I am so ashamed to admit this. If you claim I said this, in public, I will deny it.
If you even so much as make a subtle hint in a crowded room, I will tell you that you are plum crazy, and I have no idea where you came up with such balderdash.
I have a weak spot for cowboys.
I don't know if there's a 12 step group for this affliction. Mainly I've been able to get a handle on my problem through being a die-hard liberal, staying away from Country & Western music and farmland communities. But once in a while, I'll go to the rodeo, like I did this weekend.
I have to wear dark glasses, because I tend to do a lot of ogling.
I don't know if it's the tight haircuts and shaved faces, the shirts with the piping and mother of pearl snap buttons that are so easy to unsnap. Or those big, eye-catching belt buckles. Maybe it's the tight jeans and the pointy cowboy boots, or perhaps it's those sexy hats. The way they walk with their finger cocked in a belt loop, a nod of the head, a tip of the hat. If you want to know if chivalry is dead, head to the rodeo. It ain't.
It'd never work, me and a cowboy. I just can't imagine it. But my imagination tends to get away from me, about once a year, when the rodeo comes to town.
So I sat in the stands Friday night with my girlfriends, and while there were a few interesting moments out in the dirt, most of my time was spent watching the butts in the grandstand.
Later, at the Palamino Room, I danced with Frank, who had on a black cowboy hat. He asked if I wanted a drink. I said, "Yes. Water, please." He brought me back a Bud Light.
We danced, I wore his hat, and I removed his hand from crawling underneath the elastic of my bra at least 3 times.
I danced slowly with him, this big hunk of 27 year old cowboy, while he sang "Neon Moon" into my ear, drunkenly off-key. He asked if I was coming back to the rodeo the next night.
Nope. I'll be back on the wagon by then.