“When you’re ready, gimme that nod, darlin’!” The guy’s voice is loud over the din surrounding me and there’s definitely a false note to his twang.
Poser . . . but damn, does he look great in those skintight jeans that leave nothing to the imagination. He’s going for the ‘what you see is what you get’ look and it’s serving him up to every pair of eyes in this place.
No judgement, though. It’s not like I’m any different.
I watched a YouTube video to get my cutoff shorts just right, I borrowed a pair of cowgirl boots with actual fringe, and I’m wearing an add-a-size pushup bra to make my breasts look bigger as they nearly bounce out of my low-cut tank top. I look like Daisy Duke and a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader got together, and I’m their style-baby creation for a reality television show called So You Wanna Be a Sexy Cowgirl?
How did I end up here, anyway?
Here is a honkytonk on the rough side of town, when I don’t even know how to two-step or line dance or any of the other stuff I’ve been doing all night.
Here is with my long legs wrapped around the vinyl of a mechanical bull and a cowboy I don’t know straddling me from behind. Apparently, we’re riding together, which seems unprofessional but also completely improper, so I’m down for it.
Here is in that moment I live for. I wait for my blood to sing through me and to feel its hot burn from the top of my head to the tips of toes and everywhere in between.
Anticipation. Excitement. Restlessness.
All so loud inside my head that everything else is shut out. There’s no real world, no pain, no doubts, only hope that the next dare will leave me adrenalin-filled and buzzing, high on the danger and risk.
It’s my favorite moment, right on the edge of greatness.
Another voice whispers in my ear, “You’re not having second thoughts, are you? Give the man his nod and let’s ride, baby.”
I’m not this guy’s baby, but the high flows through me and I look to the bull man. His eyes are hungry, whether for me or to watch me fall off this thing, I’m not sure, but it’s all the same.
I nod, and my last conscious thought is that he has a pretty smile before everything in my head becomes a shout.
Hang on! Squeeze with your knees! Grip the rope!
I’ve got the knot of the length of rope in one hand, my free hand waving around like a maniac for about zero-point-two seconds. Then I give in and grab the knot with both hands. It’s not pro-style, but I don’t give a shit as I hoot and holler and hold on for dear life.
Behind me, the cowboy whose name I don’t even know has his arms wrapped around me to fist the base of the rope, which suddenly seems very phallic with both our hands gripping it. His thighs squeeze me as he pulls me back against him with every jerking move of the machine beneath us. I can feel him, hard and long against my ass when we bump together, which has to hurt because we’re not talking an easy jostling here.
But the operator must be in cahoots with Cowboy because the rhythm becomes less jerky. Instead, we spin a bit but the forward and backward movement is smooth and wavelike. Cowboy’s grunts don’t sound so much like work to hang on now. Instead, he’s groaning in my ear like he’s enjoying this a little too much.
But still, I hold on, praying for the eight.
Bump-bump-bump.
One last maneuver has Cowboy bouncing against my ass, and if there weren’t two layers of denim between us, I have no doubt he’d easily slip right inside me with those thrusts.
The thought makes me unsteady, and I lose my grip, slipping off to the side. Cowboy tries to save me, but I fall from the circle of his arms, my legs flying up in the air as I bounce to the cushions below the bull.
The crowd cheers all around me, and my eyes jump to the digital readout.
Nine point five.
I wait for the second-best feeling to wash through me. Success, accomplishment, power.
Son of a bitch, I made it! Plus overtime!
I jump up and make a high-kneed victory lap around the padding, slapping hands as I go.
When I get to my bestie, she grabs my shoulders and shakes me almost as hard as the bull did. “Oh, my God! You did it, you crazy bitch! That was epic! Awesome! Hell, yeah!” she calls out in a fake twang of her own, and everyone around us cheers again as they hold up their beers.
The smile on my face is so big my cheeks hurt.
“That was some ride. What’s your name?” I turn to face the deep voice behind me. Cowboy is looking me up and down like a snack. Like we’re already halfway through foreplay and I’m a foregone conclusion.
I consider for a quick moment. He’s ridiculously hot. After all, I know what he’s working with since I felt it against my ass, and he was good with that bull-riding motion, which tells me he’s probably at least decent in the hay.
I giggle inside at my own countrified joke.
Tiffany grabs at my arm, digging her nails in a little too hard. The universal girlfriend code of no, no, no, abort mission!
I don’t even have to look at her to know her eyes are yelling at me, so I give Cowboy my sweetest smile. “Cindy, but I’ve got to go.” It’s our play on Cinderella, an inside joke that roughly translates to ‘run for it like it’s midnight.’
With that, Tiffany helps pull me over the polished wood railing around the bullpen and we take off, laughing as our hair flows behind us like perfectly curled banners.
“Sorry!” I call back to Cowboy, who’s yelling at me to wait.
I laugh harder, smile bigger, and dodge a waitress with a tray full of beers. We’re in the parking lot, Tiffany pulling into the street before I can ask why she didn’t let me give Cowboy my real name.
“He was hot, Tiff. He could’ve ridden me all night!”
In the passenger seat, I buck my hips like I’m back on the bull and bite my lip like I’m definitely somewhere else. Namely, beneath Cowboy.
“You know that’s not how this works,” she admonishes.
She’s right. We dare each other to do crazy things all the time. It’s a big part of our fun friendship.
But we have limits.
Nothing that could hurt someone, no sex, and nothing really illegal. A little illegal is sometimes okay, like the time we trespassed on the roof at school to underage drink and smoke, but nothing seriously over the line.
“So sex with Cowboy couldn’t be part of the dare. It could’ve been my own fun after smashing that dare successfully. Did you see me ride that bull? That was no beginner’s luck. Maybe my streak could’ve continued all night long.” I’m back to teasing her even though I’ve mostly already forgotten Cowboy in favor of my delight at winning the dare.
“Maybe, but you didn’t see the waitress eyeballing you two. I figured out pretty quickly that if you got off that bull and onto Cowboy, you were going to be in a catfight in less than those nine-point-five seconds this time.” She says it seriously, but there’s a tiny bit of disappointment in the words. Like she would’ve paid good money to see me catfight in a cowboy bar.
But she’s a great friend and saved me like the rule follower she is. Which is to say that she dances all over the rules, tapping her pretty booted feet on both sides with regularity, but that’s pretty in line with me, so we’re golden.
“Oh, no. I didn’t see that. Thanks for saving me then.” I reach across the console and hug her shoulders, careful not to distract her from driving.
When I’m back in my seat, she glances over at me, a smile already blooming. “But dayum, did you ride that bull, girl! Whoo hoooo!” she yells out into the night through the rolled-down windows.
“And yeehaw!” I answer just as loudly.
Dare done.
We pull into the dorm parking lot with our lights off so security hopefully won’t see us, because bull riding wasn’t our only dare of the night.
Hours ago, I was the one who dared Tiffany to sneak out, so she’s got a successful dare done tonight too. As long as we can sneak back in after curfew without getting caught.
We park and get out, staying low between the cars. I’m not sure why, but it seems like the sneaky thing to do. We’re probably too loud as we shush each other, giggling quietly, but we manage to make it all the way inside the building and to our dorm room without getting busted.
As I lay in bed, my face scrubbed clean and in my PJs, I replay the night. Fuck, that was fun.
A tiny voice tries to butt in, telling me to be safe, take things seriously, and be good. It’s my dad’s voice, living in my head, quoting all the things he’s said to me an infinite number of times over the years. He still thinks of me as his good little girl.
But when I set his prerogatives on the scale against the exhilaration I feel doing things that are a little crazy, Dad loses every time. Mentally, I can tell him to shut up and do what I want, though I’d never tell him that in person. I love him way too much for that.
I just love doing daring things too.
