Don’t Call ‘Em Cowboy, ‘Til You See Their Underwear

Ranch hands and “cowboys”. They’re a dime a dozen.  Every summer, some new guy wet behind the ears and all new hat, tight wranglers, and Copenhagen shows up wanting to fulfill his dreams of becoming a cowboy, wrangler, or guide for the ranch.  Some are genuine. Others, well, others take a while to fit, and some never do.  Some are all swag, and are there to draw attention from the ladies. This guy in particular….

Growing up, I worked during the summer helping out around the ranch, taking trail rides, being a youth horsemanship camp counselor, and back country cook.  It left little time for socializing with high school friends or boys.  While girls my age were working on their tan lines at the beach, I worked on mine in the barnyard and on the trails. Only mine consisted of a t-shirt line halfway around the bicep, wristwatch mark, and bronzed neck.  The stark contrast of tanned arms and white chicken legs was startling, but so it went.  Since my social life suffered in the summer because of my busy schedule, it became easy to fall for the guys that wanted to play cowboy.  (Well, that AND being 17 years old!) This summer’s guy came with tight jeans, (should have been the first clue), a fancy truck, new hat, and rounded out the picture with a horse, brand new saddle, chaps, and horse trailer. They usually didn’t come THIS prepared, so… I was smitten.  Just knew this had to be love, and boy was I in luck this time. He was a REAL cowboy.  At least I thought…until he mounted his horse for the first time.

We were at the barn getting ready for a trail ride one morning, this guy showed up donning extra tight wranglers, a crisply ironed shirt, and hat creased just so, ready for a day of sweaty work.  The horses were caught and saddled, awaiting the guests at the hitch rack.  While waiting for the ride, I cleaned the barn, swept the tack rooms, and mucked stalls, while the Marlboro man, complete with a stem of grass between his pearly whites, held up the hitch rack, let me go busily about the barnyard without so much as lifting a finger.  Well, the guests finally arrived, and wouldn’t you know it, it was a bunch of city girls on a manhunt for a Montana cowboy.  Marlboro man was in luck!  He put on his shit-eating grin, and greeted the ladies, paying extra special attention the blond with the perky boobs.  Rolling my eyes, I put the broom away and went out to help adjust the saddles.  Finally, everybody was mounted and ready for the ride except him.  He goes to the barn for his horse, leads him out, checks his cinch, and tries to stab the stirrup with spurred boot.  Now, to give the guy a little credit, his horse was rather tall; about 16 1/2 hands, and cowboy stood all of 5’7″.  You can imagine the combination of skin tight jeans, short legs, and tall horse, and the outcome was going to be anything but successful.  So pretty boy misses his stirrup for the 3rd time, and finally makes it the 4th, reaches for the saddle horn to pull himself up and over, when the last little squat-thrust caused the butt of his snug jeans to ripout right across the cheek, exposing BRIGHT red underwear. (I was beginning to wonder if there was any room in those pants for breathing, let alone underwear.)  A gasp was heard from the girls, and Mr. Cowboy’s face matched his jockey shorts.  Then and there was the end of infatuation with him, realizing that real cowboys didn’t come in a package so neat and tidy.  Thanks be to Jesus for the creation of horses, giving a girl all she’d ever really need anyway.

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