A true personal story concerning cowboy boots & buckles:
Around noontime my boyfriend crept into my first-floor bedroom, the nominal "rental room" that made two non-related men living together in the same house look less suspicious. His own bedroom was on the second floor, and in that conservative Upper Midwest farming town, where front doors were seldom locked, and knocks on them almost never required, it was a prudent precaution.
But today he was in a frisky mood at an odd time, not the quieter evening hours when unexpected intrusions by others were less likely. Taking me by surprise, he gently but firmly pulled me onto my feet from the bed where I was watching TV, smiling and purring in a way I couldn't mistake. A big bear hug, a deep tongue, and grinding hips completed a prelude I knew by heart.
In short order, buttons were unfastened and plaid shirts undraped. Belt buckles were undone, flies unzipped, and jeans unworn, lying heaped about our ankles, our tall cowboy boots incongruously accenting our naked thighs. Underwear slipped away next to this blind undressing, our lips never unattached, our eyes unopened.
With clothes all fallen away to busy fingers, the only remaining things to handle were what the clothes had once covered. Those both responded eagerly, as things swelled to their natural conclusion, when...
"O-oh, Mich-ael? Are you ho-ome?" a voice called from the front of the house. We both instantly recognized his mother's voice, and could hear her walking about, searching for him.
"Are-you up-there?" her matronly voice sang out, apparently directed up the front stairs to the second floor.
We were already in motion, frantically throwing our clothes on, pulling up underwear from the floor, shamefully tucking away what had just proudly sprung up, grabbing for discarded shirts, racing without need of words between us.
The dreaded footsteps were now coming down the hall towards the kitchen, onto which my bedroom opened, getting closer, and closer, and closer...
"Hi, Mom!" said my boyfriend a little too rushed, as he burst through my door into the kitchen like he’d been shot from a cannon, intercepting her just inches from my room.
"Oh, I thought you might be here. I was passing and saw your truck out front," his mother replied.
"Yeah, I was out back, saw you coming in the front, and ran in."
“Nice save,” I thought to myself. My room had a second door to the outside rear porch, making it entirely believable that her son had dashed through my bedroom from the back yard to greet her. But then I thought: "He's not wearing his cowboy hat, he never goes outside without it. UH-OH!"
I continued to frantically dress, too preoccupied to pay much attention to their conversation. But as I bent down to pull up my jeans from around my ankles, the squeaky hinges of my door to the kitchen caught my horrified attention.
They were slowly, slowly swinging open, bringing my room into unwelcome view, inch by inexorable inch. That door never would stay shut unless you latched it tight, always wanting to hang wide open on its 100-year-old warped frame.
Fumbling at pulling up my blue jeans in hasty clumsiness, while hobbling in reverse to a blind spot out of sight from the kitchen, I accidentally crashed backwards onto my bed. Taking advantage of my feet being catapulted up from the fall, as I lay sprawled on my back, I managed to half finish the task of yanking my pants up.
Neatly swinging my boots back down to the floor and snapping upright from the bed, as adroitly as a circus tumbler, I hiked my jeans up the rest of the way. My remaining job now was to fasten the cumbersome belt buckle. Not a good day, I thought to myself, to have picked this oversized cowboy model.
In my rush I couldn't prevent it from clanking and clattering, like I was shaking a box full of junk metal. Running my hands and eyes over myself in a final check, I lunged for the now fully-open doorway.
"Hi, Anne, nice to see you," I said in the most sincerely relaxed voice I could muster.
"Oh, hello, Tom. I thought I heard you in your room." I'm sure I turned bright red in the face.
"Yeah, I was watching TV," I continued, now totally flustered, "when Michael rushed through the room. Then I heard your voices, and, ah, I thought I'd come out and say hello. Ah, how are you doing?"
"Good, good. And you?"
"Pretty good. And how's William?” [her husband]
"He's fine. I think he's in town at the bank or something today."
"Ah, well, don't let me interrupt you, I need to go downstairs and check on some clothes drying."
"Will you be coming over for dinner tonight?" she inquired.
"I dunno, that would be nice; Michael?"
"Um, we'll see," he mumbled.
"Well, let me know, so I can plan how much to cook. But I need to get going, just wanted to check on some things with Michael. Bye."
"Bye, nice seeing you," I said, my eager voice no doubt revealing my relief the ordeal was over.
Michael walked his mother to the front door, then returned to the kitchen, where I was pouring some coffee. He had a drained look on his face.
"Think your mother suspected?"
"Of course, with all that noise you were making! Your belt buckle was so damn loud, we both heard it, and it sounded like you were doing a square dance in your boots. She had to wonder why you were just getting dressed in the middle of the day, and with me in there!"
"No, I thought we covered by saying you’d come through the room from outside. And that I was lounging around, watching TV, you know, and she could figure I needed to get dressed first, before coming out."
"Yeah, but she left kinda sudden, not like her to go so quickly after just walking in. She knew it, she knew it, I could just see it in her eyes."
"Maybe it was because her eyes saw THIS..." My pointing index finger almost touched his wide-open jeans zipper, that I had suddenly noticed for the first time. The white fabric of his boxer shorts was poking way out past the zipper fly, in a perverse parody of a puffy handkerchief in a jacket breast pocket.
"Oh, my god, NO!" His hands started to fix himself in a rush.
"No good hurrying now!"
"I wonder if she noticed?"
I just stared back at him, as if to say: "Are you really serious?"
"Oh, god, Tom, now she knows for sure!"
"Not unless she thinks you do yard work that way, and without your hat."
"Do you think she could see, my, ah, my...?"
"Michael, the fly on your boxers was wide open, too, the cloth hanging out the zipper. You tell me."
"Ohhhh, noooo..." he moaned.
"So, you wanna go back to my bedroom?"
"Are you kidding? I won't be able to get it up for a week now."
"I doubt that. What about tonight? Think we should still go over there?"
"Oh, no, we can't do that, not for a while. I can't face her at the table right now, and not with you there."
"I always warn you to lock the front door."
"Then she'd KNOW something was going on. Nobody locks their doors around here."
"Like she doesn't know now. Better she suspect it, than actually see it."
"So you do think she actually saw it?"
"No, not THAT! Well, I dunno, maybe she did see it, but I meant the 'it' of us doing it, that 'it', not YOUR 'it', not your -- oh, never mind!"
We looked into each other's eyes sympathetically for a moment. Finally one of us swallowed back a suppressed laugh, then the other did the same, and in seconds we were both laughing with tears streaming down our faces. We staggered around the kitchen like drunks, laughing hysterically, finally collapsing into each other's arms.
I felt myself being nudged toward my bedroom as we embraced. "You still wanna try?" I asked softly, my face nuzzled against his farm boy’s rock-hard chest.
"I guarantee, she won't be back anymore today."
"OK," I sighed dreamily.
He closed my bedroom door behind us, tightly for once. We weren't disturbed a second time.