Driving home this evening, I heard Ozzy Osborne’s “Bark at the Moon”. Which made me start to wonder “Why didn’t they play this song in the twilight movies? I mean..they turned into werewolves.” Which brought my thoughts to Taylor Lautner and his being shirtless (I’m not his fan, just a fan of man shirtlessness), which made me start to think about someone I haven’t thought of in a long time. Cowboy Perpendicular Penis.
Now, Cowboy PP was a long time ago, and I don’t even think my close friends really know a whole lot about him. But he was a stetson cologne dream come true. I was 19 at the time, and the Dixie Chick’s had just come out with their “Cowboy, Take Me Away” song which you could not get away from no matter what station you were listening to. So wasn’t it providence I would find my cowboy at the same moment in time. (And what exactly was a classy city chick like me doing with a cowboy. No idea. It’s not like we had anything in common.) I had just broke up with high school sweetheart (if you don’t know about high school sweetheart, refer to my post regarding my infinity for men of the cloth), and it was high time I took a ride on someone new. So while I sit here next to my campfire (not shitting, I am sitting next to a fire) I thought I would recount for you and myself all those memories with Cowboy PP and the invaluable lesson I learned from this experience.
Cowboy PP was steer wrestler. You heard me..he was a rodeo star. He was 18 then, always wore his cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and made Wrangler jeans look like they drove to his house to sew them onto his dreamy ass every day. And see his ass everyday I did because we fucked everywhere. All the time. His house, my apartment, his truck, my car, his convertible, his camper, in fields, everywhere we could. He was romantic when he wanted to be. For my 19th birthday, he made me a tape of Chris Ledoux love songs and we spent the day sexually christening his parent’s cottage. When we were not having coitus, we were hanging out with his buddies. They all had those 1970’s GMC trucks (the ones that look like Zeus drafted and gave GMC the rights to build) they would demolish in mud pits and sand dunes. That’s what we did every weekend. We ran mud trucks and burned mattresses. We rode horses together and he taught me how to ride properly. (which didn’t do a damn amount of good because those fuckers always run with me. Haven’t been on one since Jean and I took our road trip in 2001).
Cowboy PP was also crazier than horse shit. I remember going to his parents house and his mother told me he was very depressed that day and I walked into his room to find him staring at this ceiling. He didn’t even acknowledge I was even there..he just laid and stared like he had just had a lobotomy. He also hid a gun under his pillow at night. One night while his parents were away, I had discreetly spent the night with him in his bed. (Big NO-NO). As I laid down and put my arm under the pillow, I pulled out a revolver. Asking him What the Hell, he told me to calm down and the safety was on. He kept it there for protection he had said. Being a dumbass, that’s all I had to hear. I slept that night with a revolver under my head, no qualms. Could have blown my fucking head off that night. In another fit of Cowboy PP sadness, he drove my first car, an 88 Cutlass Ciera, through the sand dunes and drove it till it was derelict. My dad was happy to sell it to some guy who wanted to fix it up for $25.00. `Jesus.
We saw each other for about 3 months I would say. Around the time he graduated High School, he started acting differently towards me. He wasn’t calling, he wasn’t coming around, the sex wasn’t as much fun. Then he went a way to some rodeo thing for a few weeks. I remember being so excited around the time he came home. But he didn’t call. I started to panic. I tried calling his house desperately trying to get a hold of him. All I got was a family member telling me they would give him the message.
My friend lived close to where one of his buddies lived and I would drive out there obsessively for the next few days looking for him. I remember seeing him pass by her house and, to her utter astonishment, I took off after him like a rocket, racing to catch up to him. I remember my friend pleading with me to slow down but I couldn’t. I had to catch up to him. I followed him to his friends house where I promptly got out and gave him hell for not calling or trying to see me. I got some excuse about how he had just come back and he was going to call he just hadn’t had a moment yet. I don’t remember why I had gone to his house that night but I did. And guess who was there with Cowboy PP? Some Cowgirl Slut who he had conveniently forgotten to tell me about. His Ex-Cowgirl Slut to be exact. I remember bolting outside to which he followed and he told me he didn’t know what he was doing and he needed some space so he could think about if he wanted to continue seeing me or her.
Lesson # 97-NOOOOOOOOOOOOO-NOOOOOOOOOOOOO-NOOOOOOOOOOOO BITCHES! Do not EVER give that man the time of day as soon as he A) cheats on you then B) says he needs space. Even if he hasn’t cheated but says he needs space, dump that piece of male garbage pronto….right on the spot!! Why? Because he’s a fucking idiot, that’s why! Dreamy Cowboy or no, do you want to devote your time and energy to a fucking idiot? He doesn’t know what the hell he wants and obviously doesn’t see he has this fantasic woman (or man) right in front of his face who would give anything to stay by their side. To finish my story, I gave this cra-cra asshole his space. For two weeks, I was on pins and needles hoping he had picked me. Guess what boys and girls? He didn’t. I basically waited 2 weeks to get dumped.
So, in conclusion, if you find yourself faced with this scenario, this is what I would do. Calmly walk into the kitchen, make yourself a martini (with the cheap vodka, don’t waste the good stuff) walk back to where he is standing, all looking sad, depressed, and shit, throw the martini in his face, smack him, tell him to get out, run at him so he’s fumbling for the doorknob, and give his ass a final kick to send him flying across your front porch into the front yard (where hopefully he broke and arm or rib), shut the door, lock it, and drink what is left in the martini glass (If any). Then go make a real one with the good stuff. Dump his phone number from you phone immediately. That way, once you’re sufficiently shitfaced, you will not be tempted to drunk dial. (I’ve done it…that’s bad too).