Marlboro Man Fantasies

I’ve long had a thing for the Marlboro Man and cowboys in general.

Something so masculine about a cowboy, a man who works not only with his hands but his whole body, manhandling animals that weigh tons… Strong, capable, rough and tumble…

It doesn’t hurt if they are well-hung or if their pants emphasize their size, either.

One of my first loves, first lovers, was a cowboy. I fell hard for him in bar, dancing, strutting confidently in those boots coming over to buy me, a lady, a drink. But what sealed the deal was watching him work his horses. There’s something about a man who walk up to a horse that’s been out to pasture all winter, leap onto it bareback, and ride it, guide it, with only the horse’s mane and his own thighs…

After that, I let him round me up, rope me and tie me, ride me as long as he wanted and put me up wet, as the old saying goes. All he needed to do was grab a handful of my hair and I’d do whatever he wanted. He was boss.

And even though it didn’t last forever, I still swoon at the smell of his cigarettes (Yes, he actually smoke Marlboro red-packs), at the sound and sight of a cowboy’s swagger…

Is it a sexist stereotype? No, not if I don’t expect all men to be that way, treat them as if they are, or belittle them if they are not. It’s just a fantasy. Or a personal weakness for a certain kind of man.

Mixed with more than a little nostalgia to boot.

…Ahh, cowboy boots…

About Storybook Whorehouse

Once upon a time, there was a woman who enjoyed erotic fantasies based on fictional characters, other worlds, and alternate realities...