It was 1970, Sacramento. I was in college. The temperature hovered around 100˚ that steamy summer night, so I was dancing with friends in Sacto's only gay bar ‒ naturally, located just outside of town, across the river amidst the gas stations and motels of gritty West Sacramento.
A cowboy swaggered through the door into the bar. Though fairly young and fresh faced, his incipient Marlboro Man showed through. Tall, muscled, and blue-eyed, with golden fur glinting on deeply tanned forearms. A Western wet dream, sho' 'nuff. Not just fresh meat in a hothouse town, but so butch, so blond, that he could have had anyone in the place.
So why did he pick me? I was not then nor have I ever been cute. Or butch. But after pausing just inside the door to look the place over, with all eyes upon him, he walked up to me. I think we exchanged names. He wasn't a talker; I was struck dumb.
He pulled me onto the dance floor, less to dance than to let me feel the hard-on in his pants, and then, to the flabbergasted gawking of all present, he almost literally dragged me out by my hair ‒ which I had then, yes I did. He was in and outta the place in three minutes.
He didn't say much as he drove his beat up Chevy several blocks deeper into low-life West Sacramento, and pulled up at a typically run down roadside motel.
I asked, "You just visiting?"
"Yup."
"What are you in town for?" I inquired cautiously.
He said he was with the rodeo, and I believed him. There sure was one, set up like a traveling carnival on the other side of town. His outfit ‒ Stetson, faded kerchief round his neck, Western shirt, boots that looked like they'd kicked shit ‒ was mighty authentic looking. Plus, he was bandy legged and smelled vaguely of horse. I was kinda thrilled ‒ picked up by a cowboy! Well, I needn't have gotten my nipples hard. Turned out the pleasure was all his.
We didn't have a beer and we didn't talk. He was all business. But he didn't want to kiss at all. He didn't much want to have his cock sucked, which I was (typically) eager to do, it being an unusually sturdy and pretty blond thing. Nope. He pulled me off it a couple times, impatient. Flipped me over, and before I could ask for the KY, was plowing me. Plowing well and roughly, for sure, but not for long. Quickly finished, he rolled off me, and was immediately sleeping.
He was in the shower when I woke up in the morning, so I waited in bed. Perhaps now we'd do it more thoroughly. But when he came out of the shower, he pulled on his shirt and pants, plucked his wallet off the dresser, and was soon accusing me of stealing money from it.
I got a little scared. This could get dangerous. But he was hustling me into my clothes so fast I had to put on my shirt and zip my pants in the parking lot, as the door slammed behind me. I hiked home, feeling sorry for myself, but even sorrier for my cowboy. That's one dude who didn't sign the motel register as Mr. Proud.