by Peter Hughes
As a statewide realtor in Texas, I often travel from the big city to the country. I recently became acquainted with a rancher in East Texas named Joe Ledbetter, who everyone in his little town called “Farmer Joe.” I don’t know why; it was just one of those little nicknames people gave him.
Farmer Joe owned a ranch near Lufkin in Angelina County, which was a 3-hour drive northeast from my Houston office, and had just purchased more land adjacent to his. I arranged to meet him on a Friday afternoon to deliver the papers and explain about the different taxes and fees he’d have to pay for his new land.
It took a little longer to reach Lufkin thanks to one of those pop-up thunderstorms that Texas is famous for in the late winter. By the time I reached Farmer Joe’s ranch-style house, the rain was coming down in buckets and thunder was booming.
Farmer Joe stood in the front of his doorway with an umbrella. I grabbed my valise and sloshed my way to greet him. “Hello, sir!” I shouted over the din of the rain. “It’s Peter Hughes with your deeds.”
“Howdy, sir,” Farmer Joe responded with a shake of his hand. “Come on in and get warm.”
Farmer Joe led me in to a Western-style living room with a stone fireplace and leather-bound furniture. A cheery fire was blazing in the fireplace, and the room smelled of mesquite and bourbon. Very masculine atmosphere, I thought to myself.
“Can I get you anything?” Farmer Joe asked. “You must be chilled.”
“Not right now, thank you,” I replied. “Glad you have the fire going.” I was wearing my suit, and I knew that sloshing through the rain had gotten my trouser cuffs wet.
“Here, let me get a towel for you,” he stated. Before I could say no, he had bustled through a door and come back in less than twenty seconds with a big bath towel.
Farmer Joe handed me the towel and I gently eased off my dress loafers. Luckily my dress socks weren’t wet, so I rubbed my trouser cuffs and then put my wet shoes on top of the folded towel to dry. I took off my jacket, pulled up my socks and turned to look up.
I noticed that Farmer Joe had taken off his boots – they must have been wet as well – and stood before me in his gold-toe white socks.
He was a very masculine-looking man: over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and arms straining against his tight flannel shirt. His jeans were so tight I swear I could see his basket. His hair was dirty blond and his eyes were blue as sapphires. He had a very warm smile with perfect white teeth set in a handsome tanned face that had just a hint of stubble. What a hunk, I thought to myself. I hope he doesn’t care that I like men. This one is HOT! I just couldn’t stop staring.
“I’ll put your shoes next to the fire,” he announced. “I know that you city boys like your shoes to be dry and comfy.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I know. I should have worn my jeans and boots, but I came straight from a meeting. Can you put my jacket there, too?”
“No problem, sir,” Farmer Joe said with a smile. “How about a drink to warm you up?”
“Some coffee would be nice.”
“I was thinking of something stronger.”
I paused. “Maybe after we go over the papers.” The last thing I needed was to get drunk with a hot cowboy at his house during a thunderstorm. Who knew what would end up happening?
“OK,” Farmer Joe said agreeably. “Show me what you got.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Them papers you brought me.”
“Oh,” I replied, a bit flustered. “Sure – let’s sit down on the couch and I can spread them out for you on the coffee table.”
We sat down on the rich leather sofa and Farmer Joe sat to my left. I pulled out the papers from my now-dry valise and showed him where to sign so he could claim his property.
Farmer Joe scribbled his signature and dated each of the papers I gave him. I gave him the originals and put the copies back in my valise. “There you go,” I announced. “You now own another 100 acres of Angelina County.”
His tanned face broke into a hearty grin. “Alright!” he cheered. “Time to celebrate.”
He got up from his perch on the couch and came back with a bottle of Tennessee bourbon. “How do you take yours, sir?”
“On the rocks. And please – call me Peter,” I said.
“Call me Joe.”
“You got it, Joe.”
Farmer Joe padded back into the kitchen/bar area and came back with a couple of glasses and some ice in a silver bucket. He poured himself a straight shot and poured a second shot over ice for me.
We toasted each other. “Cheers,” I said.
“Back at you,” he responded.
I took a small sip of bourbon, relishing the rich taste of oak-barrel liquor on my tongue. Farmer Joe took his in one big gulp. “HOTCHA!” he exclaimed. “Damn, that’s the stuff!”
I took another sip. “So, Joe – what do you raise around here?”
“Quarter horses and some cattle.”
“Is that why you need the extra land?”
“Yep.” He poured himself another shot and down it went.
I finished my drink. Farmer Joe filled it right up again.
“Whoa, wait a minute,” I protested. “I’ve got to drive back to Houston tonight!”
“Nah,” Farmer Joe said with a smile. “We’re celebrating my big-ass land purchase. It’s not every day you add 100 acres to your land. Besides, you’re welcome to stay here if you like.”
Oh, SHIT, I thought to myself. Now I’ve gone and done it. I can’t be rude and refuse another drink, and besides – he’s a good client. My boss would kill me if I lost this account!
Aloud I said: “I can’t impose on you, Joe – but if you can point out a hotel nearby, I can take that.”
“No hotel,” Farmer Joe insisted. “I’ve got a couple of spare rooms. Why waste money?”
Great, I thought. Now I’m obligated.
“Um…sure…as long as it’s OK with anyone else who lives here,” I stammered.
Farmer Joe’s eyes lost a bit of their shine. “I’m by myself here,” he said quietly. He took another shot of bourbon. “My wife died a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry, Joe,” I said softly. “I didn’t know.”
“S’OK,” he replied. “You learn to live with it. Besides, I got a nice strapping nephew away at school who stays with me over the winter and summer. One day all this will be his.”
“That’s good,” I said. I took a deep sip of bourbon. I can relate to this guy, I thought. It’s not easy being by yourself and having your true love gone. God knows I wasn’t the same when Jay died. It took me years to even think about another man again!
Farmer Joe’s eyes started to brighten again. “Hell, why are we drowning our sorrows? We were celebrating!” He started to grin. “Maybe I’ll write a song about it sometime soon.”
My attention was hooked. “You write songs?”
“Yep.”
“Like Gene Autrey used to, back in the day?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I’ll be!” I said with a smile. “I never knew a real singing cowboy before!”
Farmer Joe chuckled. “You do now, buddy!” he said. “Here – look at this.”
Next to the couch he showed me a guitar case. “I keep this here in case I get inspired in front of the fire,” he told me. “You know, if something goes down or if I get a thought in my head about something, I sing a chord or two and just take it from there.”
I laughed. “I wish I had that kind of talent,” I confided. “I’m just a 9-to-5 city guy who works in an office and does chores on the weekend. I don’t have the motivation or inspiration like you do here in the country, man!” I finished my drink and put my glass down on the table.
Farmer Joe laughed and slapped his thigh. “I got a hundred acres more inspiration now, buddy!” he exclaimed. “And I owe it all to you!” In my buzzed state, I appreciated the fact that he called me “buddy.”
The bourbon had let my inhibitions go. “Nah, Joe,” I said with a grin. “I just did the wheelin’ and dealin’. I wanted to make sure that you got the biggest bank for your buck!”
“Whoa, now, buddy!” Farmer Joe said with a hearty grin. “You’re talkin’ like a country boy now, instead of a high-toned Houston realtor!”
“Hell, Joe, where do you think I grew up?” I asked him. “My parents brought me up in Conroe, just north of Houston. It was little ole country town way back when in the 1980s when I was a kid!” Already I could feel my Southeast Texas drawl coming back, which I’d tried to hide ever since my college days. My face was flushed and I hadn’t been this happy in a long time.
“Well, let’s drink to country folks!” he exclaimed. He poured himself another shot and dang if he didn’t pour a double shot for me. I had to reach over and add more ice to my glass.
We clinked glasses again. “To Hank Williams, Jr.” I proposed.
“Why’s that?”
“Hell, Joe, you know the old song – ‘A Country Boy Can Survive!’ Ol’ Hank Jr. was talkin’ about US!” I enthused. I took a deep sip of my bourbon.
“That’s right!” Farmer Joe enthused. “Let me get my guitar out.”
He opened up the case and brought out a Gibson acoustic guitar. Having been in a band or two in my high school days, I knew that this one had cost a pretty penny!
“That’s beautiful,” I said honestly. I took another slug.
“Thanks. Bought it after my wife passed. It’s been my companion ever since.” He strummed a few chords and played the refrain of “A Country Boy Can Survive.” I belted out part of the refrain while he played. Yeah, I was slightly looped but I knew this song from way back. It was like being back in college again!
I was really getting comfortable now. I loosened my tie and took it off.
“Damn, Peter – you got a nice voice!” Farmer Joe congratulated me. “Maybe we should write a song or two!”
“Oh please, Joe!” I was embarrassed. “I can sing but I can’t write a thing.”
“Ever tried?”
“Well…no.”
“Why not?”
That was a good question. Why not? Then I said the only thing that I could think of:
“I don’t know of anything of interest that someone wants to hear about from me.”
Farmer Joe set his guitar down and looked at me closely. Slowly he shook his head. “I don’t believe that, buddy,” he said quietly. “All of us got a song or two in us – even if it’s about something that’s an everyday routine.”
I picked up my drink and drained it. Farmer Joe knocked back another shot. He looked at me and I looked at him. I sensed some understanding flowing between us – but I didn’t want to lose control.
Instead, I made light of the topic. “What, you mean like drinking whiskey?” I asked.
Farmer Joe smiled and nodded. “Why not? That’s the makings of a song.”
Silently he refilled my glass. I took a small sip of bourbon. “Whiskey, whiskey, there it goes,” I muttered.
Farmer Joe looked up with a start. “What did you say?”
I was confused. “All I said was whiskey, whiskey, there it goes. Why?”
Farmer Joe immediately picked up his guitar. “That’s the tempo I’ve been looking for!” he exclaimed. “I strummed a melody the day before I bought my land, and now you’ve given me the words I need!”
I started smiling. “You mean it?”
“Sure as hell do!”
“Well, play me the chords then, Joe.”
Farmer Joe strummed his guitar and picked out eight notes. It was a kind of sing-song line, almost child-like. “Say it again, Peter,” he urged.
I took a deep breath and tentatively sang:
“Whiskey, whiskey, there it goes!”
Then I stopped. “It needs another line,” I explained. “We left the chord hanging.”
“Mmmm,” Farmer Joe mused. “I guess we need to ponder on it some.”
He took another belt of bourbon and I sipped my drink. Farmer Joe yawned a bit.
“Don’t mind me, buddy,” he said. “I’ve been up since the crack of dawn. Mind if I stretch out a bit?”
“It’s your house,” I said. “You’ve had a big day, so relax.” I poured some more bourbon for him to drink.
Farmer Joe stretched out on the couch and his white-socked feet were almost in my lap. They looked so big and inviting! I swear I could see his toes lightly twitching under the cotton fabric of the gold-toe socks.
Toes, I thought in my semi-inebriated brain. Hey, that would rhyme!
Aloud I said:
“Hey Joe, how about this:
“Whiskey, whiskey, there it goes,
From your lips down to your toes!”
Farmer Joe chuckled and wiggled his toes in his socks. “Sounds great, buddy!” he exclaimed. “But we gotta add more lines to tell the story.”
My inhibitions were going fast now that we were buzzed and comfortable. I reached out and tweaked Farmer Joe’s socked toes on his left foot. “There it goes!” I cracked.
“Heh!” the handsome man chortled. “So that’s where it went. Down to my toes!”
Farmer Joe was getting really comfortable with me, I could tell. He started flexing his feet and sipping his bourbon. I lay back on my end of the sofa and propped my feet up too. I wiggled my dress-sock-clad toes next to his on the cushion. His feet were just inches apart from mine. I was starting to breathe a bit heavy.
“Hey Peter,” Farmer Joe drawled. “You ok?”
“Never better,” I replied. “Say, Joe – I got another line for you:
“Whiskey, whiskey, drink it neat,
Feel it as it warms your feet!”
“Yep,” Farmer Joe sighed. “It sure does make ‘em warm! Wanna feel them, buddy?”
I caught my breath. “If you want me to,” I said softly.
Farmer Joe stretched out his legs and touched his socked feet to mine. “Go ahead, buddy,” he said with a quiet smile. “Feel my warm feet!”
Not wanting to appear over-eager, I waited a few breaths before I leaned over and let my hands start touching his massive cowboy feet. They must have been at least a size 13.
Farmer Joe’s feet were the biggest, meatiest feet I’d ever had the pleasure of touching. His arches was nice and rounded, with what seemed to be solid, firm toes underneath the cotton socks. My hands reverently kneaded and caressed them from toes to heel and back.
There was no sound in the room at all except the crackling fire, the rain storm outside and Farmer Joe’s intermittent sighs of pleasure. I must have worked his feet over for ten minutes.
“Damn, that feels good, buddy!” he moaned. “It’s been a long time since someone spoiled me like this.”
“My pleasure, Joe,” I replied.
After a few more minutes I stopped for a break. I poured myself more bourbon and tried to stop my cock from throbbing inside of my dress slacks.
“Whew, that felt great,” Farmer Joe exhaled. He got up slowly and started to unbutton his plaid flannel shirt.
I was immediately on guard. “Uh…whatcha doin’ there, Joe?” I asked.
“Just gettin’ comfortable,” he replied. He finished unbuttoning his shirt and left it open. I couldn’t stop staring at his massively ripped chest. Quickly I tried to avoid his gaze by taking a deep gulp of bourbon.
“Mmmm,” he sighed. “You’re a nice feller, Peter.” His open shirt swayed as he reached for the bottle of bourbon in front of me. “Glad you could come here today.”
“No problem,” I said.
Farmer Joe poured another shot and stared at me for a second. “How are your feet?” he asked. “Want a rub?”
“Uh – sure. Why not?” I said.
Farmer Joe gave me a cocky grin and started to sing:
“Whiskey, whiskey, drink it neat,
Feel it as it warms your feet!”
I laughed and I put my feet up on the couch. “OK, buddy!” I exclaimed. “My turn!”
Farmer Joe sat next to my feet and propped them on his lap. Even though I don’t enjoy getting a massage as I enjoy giving one, I couldn’t help but be seduced by his firm, meaty hands all over my socked feet. He hit all my pressure points and almost made me groan with pleasure.
I closed my eyes and practically purred. “Whoa, buddy,” I exulted. “Your hands feel so good!”
Farmer Joe chuckled. “Comes from working the land all my life,” he said confidently.
He worked over my feet for quite some time. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning struck outside and I sprang up. “WHOA!” I yelled. “That was too close for comfort!”
I was lucky I didn’t accidentally kick Farmer Joe, but I sure did put a jolt in him. He shot up as well and when he sat down, my left foot grazed his hard right pectoral.
“Oops, sorry,” I said. I started to put my feet back in his lap.
“That’s OK, Pete,” Farmer Joe murmured. He looked a little embarrassed.
It was then that I noticed that his basket was getting big.
Aha, I thought to myself. I must have hit a G-spot. I wonder if he’ll go a little bit further with me.
Aloud I said: “No problem, Joe. Uh…how about I rub your feet again?”
Farmer Joe looked up. “Sure, buddy.” He swung his legs around and stretched out again. His basket was still huge.
I smiled. “You know, Joe,” I started innocently. “It’s OK to get a hard-on when you touch another guy. I’m not offended or anything.”
Farmer Joe took a swig of his bourbon. “I’m OK,” he said. “It’s just that, well…”
I continued to smile at him. “What?”
“I haven’t had anybody touch me in a while,” he concluded.
“Me neither,” I said gently. “And I know it can get pretty lonely once in a while without any type of company.” I added some more ice to my drink and freshened it up.
Farmer Joe gazed thoughtfully at me. It appeared as though he was thinking of what to say to me next.
“Reminds me of when I was a kid,” he said after a long pause. “Me and the other boys would get together and take our clothes off and explore each other. You know, stuff like that.”
I nodded. “Same here, Joe.”
“And I ain’t never done something like that in like a long while.”
He took another swig. “But, when that thunder hit, and your foot scraped my tit, well…”
“I hear you, Joe,” I said immediately. “Like I said, I’m not offended or anything.”
I took a sip of bourbon and my confidence returned. I smiled at Joe invitingly.
“Want me to rub your feet?” I teased.
Farmer Joe nodded.
“Get comfy,” I instructed him. “You can take your shirt off if you want. Hell, I’m thinking about getting comfy myself. Like you said – I don’t have to go back home tonight.”
Farmer Joe reached up and took off his work shirt and threw it on the floor. I unbuttoned my shirt and put it next to my shoes. I wore nothing but my khaki slacks and my socks.
Here we were, two shirtless guys drinking bourbon while a storm raged outside and I was about to take it to the next level. I thought hard and tried to come up with another line for the song. Aha, I thought to myself. I know what to say. Now I can get his socks off.
I smiled at Farmer Joe. “Say, Joe – I got another line for our song.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Here you go:
“Whiskey, whiskey, on the rocks,
Joe, let me take off your socks!
While you’re sippin’ whiskey neat,
I’ll just go and rub your feet!”
Farmer Joe gave a big laugh. “For someone who says he has nothing to write a song about, you sure are coming up with some good lines!” he exclaimed.
“So let me take your socks off, buddy,” I continued. “Maybe you can come up with the next line or two while I rub them big ole feet you got.”
He sighed. “Yeah, they’re big all right. Size 14 clodhoppers here.”
WOOF, I thought to myself. And you know what they say about big feet!
Carefully, I took both his feet in my lap. After catching my breath, I slowly peeled off his right sock, then his left one.
Oh my GOD, I thought to myself. This guy’s feet are HOT!
Actually, “hot” isn’t the right word. More like “sexy as fuck.”
Farmer Joe’s big feet were outstanding as feet go. His arch made his foot a perfect oval, with not-too-long rounded toes that looked like succulent grapes extending from a muscular, unlined sole. His heels were firm but not chapped or brittle. The tops of his feet had sprinkles of light brown hairs, and a few hairs dusted his perfect toes. If a Foot God exists, he sure did store up his blessings for Farmer Joe!
I was unaware that Farmer Joe was watching my rapturous expression as I marveled at his feet. “Like ‘em?” he asked.
“Yeah.” That was all I could coax out of my mouth. I was still mesmerized by his feet.
I slowly rubbed his big feet with my hands. My breath came short and I massaged and caressed his perfect feet from toes to heel and back. They weren’t smelly at all – in fact, they hardly had any odor to them. (It must have been because of the heat in the room, the bourbon and the fact that he’d been shoeless for a couple of hours.)
I don’t know how long I massaged Farmer Joe’s big long feet, but I do remember that I had to stop and fill both of our glasses now and then. The bourbon kept getting lower in the bottle as he relaxed under my touch.
“Damn, buddy,” he moaned. “I could stay like this forever.”
“Glad you like it,” I replied. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Maybe it was the bourbon, the rain, the fire or the company, but I started to get a little frisky – and Farmer Joe certainly noticed it when one of his feet accidentally touched my groin.
“Hmmm,” he said with a smile on his face. “Looks like you’re enjoying this, buddy!”
I was beyond caring about whether or not Farmer Joe liked my fascination with his feet, or if he did or didn’t approve of my getting turned on so obviously. He would have not gone this far if he’d not been interested. “I guess so, Joe!” I exclaimed. “One thing does lead to another, you know.”
“I know that for a fact.”
“Want me to stop?”
“Hell no, buddy! It feels fuckin’ good! Besides,” he continued, “I kind of get tickled thinkin’ that your gettin’ hard just rubbing my big ole feet.” Farmer Joe grinned.
Next thing I know, his toes are digging into the front of my pants. I gasped quickly as I felt his toes exploring my tented khakis, causing me to get even bigger.
“Yeah, buddy,” Farmer Joe drawled. “That’s fuckin’ hot! I ain’t never seen a guy get so turned on by my feet like that before. Hell, there ain’t any women out there neither like that!”
It was almost magical. Farmer Joe had his arms clasped behind his head, showing off his ripped chest and abs while his big feet started masturbating my cock under my pants. There was no turning back now!
Reluctantly I stopped and reached for my bourbon. “I need a quick break,” I explained. “I don’t want to, you know, end it too quickly.”
Farmer Joe laughed. “I hear you,” he stated. He unclasped his hands and brought them to his own groin. “I’m kinda gettin’ stirred up myself. I might have to shuck my jeans off pretty soon!”
The thought of Farmer Joe wearing nothing his skivvies was almost too much to bear. I furiously tried to cross my legs to avoid any further embarrassment.
Farmer Joe got up and poured almost the last of the bourbon into his glass. By now I was feeling fuzzy and I had no idea how well he could hold his liquor.
“Want another shot?” he asked me.
“I’m good, Joe, thanks.”
He took a swallow of the brown liquid. “You know, I haven’t gotten drunk like this with another guy in a long time,” he confided. “I don’t make friends easy. But I like you, Peter.”
“I appreciate it, Joe,” I said sincerely. “I like you too.”
Farmer Joe emptied the last of the bottle into his glass. “Think I might open another one,” he announced. “No sense in letting it go to waste.”
I shook my head. “No thanks,” I said politely. “Any more of this stuff and Lord knows what I might do – er, I mean, what might happen,” I corrected quickly.
Farmer Joe caught my slip and gave me an amused look. “Really?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye. He rested his hand briefly on his basket, which I swear looked as if it was going to pop open at any minute. “What do you think might happen, buddy?” he asked softly.
I slowly drained my glass and put it back on the coffee table. “I’m game with whatever you want to do, Joe,” I said finally. “You know it as well as I do.” Might as well put my cards on the table, I thought to myself.
Farmer Joe slowly grinned and unzipped his jeans. I watched as he peeled them off of his muscular legs and threw them on the floor. He wore tight jockey shorts and his groin was pressed tightly against the front of them.
I stood up and unbuckled my belt. I unbuttoned my khakis and let them fall around my ankles. I wore my usual speedo-style underwear and stood facing him, my own crotch very noticeably erect.
Farmer Joe looked me over approvingly. “Not bad for a city feller,” he drawled.
“And you look great for a rancher,” I ventured. “Really great.”
Farmer Joe smiled. “I haven’t done anything like this since a while back,” he reminded me. “That’s probably why I drank so much – to give myself some ‘liquid courage,’ you know,”
I nodded. “So did I.”
“Want to rub my feet again?”
“You know it, Joe.”
Farmer Joe stretched out on the couch again. I looked at his feet twitching and flexing on the cushion.
“I love those feet,” I said without thinking. Dammit, I did it again, I cursed silently. Me and my big mouth!
Farmer Joe looked up at me and smiled. “Glad you do,” he said softly. “Maybe you’ll get to enjoy some other parts of me.”
I sat down and he put his big feet in my lap. One of his feet started twiddling the front of my underwear. “Hey, I got a verse for you,” he announced. “Try this on for size:
“Whiskey, whiskey, take it neat,
Go ahead and kiss my feet!
Lick my soles and suck my toes,
Let’s see how far all this stuff goes!”
I grinned heartily. “You’re the boss, Joe,” I said. “After all, you own most of the county by now!”
I massaged both of his big feet for a few minutes, and then I took his left foot into my hands. Bringing it up to my face, I eagerly inhaled the faint scent of Farmer Joe’s toes and started kissing his foot up and down the sole. Following the song lyrics, I started licking his big foot from heel to toes, and paused to kiss and lick every toe on his foot.
Farmer Joe was busy kneading my crotch with his other toes. “Damn, Peter – you sure know how to make a country boy feel good!” he exclaimed.
After a while I switched feet and gave his right one the same treatment. Farmer Joe took the unoccupied foot and kept it busy on my ever-growing crotch.
“You’re a big boy, Peter,” he said. “I bet you get a lot of pussy down in Houston.”
I put his foot down from my face and kept both of them on my crotch. “I got a confession for you, Joe,” I said reluctantly. “I don’t look for pussy.”
“I figured as such,” he replied.
“What?”
“I knew you liked guys the minute I met you.”
I was dumbfounded. “How did you know?” I asked. “I’m pretty careful about my own personal preference. Just so you know, a lot of guys outside the big cities don’t take too well to a guy like me, if you know what I mean. That’s why I hide it.”
Farmer Joe gave me that lazy smile of his. “I knew it when you looked down at my feet and then again at my crotch,” he announced. “I’ve been cruised by guys before.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep. But you’re different, Peter.”
“How so?”
“You’re not looking for a quick fuck. You’re a nice, professional guy. And the fact that you grew up country is a plus in my book. I need to tell you my story, buddy.”
I kept my hands on Farmer Joe’s big feet, but they stopped playing with my crotch. He was watching me take all of this in. After a pause, he continued:
“As you know, I’ve been alone since my wife passed. I couldn’t look at another woman for months. I felt like I’d be cheating on her. When I did start getting social again, it seemed that every single woman in Angelina County was settin’ their caps trying to snare me as a husband. I dated a few, but my heart wasn’t in it. I just couldn’t quit thinkin’ about the love of my life, buried not two miles away in the cemetery.
“Then one day, a feller came by from the local livestock dealer and showed me some samples of cattle feed. He was a tall, strappin’ young thing; handsome like a movie star. Before I knew it, we’d had a few drinks and there he was in my bed. And Peter, as God is my witness, I fucked him like I was a man possessed. I’m surprised I didn’t kill him with all that wild thrashing we did in the bedroom.”
Farmer Joe stopped and stretched a bit. There wasn’t a sound in the room except the fire crackling away in the hearth. Neither of us had noticed that the storm had passed.
“After we were done, it was as if nothing had happened. He got dressed, put down his samples on my table and it was business as usual. Hell, I’d see him at the local store and damn if he didn’t just up and ignore me.
“I thought it was his problem. But maybe it was mine. I don’t know; all I knew was that after he and I fucked, I felt reborn. It was as if I was finally starting to feel, well, myself again.
“I stopped being a recluse and started going out again. But this time I felt different. I was starting to plan for the future; I was looking at expanding my farm and improving it and someday handing it off to my nephew. I told you about him, right? He’s my only living relative and off at college. That boy means more to me than anyone else.
“Joe, I told myself, you got to leave something behind to that boy. And the best legacy you can give him – besides this big farm – is a life well lived.
“So now here I am,” he concluded. “I bought the adjoining acreage, and I’m planning on giving it to my boy someday. Then today, when it started raining, I saw you pull up in that car. When I saw those eyes of yours and that handsome face, I felt, well, like I did when that feed salesmen came by. I hadn’t had anybody since him, you know, so I felt a little like I needed some attention. I’m not gay, buddy, but I do like to feel another body next to mine on these cold nights – even if it’s another guy.”
Farmer Joe’s feet came to life again and he started slowly rubbing them against my crotch. “When you took a shine to my feet, I knew that I had to get you to stay. I figured a little whiskey would loosen you up, and it did. But what I didn’t reckon on happening was the fact that we’d hit it off with singin’ and cuttin’ up. You are a great guy, Peter buddy, and you make me feel wonderful. And I hope you will do me the honor of spending the night with me.”
I was totally thrown. Nobody had ever opened up to me like this – not even Jay, my late husband. This was a man who was willing to let me look into the depths of his soul, regardless of the consequences.
“Joe,” I said huskily. “I’d love to spend the night with you.”
Farmer Joe flashed that sexy grin of his. “Let’s call it a night, buddy. It’s gettin’ late.”
We got up from the couch and he led me to his room. I couldn’t wait to explore the rest of the hot body of my new friend, Farmer Joe.
TO BE CONTINUED!
