Real Cowboy

Picture an old, musty saloon in Southwest Texas filled with ole West and cattle
raisin memorabilia. At the bar an old rough and ready cowhand with a dirty
Stetson and well-worn boots and faded Levis, sits with a glass and a half empty
bottle of Red Eye. A beautiful young thing comes in and sits right beside him.
She looks him over and asks, Are you a real cowboy?

He looks back at her and says, I get up at the crack of dawn, saddle an old
horse, round up long horns, corral doggies, rope and brand calves, eat dust from
moving herds, live on half-baked beans and bad coffee 365 days a year. Yeah, Im
a real cowboy. Are you a real model?

No, she says. Im a lesbian. I wake up in the morning thinking how empty my
bed looks without a sweet young, naked girlish body lying next to me, I bathe
wishing there was a young nubile body in there with me that I could rub with
soap, I go to breakfast thinking of pert little boobs and nice flat tummies that
I would love to massage, I spend the whole day thinking of nude girls and naked
mature women. Yes, Im a real lesbian.

An hour later another pair of tourists sits down beside the old cowpoke and ask,
Are you a real cowboy?

He looks at them and says, I always thought so until an hour ago when I found
out I was a lesbian.

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