Cowboy Sandwich

Barry Logan’s day had started out crappy and had gone downhill.

He sat, beer in hand, in a back booth in Rick’s Bar and Grill in Springs—a bumfuck town in Colorado. The place didn’t look all that clean: the tables were in desperate need of a good wipe down, the plastic covering on the bench seats felt sticky, and the music was too loud.

Barry looked down at his half-eaten meal of baked potato and fried chicken. He let out a soft burp. “And the food is too greasy,” he grumbled. Fearing he’d been overheard, he took a quick look around. The noisy crowd made him nervous. Small towns often meant small minds. Barry picked at the soggy coating on his chicken but pushed the plate away; he’d lost his appetite. He missed the fish and chips of home—the batter crunchy and golden, the chips crispy on the outside and soft on the inside.

Barry’s spirits lifted when he spied two hot cowboys come in and head for the bar. At least six feet four, both men had broad shoulders and torsos that tapered to narrow waists. Both men wore black Stetsons and western-style plaid shirts—one red, the other blue.

Now those I could eat, Barry thought, licking his lips. From the brief glimpse he’d had of their faces, he thought them to be brothers. He’d done many wild things in his time, but never two brothers. First time for everything, he thought and snickered.

Barry adjusted himself as he admired the way the faded Wranglers caressed the pair of tight butts. His mouth watered and his mind teemed with possibilities.

A shout from over by the dartboard diverted Barry’s attention. Two drunks, who couldn’t be far out of their teens, were squaring off over something and it looked like it could get ugly.

The barman—probably the eponymous Rick of Rick’s Bar and Grill—quickly restored order and the two would-be dart players were sent to opposite ends of the bar. Barry was surprised they hadn’t been ejected entirely. Maybe Rick knew their dads and would have a word with them later. This was a small town after all, and didn’t everyone know everyone in such places?

Barry forced himself to turn his attention back to his meal, which looked even less appetizing. Beads of fat were oozing down the sides of the chicken and were beginning to congeal on the plate. He took a swig from his beer to try and fight down the bile.

Someone put some money in the jukebox and Josh Turner’s signature song “Your Man” was pumped into the room. Barry closed his eyes. He loved this song, but it gave him too many ideas, had him wishing for things he thought he once had though turned out he didn’t. He’d embraced the old adage that the best way to get over a man was to get under another. But he’d been under a number of men, many of them cowboys, during his road trip across the States, yet his heart still felt empty. He knew once his trip took him to California, he’d get on a plane and go back home to England, his tail between his legs. Sighing, he sank lower in the booth.

Barry had been awakened early that morning by someone shaking his shoulder, urging him to get dressed and leave. Turned out the ranch hand Barry had spent the night with was married and his wife was coming home unexpectedly early. Barry had been bundled out of the guy’s trailer without breakfast or even a peck on the lips goodbye.

His day had gotten even shittier when his car, a second-hand Honda Civic that had seen him through four years of college and three years of life in upstate New York, died on what had to have been the most deserted stretch of highway west of the Mississippi.

The day’s crapiness quotient had increased when Barry had discovered there was no cell service and he’d had to trek up the side of a mountain before his phone showed a single bar. Thankfully he’d kept up his membership at triple A, but the overly-perky female dispatcher at the other end had said she’d need more than “at the bottom of an empty valley in the middle of bloody nowhere, Colorado” as his location. She’d asked if he had a smart phone. Barry confirmed that he did, then he’d had a slap hand against forehead moment when he remembered the phone had a GPS app. He was—or had been—a mobile games developer. His phone revealed his location and Ms. Perky had told him she’d send a tow truck as soon as possible.

Barry had shut off his phone to preserve the battery and trudged back down to his car to await rescue. As he’d walked he’d hoped for someone tall, dark, and handsome. Maybe the guy would be a little grease-stained, but that would only add to his hotness. Barry had read plenty of erotic stories of hapless motorists being rescued and ravished by hunky tow truck drivers.