by Fielding Goodfellow
William Temple had been called Billy T since second grade when that shithead Billy Kramer showed up at Rockford Road Public School. Pretty soon everybody was calling him Billy T, including his family, despite the fact that he hated it. But as far back as any of us could remember, he had always been Billy T. Every now and then he would hang around with us on our path of self destruction and spectacular feats of daring. We were, after all anti heroes, protectors of all that was good and right with a dark side, willing to bend or break whatever stood in our way.
Billy T was just a little guy who dreamed of being a jockey, although we regularly suggested that he would have made a great midget wrestler. In the days when the world was kept safe by a flying squirrel and a moose, and hipster douches kept their man buns hidden behind closed doors and drawn curtains, I had convinced myself that I had become a gunslinger, hanging around the Ok Coral, fighting off the Clantons, and then encouraging and enticing Billy’s sister, Veronica, to ride me off into the sunset.
It went back to the days of watching westerns with the old man, catching glimpses of Linda Evans in ‘The Big Valley’, and Raquel Welch in ‘100 Rifles’. I was a big fan of westerns, but even then I was more interested in tits and ass than I was in guns and horses. With a head full of pharmaceuticals that took me up and down like an escalator, I was captivated by every movement of Veronica’s body. Particularly the subtle ones, and with her tight jeans, cowboy boots, and white t shirt that I was certain had been painted on, with the words ‘I LOVE TO RIDE’ printed across her chest, she not only stirred my loins, but whipped and beat them into a state of frenzied excitement. As she rode past, with tits heaving in rhythmic harmony to the horse’s gait and thighs tightly clamped around the mare, the salute in my pants stood at full attention.
“Interested in a ride today?”, she asked as she passed.
“Only if you’re the guide.”, I replied.
“Think you can handle one with an attitude?”, she questioned.
“Are we talking about the horse or the guide?”, I inquired.
“You’re funny.”, she told me. And while Billy T, Farberman, and Tate stood by the fence that circled the coral, Veronica and I headed into the stable to saddle up some horses.
Billy T was the first one out of the barn and man could he ride. He was almost standing with his feet firmly in the stirrups with no weight on the animal’s back. He said that it gave him more control and it was easier on the horse to ride that way but it didn’t appeal to me. Not one bit. I preferred to ride with the reckless abandon of the Spaghetti Western, to simply jump on and ride like fuck. The horses never really seemed to mind. Old cowboy tunes started playing in my head as Veronica led us through the ravine and across the creek. It happened every time I got on a horse. This time it was Gene Autry’s ‘Back In The Saddle Again’ and ‘I’ve Got Spurs’ melding together to create one somewhat indiscernible song, although I suppose it could have simply been the pills. Not that it mattered. The sun was up, the air was clean and sweet, and Veronica was galloping towards me with her long, dark hair flowing in the breeze, and her wonderful tits bouncing up and down like balloons riding a wave, hypnotizing me into a state of total submission.
“Billy T’s hurt.”, she shouted as she raced past. “I gotta get help.” Tate , Farberman and I headed off to where we had last seen Billy T, and there he was, laying on the ground just a few feet from the embankment with his leg all bent and twisted, his riding crop still in his hand.
“You okay?”, Farberman asked.
“Do I look okay?”, Billy T responded, motioning to his leg.
“What the hell happened?”, Tate inquired.
“I don’t know.”, Billy T told us. “It was weird. All of a sudden the horse just reared up and I went flying across the field. It was like he got spooked or something. I think there’s something down in the ravine.”
Help arrived in the form of two ranch hands who loaded Billy T onto a flatbed and transported him to the hospital. Tate and Farberman headed down into the ravine in search of whatever might be down there, while Veronica and I followed the makeshift ambulance to the hospital. She was beautiful when she was worried, and despite the fact that Billy T was probably going to lose a leg, all I could think about was introducing her to the hard on I had been carrying around for most of the day. We sat in silence for a while, with me thinking about taking the official tour of her body, and Veronica probably thinking about her brother’s mangled leg, until the conversation unexpectedly took a turn that I never saw coming. “How come you’ve never hit on me?”, she asked.
“What do you mean?”, I asked her.
“Well”, she continued, “you never make comments about my body or make any rude remarks about what you want to do to me. Don’t you like me?”
“Are you kidding me?”, I asked. “Of course I like you. All day long I’ve been walking around with a hard on. Just looking at you makes me hot as hell.”
“I can take care of that for you.”, she assured me.
“Now?”, I inquired.
“Why not?”, she replied. “We’re here, we’re alone, and you’re certainly ready.”, she continued as she rubbed her hand across my crotch. We popped some Benzedrine and jumping into the back seat of the car set off on a journey of rowdy, western sex complete with the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air, and some of the dirtiest talk I had ever heard as she rode me off into a glorious sunset. By the time we reached the hospital, Billy T had his leg immobilized and stabilized, and was scheduled for surgery the next day.
Tate and Farberman found nothing in the ravine other than poison ivy or poison oak. Either way, their arms were red, swollen and itchy. Billy T. had a metal rod and several pins inserted in his leg, making it relatively useless, and ending his dream of being a jockey. He never rode again, but he wound up designing some kind of safety device to protect jockeys from falls, and is still very much involved in the horse racing industry. Tate went on to become a writer, publishing several books, and moved in with an artist named Ramona. Farberman continued with his scientific interests and found work with the government until his untimely and suspicious disappearance. Veronica continued leading trail rides at Rocking Horse Ranch, and started dating one of the ranch hands. We never slept together again, and to be honest, I was already beginning to lose interest in her. I suppose that it all just disappeared like a puff of smoke. She was an insanely fun ride, but she really had nothing else to offer me. She was somewhat of an idiot. I saw her once or twice more in passing, and while we were cordial, I had no interest in talking to her. I would have continued banging the hell out of her if she would have let me, but she was taking her new found relationship with Festus or Cleetus or whatever the ranch hand’s name was quite seriously. Years later I heard that she had joined some traveling rodeo show and had come out of the closet as a card carrying member of the League Of Lesbians. I continued my life as a gun slinging anti hero, travelling a path of self destruction while engaging in spectacular feats of daring for many years, and often times find myself inadvertently walking that path again. I’m not surprised really, I mean, we always seem to go back to what we know and who we are. The rest is all just pretense and make believe, and at this stage of my life I have no time for that shit.