Caged Night Out

Mistress has been MIA for 36 or so hours now. I must say it's odd not being in touch at all. But the boat she is on has no native wifi. Her only connect-otunities  are when they come ashore on some remote island and the locals are obliging.  And then she's competing with her fellow travelers, who are checking on the balance of their trust funds!

Then again, with all those prospective lovers on board, maybe she's just too busy to check up on her slave.  It makes me wonder whether she's been able to go topless on those pristine beaches, like this shot of her along the banks of the Rio Grande.

Slave was particularly busy yesterday, catching up on a backlog of maintenance issues here at the hideaway. Trying to suppress prairie dogs. Working to keep up the impression that I am still busy at my desk back in River City. And going for a long bike ride.

But it seems the days are longer here without Mistress to serve and keep me company. Even naps aren't as much fun!

So last night I elected to venture out to here some two-stepping Americana music at a local "dance hall" set in an ancient old adobe structure down the road a piece.

Dancing out here is more ritualized than back East. And its more about getting out and seeing your neighbors than "hooking up". There are plenty of single guys and gals of a certain age displaying their ability to twirl and scoot in their cowboy boots and western finery.

And although I had on my boots and cowboy hat, I am willing to bet I was the only guy there in a cock cage!

Of course I am clueless when it comes to those two-stepping moves. I just sat on a stool against the wall, nursed a couple of IPA's and enjoyed the music and the people watching.

That's not to say I didn't have my opportunities. Three  women in the 60+ age range who had made the 50 mile trek over a twisty mountain pass were concerned that I wasn't out on the dance floor.

"Do you waltz?", a nice lady with a June Cleaver haircut and baggy jeans that were better suited for milking the cows than a friday night outing, asked me, with a nod toward the floor.

I explained I was a midwesterner and not inclined to embarrass myself.

"Well your dressed for it", she said, a reference to my hat and boots apparently. I guess I was an "all hat and no cattle" sort of cowboy pretender.  But then she added:

"That's fine. I'm not in the mood for giving lessons."

Not a problem. She was soon on the floor twirling with an old codger who knew his moves, leaving me to my beer.

Later, during a break, one of her friends took her best shot at  coaxing me out onto the floor. She was a tad more fashionably dressed, in black pants and boots. But what was most intriguing was a special skill:

"I killed a bear once with a bow and arrow."

A black beer. That was in Canada.

"So where do you shoot a bear with an arrow so it dies, rather than being maimed and pissed off?"

"In the heart."

Silly me for asking.

Around here she bags  antelopes. But only when they're laying down.

"You have to stalk them".

So Cupid has some competition in these parts.  I mentioned that the guys she dates might want to wear Kevlar. We then discussed whether Kevlar could actually stop an arrow.  It's in doubt.

Now you wouldn't have a conversation like that on a Friday night in River City.

And no, she did not coax me onto the dance floor either. But it did make me grateful that at least I had some steel covering my tender bits.  This babe clearly had a very accurate aim.