His name was Lee. I think he was about 18 or 19 years old. Hired by my friend Tom Buck to do handyman chores on the ranch. Oh, he was a real cutie....lean, dark haired, wearing tight Levis and a beat up cowboy hat.
He lived in a little trailer somewhere on the ranch, but had his meals in the house with Tom and the rest of us. And he was part of the social circle so was usually always around, all weekend. He'd do some chores, then come in the house and eat, drink, smoke, whatever and go back out.
Saturday night he came out in the living room, having just finished taking a shower, and he was wearing cutoffs...which, in itself, was odd because it was pretty darn cold outside and I was sitting right by the fireplace. The wooden kitchen table was pulled up near the fireplace so I was sittin' comfy. He sat down beside me and opened a beer. I looked down and noticed he had a huge, long scar on his right thigh (which was the one closest to me). So, naturally, I asked him about it.
(Now, you should know that he was a very friendly guy and we had been talking a lot ever since I got there, and I thought he was a real cutie. Also, you should know I'd been drinking some wine and was feeling my oats...or grapes...or whatever. My tongue was a tad loose...just a tad.)
But I didn't just ask him about it. I reached down and traced the scar with my finger...ever so lightly and asked "How on earth did you get that?" He told me....I can't even remember how he got it because running my finger over that smooth, firm, young skin was such a rush, all I could hear was the blood rushing through my hot little veins. After he told me, I reached down and touched it again. This time, though, I also ran my finger over skin that wasn't scarred...nothing too blatant, but I gave him a really sweet smile while I was doing that and saying "Man, I bet that hurt!" My hand was inches away from causing us both a lot of trouble...so I stopped...went back to sippin' wine and dreamin' those dreams.
