1. Eight Seconds

    Date: 5/16/2018, Categories: Gay, Author: byKeithD, Source: Literotica

    on his way up, but Cal was on his way down the other side. "Whataya think?" Vince said, pulling a yellow cowboy shirt with baby blue patches out of the plastic bag and then opening the boot box to extract red leather cowboy boots with yellow and blue inserts. He almost said the boots had cost him a week's wages, which they did, but he stopped just in time, remembering that he'd asked Cal to float him on his half of the rent the last month. Cal scrunched up his face and said, "Really striking there. You'll be a queen in the ring." It was exactly the wrong thing for him to say, especially after the recent session behind the gas station near Fort Collins. Up until Vince had met Cal, Vince had been a top. It had been Cal who turned him into a bottom, and Vince was still sensitive about that. For his part, Cal fully realized the sacrifice Vince had made for their partnership. Vince's face clouded up and got red and he slammed the boots back behind the passenger door. In dismay, Cal tried to reverse field. "I mean they look great. You'll be a real standout," he said. But it was too late. The damage had been done. Vince stuffed the shirt back in the plastic bag and stowed it behind the seat. He pulled his plaid shirt out of the cab, and huffily, without looking at Cal, pulled it on. His eye caught a young blonde's hesitation to take a second look at him. "How ya doin', sweetheart?" he called over to her and blew her a kiss. Blushing, she looked away, but she couldn't help but form ... a slight smile on her face and hurried on toward the bleachers. "Ah, come on, Vince," Cal cajoled. "Don't get in a bad mood. The boots and shirt are fine." Cal fully realized that the flirting with the girl had nothing to do with the girl. "But for homos, right? Declaring myself, you're sayin'. But it's OK. I don't mind bein' riled. Goin' into the ring with some anger on helps," Vince said, giving Cal a disparaging look. "Ain't I told you that often enough? Here." "What's this?" Cal asked. Vince was handing him $50 in fives and tens. Staying on the bull for eight seconds today would bring $100 back—and getting to Nationals would earn $10,000 in a participation fee and $50,000 to the winner. "My entry fee. You go on over and get us checked in. I got somethin' to do first. Meet you at the bull pen in about an hour." "OK, but you aren't—?" "I'll meet you later," Vice said, setting his stance and nearly glaring at Cal, daring him to fill out that sentence. Cal didn't do it. He just shrugged, turned, and walked off toward where there was a table under a canopy, where the tickets were being sold and the riders were checking in and paying their fees. Vince walked over to a fifteen-year-old brown and beige, thirty-eight-foot RV that he'd seen at every bull-riding event for the past three years. He stepped up at the door and banged on it. "Harv, you in there?" He called out. "It's me. Vince." He got no response, so he came off the step, backed up to the side of the RV a few steps away ...