knows what to do with a prayer. But if I do feel the need to
drop to my knees and pray, I sure hope you’re standing right
in front of me, so I can say a prayer to your pretty brown
cock.” He grinned at the look on my face, slid his hands
down my thigh and squeezed. “You’re so big and strong, zo-
zo.”
“I think you just proved that God isn’t Catholic, or we
would have been struck down dead in the road.”
Jesse shook his head. “No way. We’ve been under the
protection of the Lady all morning. She appreciates boys with
good hearts.”
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It was an hour to Terlingua, and the road was empty,
the land filled with cactus and the strange creosote bush
and a few scrubby plants with thin dry leaves. “You should
see it after it rains,” Jesse said. “It’s like the black and white
version of the movie just got colorized. Everything turns
bright green, and little white and yellow flowers open. The air
smells clean, and those little flowers on the creosote bush
smell… I don’t know how to describe it. Like a lemon
astringent, maybe. Clean, with a little bite. I’ve never smelled
it anywhere else but down here.”
I reached over, tugged him closer. I wished he could
scoot over, snuggle up against me and let me smell his neck.
Nobody could drive like that anymore, though, with their
baby in their arms. Seatbelts and bucket seats. And he
wasn’t my baby. I kept sort of pretending he was, but he was
just visiting here, he had a life back in San Francisco, and
vacation romances didn’t count. Did they? I wasn’t sure I
even knew the rules of this game. Relationships were
different from knocking one off in the showers. But I wanted
to put my arms around him, pull him up close, and let him
be my baby.
“Jesse, you got a boyfriend back in San Francisco?”
He wrapped our hands together until our fingers were
twined. “No. I had somebody, but we broke it off a couple of
months ago. That was Sam. He owns a gallery in the Castro.”
“Was that your gallery?”
“One of them. I never wanted to be a one-trick pony. I
spread the work around. But that’s where the cowboy angels
are going.”
“Were you guys together a long time?”
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“A couple of years. And my dear, don’t you know, two
years in San Francisco is like two light-years anywhere else.”
“How come?”
He was still a moment, thinking. “The whole city is
sexualized, like a big theater stage, and we’re all prancing
around, being beautiful for each other.” He shrugged. “I
mean, I love it, it’s brash, and full of life and beautiful boys,
and people get excited about orange high-top sneakers and
the days are filled with drama and heartbreak and…. But it’s
just a stage, and it took me awhile to realize I had to get out
sometimes, so I could keep a sense of perspective. So I can
still love it for the color and the light and the beautiful boys,
but not confuse it with anything real or lasting.”
I stared out through the windshield. He was so smart.
Did he even realize it? He was so busy playing the pretty gay
artist boy, did he know what it was like for me, to be around
him when he was thinking? He was going to drop to his
knees in front of my brown dick, and I was going to drop to
my knees in front of his beautiful brain.
“It’s not just that I want to bend you over and fuck you
till the cows come home, Jesse, but I also want to eat your
brain raw, with both hands.” He was laughing, brought our
joined fists up to his mouth for a kiss. “You wouldn’t mind
that, would you? If I ate your brain? I bet it tastes sweet.”
“You’ve got to fuck me first, though, and then eat my
brains, because otherwise it’s one of those zombie deals….”
I had the whole cartoon in my mind then, but it was
obscene and disgusting and too funny for publication. I
would have to draw it for Jesse, eyes only, when I got some
time alone in the studio.
“I’m crazy about you.”
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“What about you, my little zo-zo? Did you ever have
somebody special?”
I shook my head. “Too busy working.”
“I’ve heard that excuse before from men who were just
shy, but I actually think it’s true in your case. You joined the
Marines right out of high school?”
“I studied art at Dine College, two years. But I was
itching for some real work. Marine Infantry. Two tours in
Iraq and one in Afghanistan. Training in between.”
“So you’re twenty-five, twenty-six?”
“Just turned twenty-seven. You?”
“I’m twenty-nine,” Jesse said. “I knew you were just a
baby. I’ll have to teach you everything I know. And I’ll make
it as long and slow as I possibly can.”
“I’ll be looking forward to that.”
The third Bathtub Mary was just like Jesse had
described—big and garish, the edges made from colorful tile,
with a little sparkle of gold luster. The ruffle was made of
tulle, glued around the tile, and it was dusty and ragged
from the wind. Mary’s backdrop was fuchsia pink, with a
ring of daisies painted in bright blue and yellow and orange.
Haight-Ashbury Mary. The votive candles were here—most of
them hadn’t been lit—but not as many prayer cards and
photographs, and no handwritten prayers. Mary was big,
nearly two feet high, and she was standing over a fountain
that gurgled. The fountain was tiled, and I could see some
pennies in the bottom.
“Mary, do me a favor, will you?”
“Sure.”
“Let me take your picture? Pull your T-shirt off, put
those big arms up behind your head.”
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“Oh, please.” But he gave me a winning smile, waved his
camera at me, so I peeled my shirt off and did what he
wanted. He backed up, adjusted the lens until he got me and
the shrine in the photo.
“What are those scars on your chest?”
I reached down, rubbed my fingers absently across my
skin. “Shrapnel.”
He lowered the camera, came over to look. “They got
very close to your heart, didn’t they?”
“Yeah. I was scared. I looked down, there were these
pieces of metal sticking out of my chest.”
“Didn’t you guys wear vests?”
“Not when we were asleep in our racks, at night.”
“Jesus.”
“No, just call me Mary.” The laughter bubbled up, like
I’d meant it to, and I flashed him some pumped biceps.
A woman who had been looking at the shrine came over
to us. “Would you like me to take a picture of both of you
together?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jesse said, giving her the camera. “Thanks
very much.”
He came over to me, leaned back against my chest, and
I reached around, held him against me. I thought the women
blushed a little, but she knew how to work the camera and
took a couple of pictures before handing it back over with a
smile.
“I read gay romance, you know. You two look very sweet
together, like the cover of a novel I would like to read.”
I stood there with my mouth open while Jesse chatted
with her, oozing Texas cowboy charm. I thought my role
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should be the strong, silent type, so I just put my shirt back
on and stared off into the distance, like a Navajo warrior
should.
We had lunch in Terlingua, then hit the road for the
long drive into Lajitas. The country was empty, the heat
shimmer rising from the desert for as far as I could see.
Jesse slid his hand up and down my thigh a couple of times,
settled it tucked into my groin, then he scooted his shoulder
harness off and leaned his head on my shoulder. “It’s a
couple of hours’ drive, but it’s worth it, I promise.”
“I’m enjoying the drive,” I admitted. “And your
company.”
We came to a little town that looked like it had been
built to look like an old Western town, one of those movie
sound stages that were all front and nothing behind. I raised
my eyebrows at the kitsch, sure we would find a very tiny
and colorful Bathtub Mary around here somewhere, but
Jesse just grinned and waved me to a boot and saddle-
maker’s shop at the end of the row of shops. After the
saddlemaker, the desert rolled away again, all the long way
to the horizon.
We pushed open the door. It was cool inside, with the
rich smell of leather and mink oil and saddle soap. Marty
Robbins was playing real low, and a big guy with long, curly
black hair was seated at a workbench, a boot upside down in
front of him. He was wearing glasses and some sort of
magnifying glass on a lanyard, and he held a tool that was
burning designs into the leather.
He smiled when he saw Jesse. “JC3, as I live and
breathe.” But his eyes were on me. He stood up, offered his
hand. “Gary O’Brien.”
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“Hi, I’m Lorenzo Maryboy.”
“You’re Devil Dog?”
I stared at him. What? “Yeah, I am.”
“I’m a big fan. I was in the USMC… how long ago was
that? Good God. I got out in ’92.”
“You were in for Desert Storm.”
“Yeah. You boys got that job finished up over there that
we started?”
“Not hardly.” He grinned then, and dropped my hand.
“I like the comic a lot, Maryboy. You gonna keep going
with it?”
“Yes, I am. I’m staying with Jesse’s granddad. He’s
offered to be a mentor, help me get going.”
“I loved his cartoons too.” He pointed behind the
workbench. One of The Original’s comics was back there,
hand drawn and signed. “I was sorry when he decided to
retire. Jesse e-mailed me a copy of the design he had in
mind for your boots. Now I see you, I think it’s gonna be
perfect. You Navajo?”
I nodded.
“I thought so. Here, let me show you.”
He pulled some pieces of black leather out of the
workbench, showed me the design he had impressed in the
leather. Jesse leaned over too, studying it. Two old-fashioned
six-shooters with the barrels crossed, and the rope in a circle
around them. Jesse reached down, ran his fingers across the
design. “Gary, you think we should color the design?”
They both looked at me. I shook my head.
“All right, then.” Gary pulled out a tray of gel, had me
take off my shoes and stand in the gel with both feet until he
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had a good impression. “This is the way they make
orthotics,” he said. “I used to date a podiatrist. When she
criticized my boots, I broke up with her and stole her foot
mold.”
I slid a glance over to Jesse. He was biting his bottom
lip. Gary showed me a couple of pieces of leather, the rough
crocodile and a thick buffalo leather, and the weirdly
patterned rattlesnake. Gary was wearing soft moccasin boots
made out of a beautiful yellow-brown leather, elk, probably.
I looked at Jesse and shrugged, and he pointed to the
crocodile. “Gary, I think, give him a walking heel. When do
you want us back?”
“Week?”
“Sounds good.” We shook hands again, and on the way
out the door I saw a tiny sketch hung behind the
workbench—an angel, curly golden hair, blue robe and white
clouds, ascending into heaven, wearing a pair of brown
cowboy boots. It was signed JC3. “I sure have enjoyed your
comic,” he said. “I’m looking forward to more.”
“Thanks, man. That’s nice to hear.”
“I’ll send you an e-mail with a price quote, okay?”
Out in the truck, Jesse gave me a nudge. “You’ve got a
fan!”
“Did you set that up?”
He shook his head. “I called and told him we were
coming. When I mentioned your name, he said, ‘Maryboy?
You mean Devil Dog?’”
“I’ll make him a cartoon.”
“He likes making boots for artists. He usually gets a
little thank you for his collection.”
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“I wonder if he can make me some moccasins too. Did
you see those ones he was wearing? I’ll see how long it takes
me to get the boots paid off.”
“Would you rather have moccasins? I didn’t even ask