing the front seat from the back and reaching out to close the door.

"Shit!" I heard him voice in awe. "I can hardly see my hand! You got them windows tinted darn near black!"

I chuckled. "Well, it seems so when its dark outside, like now. Real nice for shut-eye. Nobody can see in. They'd never know we're here. Say, I bet it gets lonesome on the rodeo circuit, I mean, a guy traveling alone."

"Yes, sir, it surely does," he sighed. "Sometimes I go loco and drink too much. Want a swig?"

He twisted his body until it nearly overlaid mine, apparently reaching into his hip pocket for a pint. He seemed just drunk enough not to take notice of our physical connection, but my dick was already straining at my fly. A non-drinker, I didn't like the smell of whiskey on his breath, but a whiff of man-scent when he moved his arms penetrated my nose and activated the sweat glands in my balls. A session with him would quickly equalize our smells.

"Sure, buddy," I said, and faked a drink enough to moisten my lips with liquor. "Here, have some more."

I passed the bottle back to him. He took a healthy gulp and closed the cap, wedging the pint between our chests. We were pressed together in the dark. The intimacy of the situation did not seem to bother him. I had the sense that he was a guy who lived his life among men, rough ones, men competing against each other in a world of hard leather and horseflesh.

We carried on a little conversation. He seemed comfortable with me, speaking of his father back in Nebraska, and how something of me gave an impression of his dad.

"My old man's like you," he said, "heavyset, looks like he's seen it all but sure gets excited like a kid over some things---the way you went over this pickup with me, like it's a new toy."

There was affection in his voice. His big paw went to my shoulder and gave it a pat.

"Let's have another drink," I suggested.

We did. Mine, again, was faked. His was a longer gulp this time.

I could tell the liquor was taking effect. His speech had become distinctly slurred. He began revealing his life to me. He had been married, but divorced for a couple of years. His wife had remarried. Her second husband had adopted his little son, which grieved him, but he saw himself as a poor role model for the boy. He considered himself a rodeo hack who would never become a star.

I consoled him as best I could, with agreeable remarks and an occasional casual caress of his shoulder or arm. His flesh was hot through his shirt. I was dripping more pre-cum with every touch and had drawn closer, but not enough to set off any alarms. He had responded warmly to me in every way, although not, of course, as fully as I hoped.

His forehead was actually touching mine. I thought he was falling asleep. I decided suddenly to go for broke and lifted my leg over him so that my knee brushed against his crotch.

His dick was as hard as stone. When my leg touched it, he let out a long sigh. His forehead broke into a sweat.

I remembered Robin Williams as the teacher in the movie, "Dead Poets Society," and his admonition in Latin to his students to "Carpe diem," which translates as "Seize the day," meaning to let no worthwhile opportunity pass you by.

I decided to take the Latin maxim to heart. What did I have to lose? He was in no condition to take a swing at me. What could he do but leap out of the truck into the parking lot while I simply drove away? I grasped the cowboy's cock. He was dribbling pre-cum almost as much as me. He grunted. His hands went to his brass belt buckle, yanked it open and pulled his pants to his knees. I could barely see him in the dark, but what I saw looked great!

I was kneeling over him in an instant, taking his circumcised tool between my lips. At least a day of man-sweat assailed my nostrils, but I was too excited to give a damn. It was the wedding night for my renovated pickup. A first-time score on the first night out augured well for its future success. It was not just this cowboy's knob I was sucking, but all the fine western dicks standing tall on the future road ahead.

He was no novice, I could tell. He gripped my head and plunged it down to meet his own hearty thrusts. He loved every minute of it, and when it felt like he was ready to cum, he pulled my head away and whispered hoarsely: "Let me ride you, old man. Let me give it to you up the ass. I hope it ain't too big."

It wasn't, but it was close, and my style in those days was mostly cocksucker and top. Still, he was too good to miss, and this was a special occasion. I would go bottom for him.

I rolled over and worked my way out of my pants to the knees and rose up for him to enter me from behind. He worked his own knees under my butt so I could settle down on him in a more-or-less seated position, which also gave me some control over his penetration. His dick had a small head, but widened toward the base.

We had no condom. 'Til finish outside," he agreed. "Just let me get in that big ol' moon-ass for awhile."

I spat on my fingers and rubbed it on his piece, guiding the head to the sticking place. "Ride 'em, cowboy," I said.

He did, with a vengeance. I thought I would have control, but he was so strong he lifted and shoved my bulk as if it were styrofoam, with his beefy arms locked around me like a yoke. He went at me as if he were bronco-busting at the rodeo, determined to hang on the maximum time. I returned his thrusting with backward pushes of my own while rivers of sweat rolled down into the sheepskin cover of the back-seat bed.

That truck was suspended like a Cadillac limousine and gave as smooth a ride as anybody ever had. That night with its first cowboy fuck it must have looked like a flying horse to anybody observing in the parking lot, but we were safely under the cover of night.

When his breath burst into short snorts, I felt a hard shove from behind, and then his cock slipped out an instant before I felt the fallout from the spray over the top of my buns. His cries of passion gave me a thrill. Unlike the gay joke in the movie, "Philadelphia," he wasn't faking an orgasm by slinging a pint of hot yogurt on my back. This cowboy was unloading a gallon of cum in great spurts that shot upward and fell back on my bald head.
He let out his breath heavily when he fell forward against me afterward. "I guess you can tell I ain't cum for a week!"

He then asked if I had exploded with him. "Not yet," I answered.

"Let me take care of that," he offered, and, reaching around to take my still hard meat in his callused paw, proceeded to pull on it gently with his head resting on my back. It was such a sweet and tender moment, with his lips kissing me through my shirt, that I melted against him and soon my juices flowed over his fingers to flood my inner thighs.

When we pulled our pants on, he told me he did not consider himself gay. He called it "queer."

"I loved my wife, and I have women from time to time at the whorehouse ranches outside of Reno, and I would never do this with another young guy. No cowboys for me! But it seems all right with you. I don't feel no guilt or nothin'. Wonder why?"

"Can't say," I responded, "but you're not alone. A lot of married or otherwise straight fellas go for an older man. No competition, I guess. I sure am glad there are guys like you around. It makes getting older a worthwhile goal! Hey, can I drive you somewhere? I don't want to see you behind a wheel after all that liquor you drank."

We were outside the truck by now.

"Thanks," he said, "it's real nice of you to be concerned. Maybe I'll go back to the casino and play the poker table."

"I live down the road in a 40-foot fifth-wheeler," I told him. "That's why I have this truck, to travel around. Why not spend the night with me?"

He was surprised. "That's a damn nice offer! I'll take you up on that!"

I took him home. We shared a hot bath in the garden tub and crawled into bed together, passing the night nestled like lovers in each other's arms. When we woke up, we were hard again, and this time he spread his sweet ass cheeks for me. I was gentle, for he said he had never been fucked before. I believed him because his asshole was extremely tight. I had to force my way in using lots of K-Y. He was however, a brave young man, and took the pain with grace and style. I used a condom and fucked him while we lay on our sides. He really got into it after awhile and jacked himself off so we came at the same time.

That was the beginning. I hitched up the fifth-wheeler to the pickup a few days later and took him out to Winnemucca for a week at the rodeo. Our relationship sorted itself out quickly, evolving into a friendship, not a love affair. In Winnemucca, he brought in a cowboy buddy to share with me for some exciting three-way action.

Yes, sir, I have to say that many of the hottest adventures in my life happened when I took my pickup on the prowl through the great American west and Mexico.

Oh, the stories I could tell, and maybe someday I will!