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READY TO RIDE Jamie Michaels He sat there passively as I spotted him across the near empty bar, perched on a stool, feet firmly planted on the floor, puffing a cigarette and sipping a beer He smiled as our eyes made contact almost as though he expected me to stop and talk, so I did. First impulse was to run, throw my arms around him and offer myself to him, but instead I walked steadily toward him, never losing eye contact, afraid the spell would pass. Offering a hand I uttered, "My name's Stephen." "James," he spoke freeing his hand from his beer and extending it. It had a coolness from holding the beer, but he had a grip that matched his physique, bold and masculine, what you would expect from a cowboy. I took a long moment to take him in from bottom to top; ostrich skin boots, probably a size eleven, didn't appear to be worn in the right places, probably his Saturday evening wear. Levi jeansÔ, not WranglersÔ, but 501s, stonewashed in color, that hugged his massive thighs and appeared to strain at the crotch area, allowing the base of the silver buttons to show. They wrinkled beneath his wide brown belt and immense buckle as though they held back a monster cock. His "ready to ride" black tee shirt was probably a size too small intentional so it would hug the curves of his upper body, his well-worked arms, washboard stomach and well defined chest. The face appeared too smooth to belong to someone who spends his days riding and roping cattle, although he did seem a bit older than I had first imagined. A light brown mustache and goatee accentuated his squared, smooth face. A black Stetson, pulled forward, shadowed his eyes, but they appeared to be gray, and strands of dark blond hair escaped its ...

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