mother, bowtie, raven, shoulder, cowboy, airplane, shell, elbow, knee, hip, packer, oklahoma, wrist, them, bronco, spiral
Af was somewhere hot and dusty. Oklahoma? Af didn’t know, or care. Weird linear clouds criss-crossed the deep blue dome of sky. Contrails, Af remembered vaguely. Left by airplanes. Ancient times, then.
Ko preened for Af, swiveling their hips, and Af admired them. “Holy mother of God, you’re hot,” they whispered.
Ko was a cowboy, raven hair falling over their shoulders, a red bowtie slightly incongruous at their throat. They twirled a finger through it in a spiral, plaid blouse slipping down to reveal a slim, tanned wrist. Af wanted to trace the shell of their ear with their tongue.
Ko stepped close, hand on Af’s elbow. Ko was just a little taller today, their knee bumping the lowest part of Af’s thigh. Ko pulled Af even closer, and Af felt the hard bulge of their packer.
“Well, pardner,” Af said with a chuckle. “Guess I’m a bronco that needs to be tamed.”