From my friend and co-Astraea Press author, Kristine Cheney:
I have a confession…something I am not proud of. But I must redeem myself by getting this off my chest. Ahem. Please do not judge me, for I have seen the error of my ways, and have since abstained from this regretful, unladylike behavior.
In 2007, my husband and I went out with a very large group of friends. We decided to try a local bar that offers indoor dancing and a few outdoor activities, such as volleyball and horseshoes. Yes, I admit that I repeatedly hit the icy cold mug that held the delicious, frothy, amber suds of Michelob Ultra against my lips. I drank until I felt the logical part of my consciousness turn to the dark side.
I made the mistake of turning my head to the right. My eyes widened with awe and wonder. The beast was beckoning to me from a distance, calling my name like a telepathic siren’s song. Its enchanted melody was far too sweet to resist. Staggering from my chair, I had to accept the challenge. After all, I was bullet proof.
I stood in line, anticipating my turn. But it didn’t take very long. Waiting to get your ride on a mean, black, bucking mechanical bull is always like time moving in fast-forward. Before I knew it, this young, handsome chap offered me his hand with a knowing, rogue smile. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t understand the meaning behind his naughty grin until later.
He helped me climb and straddle the humped back of this waiting, mammoth monster. The rogue tipped his hat at me like a gentleman. He asked if I was ready, with the sweetest, Southern drawl. Being part super hero, I upped the challenge by raising one of my hands high into the air. The last word I remember screaming was, “Go!”
The ride was nice and slow at first. My inner thighs held tight and I moved in sync with my bull. Back and forth we danced to the same hummed, mechanical rhythm. I should have known something was amiss when my rogue began to smile. I felt the zipped transition as he slipped me up a couple of notches. It was then I began to scream.
I was hanging on for dear life! The hold of my thighs on either side of the saddle became tighter than a vice grip. The hand I had so carelessly flaunted into the air was now seeking security from the rope wrapped around the horn of my saddle. My beautiful, fluid-like movements slipped into the dark abyss of chaos. With a quick glance, I noted the expectant grin on the delicious cow-poke’s face. I quickly changed my mind about him. I decided he was a jerk.
Back and forth I waged a violent war of woman against this demonic, pseudo-beast. I honestly felt my brain begin to liquefy into jelly, or perhaps it was scrambled eggs. Regardless, my brave, fearless spirit crumbled. The windows of my eyes must have become an open portal into my soul. By the hoots and hollers of the men-folk, they were all enjoying the show.Kristine has two books out with Astraea Press:
The dilemma in my mind was deciding what was worse of two evils. Did I continue to hang on and forget my manners or allow myself to be bucked off to end this horrible crusade? Unfortunately, when jerk-face decided to up me another notch, I no longer had the choice.
I don’t remember much of my trip of sailing though the air. I only recall feeling weightless for a few moments, and then came the quick rush of being thankful for the thick, bouncy, red pads strategically placed all over the ground. Despite the beautiful, roaring standing ovation I earned from my male audience, acknowledging the truth of being used for eye-candy hit me like a solid punch in my gut.
The grin on my husband’s face was one of pride and astonishment. You would have sworn by his puffed chest he was silently bragging to all that he was the one who got to take me home. But my troubles didn’t end there at that Godless place. Oh, no! You see, I had to wake up the next morning.
Hang-over Hell was amplified times a thousand by the angry bleed of black, purple, and blue bruises. I now know why cowboys walk the way that they do. The whole complete inside of my thighs from one knee up, arched across my lady places, and down to the other knee, was nothing but a broken train-wreck of exploded blood vessels. My stupidity cost me the ability to walk straight for almost a week. Giving birth to triplets would have been so much easier.
So if you’re ever out with friends, and a mechanical bull calls your name, know that he’s a liar. Stick to your suds and keep your bottom planted deep inside your chair. Don’t approach him. Don’t consider him. Heck, don’t even look at him. Flex your muscles in your thighs and be grateful you still got them. I can tell you one thing for certain. This girl has learned her lesson. Consider this puppy eternally scratched off my bucket list.
Spartan Heart, Part one
Spartan Heart, Part Two
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