Cowboy Cockblocking Myself
FIVE
Dahlia
Wesley
Dahlia
Damn, not yet, I just woke up so I’m only half-conscious
He sends a link to the album and I immediately queue it up to soundtrack my morning. Starting the day with a text from Wes has me unreasonably giddy, which means I need to nip this crush in the bud before it becomes a problem.
Wesley
Up late last night?
Every weekend, I’m up into the wee hours of the night entertaining the people of Brooklyn with burlesque and boobs, so the exhaustion is real.
Past shrimp-dick partners have given me shit about the job, like it’s something to be ashamed of, but I love it and I make good ass money. I don’t get that vibe from Wes, though.
Dahlia
Yeah, I work nights. Ever heard of Cunting Season?
Wesley
Are you misspelling Hunting and trying to tell me you’re out shooting bucks?
Dahlia
No, silly. Cunting Season is a club here in Brooklyn, kinda near Liberty Arena. I’m a dancer there.
Wesley
No shit? So cool. I’ve never been.
We talking breakdancing, interpretive, line dancing?
Dahlia
I do burlesque. You know, Dita Von Teese, Bettie Page, Lotty the Body?
Wesley
Can’t say I’m familiar, but I’d love to make it over to a show one night. It sounds awesome.
My skin prickles with nerves and excitement for him to possibly see me in my element. Also, nearly naked, but that’s not important.
Dahlia
For sure!
Wesley
I could always bring Jasper’s grumpy ass along. Lord knows he could use a night out. Maybe we could grab a hotel or Airbnb nearby, then we can chill that weekend too.
As my fingers fly across the keyboard, my nagging anxiety voice is yelling bitch, don’t you dare.
Dahlia
That would be so fun. You could always stay at our place? We have a perfectly comfy futon with your name on it. The next show is Friday if you’re down.
Rational thought has left the building. The part of my brain that knows this is a terrible idea just gave me the middle finger as I blatantly ignore all warning signs and hit send.
Inviting my pseudo-crush-obsession who I need to friend zone to watch me strip then sleepover feels like a recipe for disaster.
Either way, Wes agrees and says he can’t wait to see me.
Noise from the living room rouses me from my bed where I’ve hidden away all day. Daphne is chasing her cat Fernando, the little bastard speeding by me in a blur of orange fur. “He’s got the zoomies.”
She must read the look on my face, because she moves to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of me and looks up, patiently waiting for me to unload. I decide to join her and lay on the green shag carpet before word vomiting all of the overthinking I’ve done about Wes.
“Let me get this straight—you like him”— she starts listing on her fingers—“he seems to like you. He’s hot. You’re hot. You’re preemptively friend zoning him. Why?”
“Many, many reasons. I’m not interested in casual. I get far too attached for no-strings sex. Plus, between school and work, I’m way too stressed as it is. He also lives kinda far, right?”
“You’re forgetting your unchecked fear of intimacy and attachment issues, babe,” she jokes lovingly.
“Ha, ha. Very funny.”
“So what I’m hearing is you’re a scaredy cat and you’re using the friendzone to protect you from cowboy cock? You can’t seriously believe those are good enough reasons to deprive yourself of fun, at the very least. When’s the last time you went on a date? Shit, the last time you got laid?”
Daphne’s passion comes from a place of love but my lackluster relationships and non-existent sex life are for good reasons.
Or so I tell myself. Being in a relationship would force me to confront way too many things at once, and I’m simply not built for that kind of self-exploration, no matter how sexually frustrated I am.
It’s safer alone and this way no one has to clean up the emotional mess I leave behind wherever I go.
I’m too anxious, too needy, too much. The possibility of rejection or losing a friendship over my own flaws is a fate comparable to death.
Death might be an exaggeration, but the nagging unease commenting on every thought I’ve had since I was a child begs to differ.
“I plead the fifth on my last sexual partner. We don’t speak of Crying Carl.”
With a shudder, I recall our tryst. I met Carl at Cunting Season last year.
He seemed normal, so I assumed we could date without any issues.
However, when I finally invited him to my bed, he cried during sex.
Totally fine, sex is a vulnerable act, pussy’s too good—I was okay with it, understanding even.
Waking up alone with a missing toothbrush and an emptied underwear drawer…
You can guess why there was no second round.
“Just saying, I love you and you deserve love. Or at the very least a non-self induced orgasm. You could always message Sol. I’m sure she’d be down to see you again.”
I cringe thinking of yet another one of my sexual mishaps. Sol was hot, and she was a great kisser, but we were way too similar. It felt like I was literally fucking myself.
“I’ll leave it be for now. Plus, if you date Wes, I would have to be around Jasper more, and I don’t think my vagina would withstand the forceful dryness his existence creates.”
With a gentle nudge, I lay my head on Daphne’s shoulder. “I love you. Thank you for looking out for me. Any chance we’re gonna explore the correlation between your vaginal dryness and Jasper?” I tease.
“He sucks and he looks at me like I kicked his meemaw.”
“Whatever you say. Either way, he’ll probably be around this weekend. I invited Wes to sleep over. He’s coming to a show at Cunting Season. He said he’d bring Jasper so…” I trail off.
Daphne pushes me over with a shove to my shoulder. “Greaaaaat…Satan himself sleeping on my futon? I’m really lucky.”
The week passes by in a blur, melting my brain with academic journals by day and cowboy boots by night. Texting with Wes has quickly become routine, even if it’s only a goodnight message or meme. It’s crazy how much we have in common, and he’s so easy to talk to.
The closer we get to Friday, the more nervous I feel about his presence in the audience—wondering what he’ll think or if I’ll mess up.
My anxiety surprisingly quiets when I dance.
Whether it’s due to the positive validation I get from the crowd or because the movement is healing, I’m not sure.
All I know is when I’m up there as Dahlia Damsel, I’m a force to be reckoned with.
I’m in the dressing room at the club when Wes texts they’re posted at Daphne’s bar, much to Jasper’s dismay.
I asked Wes if he knew what their deal was and he only said Jasper can take a while to warm up to new people.
Daphne isn’t helping either, being balls to the wall half the time is probably jarring for him.
Setting my nose with powder and dabbing on the finishing touch of sparkly gloss, I’m ready for my set. My makeup emboldens me—Dahlia Damsel is temptation and sin, wrapped up in a cowgirl costume. For a little while, I’m someone else.
Tonight’s glam consists of a soft-brown smoky eye with wispy lashes to give me the innocent-eyed look.
My chest is bathed in shimmer, highlighting my breasts in a corseted milkmaid dress.
Brown boots adorn my feet as I make my way behind the curtain.
The opening guitar of Brooks & Dunn’s “Play Something Country” bangs out of the speakers, the lights dim and the curtain opens.
A few stray whistles and hoots come as I look over my shoulder coyly.
Tonight’s set is a play on a coquettish, simple girl next door.
I untie the bow holding my breasts in and shimmy ever so slightly.
The movement reveals the blood-red quarter cup bra—the tight fabric sitting right below the blush of each nipple, highlighting the red heart shaped pasties bouncing with each sway of my hips.
Paired with a deviously small red G-string, the contrast is fun to play with—sweet and spicy.
The chorus is my cue to drop to my knees and whip my hair around.
As I look up, a familiar bearded face glares at me.
Maybe glare isn’t the right word? The intensity of Wes’ stare has me faltering.
I quickly right myself, lying on my back and kicking my legs up.
He must have moved spots before the show, since he’s front row now. My pulse spikes with that realization.