Horse sweat feels just as gross as it looks. Type of info you don’t need to touch to know the real shit I mean. One of them days in the saddle...where crotch-busted miles, alters your whole scope of evaluated style.

I was out on the derange flatlands of Comanche country; near the panhandle of North Texas, close to the Oklahoma border. We rode in the brisk-chill, but it was sunny, at the end of November, and I thought: cowboys are a dedicated breed, because my crotch and ass are killing me.

Roger proved the full-scope of his horse-back expertise, and westerns like Joe Kidd, deceived my capabilities. I had done Roger a favor; given him a ride here from the gulf-coast, and his down-home disposition – Texas-to-the-core – wouldn’t let me leave, unless the favor was returned.

Roger was a genuine cowboy soul, and his veins pumped lone-ranger grit – it was a real shame that he was born a hundred years, too late.

Now, the favor returned, and I had ridden a horse, which I hadn’t done before. It felt good to trot on the back of the long-range mammal, and I was comin’ to a point where I had my fill and was ready to dismount and continue operating a car.

So, you can imagine the odd confusion in my concern, when I saw Roger open the gate of the corral, still on his horse. It was one of those sights where you know you are fucked, and this ride is about to get gnarly.

My horse seemed to know the drill, and I figured Roger was just gonna let the horses stretch their legs a bit longer than the limits of the corral. That judgement proved instantaneously incorrect. As soon as the horse crossed the gate threshold, the steeds blasted off, down the trail, and I was desperately tried to stay on its back.

My nerves didn’t feel right, the gallop speed increased, and Roger whipped around like a stationary owl swivels its head around, and yelled, “when we drop! Lean back! Shoot y’ur legs –V-shaped – in the stirrups!”

I’ll tell ya, it’s a hard strain on the inner-thighs to stay on a horse at full speed. My legs contorted in a death grip on the fast churn of shifting horse-tack – now, don’t go blowin’ steam at my terminology mistakes, that’s how Roger referred to the horse equipment.

I shouted, “what!?!” The clopping hooves made his voice inaudible.

The horses sprinted faster like an electrical surge, beneath low, face-scraping branches. My bobbled vision was obscured – just ridin’ blind – and abruptly, Roger vanished. Shit..., the hang of the word echoed in the abyss of my wondering mind as to what the hell is goin’ on, and to mentally prepare for the chaos, where I could only control the strength of my cling.

We shot like bullets down the canyon, and my neck hurled backward like I’d bounced off the ropes in a WWE match; catching a trachea-trasher of a clothesline. I wailed terrible bellows of fear, and we ran like thunder.

I finally managed to execute the V-shape stance – which is a skilled maneuver that alleviates the painful smash of your taint against the saddle. I was stiff as a lamppost, pensively petrified, and things got worse: I could see the sharp incline we were about to shoot up, and Roger showed-off again, “lean forward – grab the mane!” he hollered.

I'm about to eat a face full of broken neck dirt, I thought. My pulsed pumped panic.

Stability is crucial in the saddle, it’s tough to learn at a mild trot, so learning how to shift your weight at breakneck speed, on your first ride, is the dumbest way to learn the fine arts of cowboy-ism.

WHAM! My flung forward face slammed into the slimy neck of the mare, and I clasped my grip to the animal like a desperate baby chimp to its mother. My teeth were filled with grimy hair, it muffled my shrieks like duct-tape, and I was on course for a CTE diagnosis; head bouncing at the tempo of a point-guard on a dribbling fast-break.

My vision blurred, and I thought: my numb skull demands a pint whiskey at the end of this ride.

All I could see was the canyon’s rock wall of layered earth. I could feel my fingers slip and came to terms with the dirt that was about to hurt...shockingly, we flattened out, under the trees, and the speed of whiplash mayhem reduced to pleasant jog – I could erect myself and my scrambled brains congealed.

I caught up to Roger, “holy shit, bro! Give me a heads up! Shit, just toss me in the fire, why don’t cha!?!” I vehemently spat, gassed out.

“Eh, I knew you could handle it, cowpoke – sometimes, we ain’t where we expect to be, and we gotta do the thang we don’t think we can do; and in those times, we gotta trust our instincts, get on with it, despite our confidence, or lack there-of, and just hang on and get it done,” Roger said, with tranquil conviction like a Zen, cult-leader, “take a gander for a moment – you made it – still alive, and still on life’s ride.”

Valid point. I had to give him, that. Plus, he said it with cowboy-charisma like some key fact-of-life, you shouldn’t forget. It’s that kind of elevated perspective attained at the completion of immensely difficult experiences; you never believed you could handle – I was no desperado, but I felt giddy-up and fine.

“Fair enough...guess it was pretty cool...ya know, to gallop like a bandito on the run,” I said, flashing a proud grin.

“Good, cowpoke – means y’ur gettin’ in sync with the animal,” Roger said, ominously, “That’ll help, because right on, up ahead, the ride’s ‘bout to git a tad hairy,” I thought: shit, I gotta hang-on, again.

The trees filtered away and we stood over a dark blue lake. It was like a scene hand painted by God. Just for us – worth the pain of the saddle.

“Sho’ is purtty, ain’t it,” Roger said. The majestic view almost made a dude think about relocation.

“Fo sho, bro – I see the allure of the boot-scoot lifestyle,” I said. “You’re never really alone, and after all the drudgery, there’s moments like this – bonded with your steed – that make you admire the world.”

“Yup. ‘Bout sums it up, cowpoke,” Roger said. “I reckon, y’ur right, and I’ll tip my hat to it. Alright, well, better get a move on – sun’s settin’ soon.”

“Cool, bro. My groin is killin’ me – do we just head back the way we came?” I asked.

“Not-a-chance, cowpoke. You’ll get caught in the dark, and lost in the pines, that way,” Roger said, “we gotta go ‘round that big rock, out there, in the water – on the other side, we’ll run right to the barn.”

I hated the plan. “Bro, what the hell are you talking about? It’s like a nine-foot drop – down to the shore, and, look at that huge rock, jutting out in the water, like, almost thirty feet – can horses even fuckin’ swim!? – we’re gonna get fuckin’ soaked!” I said, and I’m sure the pony wasn’t too thrilled to have me pullin’ on the reigns.

Roger chuckled – That chud was gettin’ a helluva kick outta me shittin’ my pants.

Then, Roger said, “horses are great swimmers – just firmly give the ole bugger an all-business, heel nudge. You gotta mean it, though, or he won’t go – right there, in the sides, and then, as he submerges in the water, pull your feet outta the stirrups, and sit Indian-legged ‘till we back on land.”

Fuck horses. It was all I could think, buzzin’ with apprehension. Like most things in life, we had to go through to get back. It was pointless to sulk. Roger executed the “leap-down” maneuver tutorial, and I hollered, “now, crawl back up here, and make this horse heave off the cliff!”

Roger grinned at my rookie fear. “Think less ‘bout it. Just do & go with it – hold tight and stay calm,” Roger said, “be confident, trust the horse; he’ll take care of ya. Don’t let doubt creep in – they can feel your energy, and they don’t like insecure commands.”

“Real easy to say from down there, and a belt bustin’ with experience,” I said, irritably, and attempted to make the horse perform a leap that neither of us wanted to make.

Needless to say, he didn’t budge a muscle, and I’m sure the ole galloper thought: this crazy bastard is STUPID to go down this way.

Roger turned away. Probably, to relieve the pressure, or, because he didn’t want to see me spike in the ground like a nail-head. I paused, wrangled my mind, and breathed deep. My heart raced, but it bolstered me, and it was now or never.

“Fuck-it!” I hollered, “banzai!” Then with a loose grip of the reigns, I cranked decisive heels into the stallion’s underbelly. Suddenly, we were airborne. My ass floated off the saddle – totally terrifying, and I thought the term, “fuck-it,” has probably progressed humanity more than it gets credit for.

My mouth was open, scream-face loudly frozen in the free-fall. Internally, I compiled a bunch of vicious insults to lay on Roger, but the list got cut short when the horses front hooves landed like Simone Biles sticks gold medal, flip performance, and I slammed my nuts into the saddle nob, resulting in distracted agony – there goes my dreams of fatherhood.

“Ahhh! Hell! Shit! Fuck that hurts!!” I groaned, loud enough for ears across the lake to hear. It was no matter for the pony; he merely walked on, aloof to my pain. I shoved my hands in my pants to make sure my testicles were still intact.

“Well, look at that...the hard parts over,” Roger said; in that honorable, cool-head, cowboy way, that really said: I knew ya had it in ya.

Too bad, we weren’t outta the water yet, and Roger followed his commendable remark with advice for the real hard part, “kick them stirrups loose, hold your core tight, and sit like a monk meditates.”

We waded out and sunk into the frigid water; the icy splashes hit my face-of-disapproval that was beaded with nervous sweat. I was stiff & statuesque in the spine, astounded that while these animals had clubs for feet, they paddled well.

Around the rock, we emerged dry and the horses instinctively picked-up speed, back to the barn. I felt rodeo ready; at least, I thought I was, or my ass went so numb that I couldn’t feel the pain of the ride.

In the sky was an incredibly vibrant sunset. It roared like a blaze of pink, glorious fire. We removed the tack-components, and I was satisfied for givin’ the cowboy-style-a-whirl; however, it ain’t for me, and I’d be saddle-sore for a week.

“Hot damn! That ride beat the hell outta me, and I don’t think my knees will ever retain true alignment – is this why old cowboy’s walk like old whores?”

“Yup, this life’ll pound ya into a shape you don’t recognize –just part of livin’ – for err’body, really – you gotta just keep on...hold your shine and find a reason to survive the madness,” Roger said, “the years will mangle your soul. Part of humanism, I guess. We’re gonna die – which means we’re merely born to lose, and the only way to win in that type of game is to stoke some flame of joy, and pummel on through the ride.”

“Sure, dude, sounds fuckin’ inspirational, but Ima be real honest, I’m tired of the cowboy-zen shit...it sounds beautiful, and all...but, I gotta believe you need reasons like that when you suffer in the saddle, all fuckin’ day,” I said, “now, let’s get a buzz on – I gotta block out this awful throb in my crotch, you son-of-a-bitch.”

“You got it – I know a cure-all, for everything, kinda spot,” Roger said.

It was early on the deep side of the dark night, and we drove on an empty highway, under a sky stretched farther than the prairie. Which was clear of any clouds, and the twinkle of a zillion stars, like bright diamonds, so tangibly bright you thought you could pluck one from the universe.

“Hang a right on that dirt road, up there,” Roger directed.

I did, and up a gravel road there was an odious house in the moonlight; it resembled the scene of Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I felt skittish, like a deer being hunted, as I parked my champagne Cavalier. I looked around – tense & vigilant.

“So...is this Leatherface's house?” I asked.

“Sure, gives that vibe, huh, cowpoke,” Roger said.

“How do you know these people?” I asked.

“Relax. I’ve known this dude for longer than we got time to explain,” Roger said, “round these parts, if you lookin’ for somethin’ to smoke, pop, or snort – he's your man.”

So, at the door, Roger knocked. A scuffle ensued, voices murmured, I zinged with foul trepidation. Then, the door flew open, aggressively – in a way that usually results with guns pointed in your face.

“Roger! You goat-fucker! Good to see ya!” blurted, a loud, bald, behemoth of a man – built like a Juggalo, minus the face-paint.

Roger embraced the mega-man with a hug, and we entered the home. On couches, frayed at the seams, and days away from disintegration; sat the backsides of three women, clad like pole-performance professionals.

On each side were two, twitchy dudes, dressed like the familiarity between dirt-bike mechanics and methamphetamine recipes. Roger told the monster-of-a-man that we wanted to buy some weed – he was an affable beast, but I sensed that he could twist on a heel point, and rip a person’s head off – he handed me a Lonestar beer, and I observed the bizarre medley of Texans.

The home was decoratively bare, like it could be abandoned at the soonest alert of sirens. Weird chatter resumed, which appeared normal for them. I looked towards the kitchen, where I could hear the monster-man shuffle, and that’s when I noticed the hospital bed

From a solution-bag a tube ran down into the arm of a coffin-less corpse. Roger approached me, and asked, “you alright, there, cowpoke?”

“Nope. Gettin’ nightmare waves – is that dude in a coma?” I asked.

Roger turned his head. “Nah. That’s Hank...ya know...the dealer man,” Roger said.

“Ok, so is he alive?” I asked.

“Ole Hank, over there, of course he’s alive, and he’s been a damn-fine, dealer-man for years – he used to sample, quite heavily I might add, which led him to the permanently prone lifestyle,” Roger stated.

“You don’t say, huh,” I said with a no-shit tenor in my voice.

“Yeah, he was fucked up on the train tracks, over yonder, and I don’t know the full details, but let’s just say: he pecked a brawl with a locomotive...and, well, I ain’t got to elaborate...the positions we decide to take have to endure the wake of our fate.

“No way...that’s gnarly bro, and he’s still kickin’?” I asked, “like can he talk, make moves, or, like, c’mon bro, how does he run a fuckin’ drug business in that condition?”

“Well, nowadays, ole Hank’s just the brains of the operation – ya know, he’s got all the contacts – but, neck down, that skeleton don’t dance like it used to...and the burly boy – Steve – ya know, he’s the mover & the shaker of the operation; he’s the hands of their partnership, and takes care of ole Hank,” Roger said.

“So, does everybody here, like, work for Hank?” I asked. “It’s a mangy crew.”

“Nope – these’re just friends,” Roger said, “see, Hank likes company – especially, bein’ bed-ridden...and...welp...some of the ladies...ya know, take care of him – transactions of well compensation.” Roger emphasized the hint with a flutter of his brow.

“No shit...his dick works?” I inquired, baffled.

“Oh yeah, cowpoke,” Roger said, “ole Hank’s broken, but he ain’t beaten by this thang called life...everybody, even in the worst circumstances, has gotta work to find a pleasant release from their burdens.”

Ole Hank, was certainly torqued tougher than a Texas train. He was trapped alive in gizmo-pumped purgatory...but, I guess, there was some admirable quality in his survival – almost an arrogant artistry of persistence.

The monster, Steve, blundered over with a hefty ounce of the finest bud that the flatland had to offer – 60 bucks for a cheap ounce of dope that was as dry as a tumbleweed, rolling over lone-star pavement. I bought it – low-grade livin’ can still get you high.

I started to quickly roll joints, and I smoked ‘em faster, like a wildfire devours the dehydrated trees of a barren willderness. Steve blundered out of the kitchen with a tweedy-bird cage and asked, who wanted to feed the baby racoons...they were swaddled inside.

I had enough of Texas, and went out to the car, climbed inside, locked the doors, curled up to sleep, and preserve my energy to make a run for the horizon line, like a cowboy, at daybreak.