When rodeo king Leslie Goosemoon is caught wearing lacy red panties, Dorothy's Tavern is turned upside down by the ensuing brawl. Does Dorothy have what Leslie needs, or does her boyfriend Ricky know better?
Leslie Goosemoon is a rodeo star with legions of ladies fawning over him. Things are getting hot and heavy with the one-night-stand he picked up at Dorothy's Tavern, until she unzips his jeans and finds he’s wearing ladies' panties. When he returns to Dorothy's, the whole bar's heard about his predilection. Nobody understands him, but that doesn't mean Leslie understands himself. The best he can do is duck the punches and repel the spit.
Dorothy's boyfriend Ricky has a theory about the undies: Leslie dresses like a lady because he secretly wants to get with another man. That doesn't sound right to Leslie, but what does he know? He just likes the silky feel against his skin. After a bar brawl, Dorothy sends the boys upstairs to lick their wounds. Who knows what else will take a licking?
Warnings: This cross-dressing cowboy story contains explicit MMF menage. Originally published in the anthology “My Mistress’ Thighs.”
Ricky swung his head so close stubble pricked Leslie’s cheek. “I heard you were a faggot.”
Leslie knew how other men would react to the accusation—they’d smash a glass, toss a chair, throw a punch. He wouldn’t do anything like that. First off, he felt a hole inside his chest that seemed to be sucking in everything around him. With all that happening inside, he had no energy to expend. Second, Leslie knew he was no faggot, so what difference did it make who said what?
“Are you?” Ricky asked.
“No,” Leslie said. “That’s what Sheryl went around telling people? I’m a faggot?”
He would have laughed if he weren’t so on edge.
Ricky turned his gaze to Dorothy as she flirted with the boys at the bar. That woman got everybody’s hopes on the rise. Strange that Ricky never seemed the least bit jealous. Most of the men around here would fight a bull if he caught it looking his girl up and down.
Of course, that was likely the reason Dorothy was stepping out with Ricky and not those bitterly possessive men. Dorothy was slender, but she was a powerhouse in disguise. If Leslie could be a woman, he’d want to be every bit like Dorothy.
“Sheryl said you were prancing around in ladies’ underpants,” Ricky said, shattering Leslie’s focus. “She said you didn’t show her a very good time because you were… you know…”
Ricky traced his fingernail across the bar’s wood grain. Gazing down at the patina, he leaned in so close Leslie felt the heat of Ricky’s cheek against his own. “She said you liked dick.”
Thank the good lord Dorothy was looking away and Ricky’s face was nestled beside his ear—that way, nobody noticed his eyes growing too big for their sockets.
He’d never considered the possibility. Not that he didn’t know other guys liked to relieve their tensions together, just that he’d never imagined doing it himself. He’d always craved pussy. From the time he was a young snip, he’d chased the girls and kissed their cheeks. Could Sheryl be right about him? Maybe she saw something he couldn’t. Maybe he’d always been secretly drawn to ladies’ clothing because he wanted to be fucked like one.
Backing away from Ricky’s musk, Leslie Goosemoon shook his head side to side. “Well, that ain’t how it happened.”
Aw shit! Now Dorothy was waltzing on over!
Why was everybody so interested in his private life? Sometimes the scrutiny he faced as a rodeo star was downright deplorable. Sure, everybody expected him to be a ladies’ man, but get caught wearing ladies’ underwear and suddenly your name is mud.