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Excerpt from
Lost innocence
By Tommyhawk1@AOL.com

<  He saw me...and his face lit up in an easy smile, which I had to return. I knew blamed well he was coming over to talk to me, but not because he felt any attraction to me. It was because he’d been drawn to ride Lost Innocence.
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“Hey, Cashew!” He said to me. That was my handle, Cashew Jones. I’d always been partial to the nut, and for a time I had kept a large can of cashews in my truck which I’d share with people; that was when I picked up the nickname. I had given up on the cans when too many people started looking for and dipping out of it--cashews are expensive--but I still ate cashews, and used them for an icebreaker, like now for instance. I pulled out a long, thin bag of cashews from my shirt pocket and tore it open as Tim strode over, him still limping a little from the rough ride. Without asking, I tilted the bag his way and poured a small handful of cashews into his outstretched hand. Like I said, it was an icebreaker for me, better than saying hello.
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“Thank you.” he said, popping one of the lopsided nuts into his mouth. “Just came here to see the bulls and Marvin bet me fifty bucks I couldn’t stay on Meet Your Maker for the full eight-second count. Come on, pay up.” he said to Marvin McKinney, Meet Your Maker’s owner, as he dumped the rest of the cashews into his mouth and held out his hand again, this time to Marvin. His other glove was still rank and streaked with the resin from the bull rope he’d been hanging onto.
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Marvin looked disgruntled as he dug into his hip pocket for the money and paid him. I frowned at the grumbling. After all, a man shouldn’t make a bet if he wasn’t willing to pay up, I always say. Me, I never gambled, because I wasn’t willing to pay! “I sure didn’t think you’d last the entire eight seconds.” Marvin grumbled. “Four or five, maybe, that’s all anyone ever lasts on Meet Your Maker.”
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“So, Cashew, care to do your own bet?” Tim said to me. “I got me fifty bucks sitting idle right now, I bet I could stay on Lost Innocence the same way.”
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“You’ll find that out tonight.” I said to him. “Your first time on Lost Innocence, ain’t it?”
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“Yep.” He admitted freely. And then, a little too casually. “I hear Lost Innocence has sent many a good man flying.”
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“Yep.” I agreed. Lost Innocence was my prize bull right now; cowboys were eager to test themselves on him, and I was making my money while I could. And Lost Innocence had sent them all dismounting with their boots high in the air; nobody had yet lasted the full eight seconds on my bull. Lost Innocence had a way of bucking and then spinning which unseated a rider, and Lost Innocence seemed to realize when that had happened; he’d buck and spin again in the opposite direction the person had shifted, unsettling them further and further. If the rider tried to adjust his seat, a well-timed buck would send the rider off, and if the rider tried to stay as he was, Lost Innocence worked him on over and sent him off. Money in the bank for me, either way, Lost Innocence’s record was still perfect for thrown riders; nobody had broken the eight-second barrier with him.
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Tim popped a few of the pearl snaps on his shirt and exposed his broad chest; I noticed the few black hairs he had in there, and Tim’s gloved hand reached in and scratched at one breast lazily, giving me a fleeting view of one coin-flat nipple. “Maybe you could give me a few pointers for my ride?” He asked me.
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Everyone was following this exchange carefully. Nobody knew my bull better than I did; if I gave Tim pointers, he’d improve his ride...maybe even last the full eight seconds. Then again, it’d let me keep talking to him. “Well, I’d suggest you start by trying to stay on the bull.” I said. Everyone laughed, which was what I intended.
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“Got some more cashews?” Tim asked me.
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“Sure.” I said. Tim’s hand came out and I poured some more beige nuts into that yellowish leather glove.
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“I need a drink, with all these nuts.” Tim said.
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“I brought a water cooler loaded with ice.” I conceded. “It’ll be some cold water now.”
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“Great!” Tim unlatched the gate and swung it and the four men riding on it back and slipped out. “Let’s go.” He said.
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My heart was churning inside of me as I led him out to my pickup. I was playing with fire here. There’s a balance a bull owner has to strike with the bull riders. They’re allies as much as adversaries. A good rider made the bull look good, and I was hoping to one day have Lost Innocence be part of that perfect 100 every bullrider and bull owner dreams of. But 50 of those points belong to the rider, and that was Tim. So he wasn’t too out of line asking me for advice on how to ride my bull.
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On the other hand, there’s the attraction of the unconquered bull to a cowboy, too. A bull which had not yet been mastered drew in the crowds, which drew in the offers to have the bull appear. The money from the rodeos was small change compared to the stud fees Lost Innocence would be drawing for me one day. But not yet. My dream was to cap the perfect record of thrown riders with one who did a perfect 100, that’d be a legend that would live for decades...I could put Lost Innocence’s progeny out for stud. Question was, did I want Tim to be the one who did it?  >