Bragging Rights

Previously I write "Chief ear-to-ear grins and in an amused friendly voice tells us, ‘Nothing, I just wanted to see you girls naked!' " Our tribal chief is offering gentle sexual play to welcome our daughter and I to their tribe. These scribblings are a companion piece to my Mescalero Pickup essay.

Topic this time exemplifies sexuality can be used as a weapon especially as a cohort of Christianity sponsored masculine sexism. Our daughter, a rather clever and assertive girl, wields sexuality as a sword to cut down and humiliate a group of sexist pig boys.

Boys entertain some of the silliest sexist notions about what impresses girls. Boys have this in their heads girls love a rough, tough and super machismo man. Our cowboy loves rodeo riding fire snorting bulls and bucking wild stallions. All three of us enjoy rodeo riding but these days we do not rodeo ride much, we are becoming older and perhaps a tad bit smarter. Our girl and I do not love our cowboy for his rough tough rodeo riding. He tells us girls, "Rodeo riding is for young stupid boys. I am an old stupid boy. Anymore rodeo riding leaves me sore and hurting for a month of Sundays. I am not a young strapping rodeo riding cowboy these days."

Our girl and I love our cowboy for his realistic attitude, for his being in touch with himself. We love him for his being an old fashion cowboy gentleman who respects and loves girls.

Up there at top of a list of what bozo bragging boys think impresses girls is a big penis.

Our rural Oklahoma farming family and our community suffer a drought year; crops fail. We get by on food grandma and I canned previous fall. Grandma uses well water for a small garden to help feed us, grandpa has a couple sides of salted pork in his smoke house. Nonetheless, drought times are economically tough for all farming families.

Following year grandpa sets aside his pride and starts up sharecropping twenty acres of land a few miles north of our farm. Most every family around takes to sharecropping although we do not like this. We must do this to survive the previous year drought, we have to get caught up, all of us are broke. A land baron up in Idabel comes circling around like a vulture and offers his land for sharecropping. Families keep two-thirds of crops, this scavenger land baron keeps a third without his shiny city slicker shoes becoming dusty.

My cowboy is a young teenager back then, I am six and seven years old. Our family is out working our sharecropping cornfield. We grow the greenest and tallest corn anywhere. This land baron boy pulls up on a dirt road out edge of field. This cowboy I love tells me the car is a ‘64 Chevy Biscayne, "That's a cheap car, nobody likes those." We don't have a car nor a truck but we do have a couple of mules, Belle and Kitt, and a durable and sizeable mule drawn wagon.

Grandpa tells us, "You two stay here and keep working." Sound of his voice, those words of his, instantly tell us grandpa expects trouble. Land baron gets out of his car and starts walking out into our cornfield. He is carrying a thin walking stick which looks more a switch. Grandpa and grandma meet him about an acre away from the dirt road. Right off the land baron takes to waving his stick around and lecturing our grandparents. He tells them we should be using a tractor not plow mules, says we should spray insecticide and spread fertilizer. Grandma makes an all encompassing motion of hand, "Look at our fine field of corn!" Land baron yells at our grandma, "I said you ain't farming right!" then he lashes out with his switch stick and strikes grandma's hand. My cowboy and I are shocked to almost taking a few steps backwards.

This boy I love takes off running towards grandma and grandpa, he is hopping mad. I am not far behind and wet-hen mad. Grandpa explodes into a rage, he pounces on that vulture land baron like a forest panther on a rabbit. Grandpa grabs the land baron's stick, snaps it in two over his knee then starts up severely beating the vulture boy about his head and shoulders. Land baron takes off running like a frightened rabbit with grandpa chasing and waving his stick. The land baron outruns grandpa.

During the first great war, grandpa and his fellow soldiers are hit with mustard gas. Most die, grandpa survives but his lungs are severely damaged, he cannot run far without running out of breath. About the time land baron jumps into his car my cowboy is almost on top of him but the land baron spins his tires, roars off leaving behind a big boiling cloud of dirt road dust. This love of mine shakes his fist and yells after that Biscayne, "I'll kill you!"

Later grandpa works at explaining his bad behavior, grandpa says fighting is wrongful. Although he tells my boy many times grandpa tells him again, "Son, don't ever raise your voice or a hand to a woman, that ain't right." Grandpa teaches my cowboy to always show respect for a woman even if she makes him hopping mad.

Few weeks later a tale and word come up the dirt road out front of our farm, this vulture land baron is dead, trampled to death by a team of plow mules down the route at the McNeal farm. Tale is this land baron is yelling and waving his stick around in front of old boy McNeal's mule team, "I suppose he scared my mules into bolting and trampling him to death." Privately word is the land baron hits a young McNeal daughter with his stick and her daddy gives one of his mules several hard stinging hand swats on a flank while hollering, "Hee Yaw! Get! Get!"

Whatever reason for the land baron being trampled to death, Oklahoma swift justice is served and farming families keep all those crops grown on his land and, my cowboy doesn't have to kill the man for hitting our grandma.

Our girl, her daddy and I are over at a friend's house, a young boy, early twenties. This cowboy of ours is helping the boy repair and restore an old Chevy Malibu. Hood is up, they are working on the engine, my husband is teaching him. This young boy turns to his girlfriend, "Go get me a beer, bitch." So startled by this my husband straightens up and slams the back of his head right into the bottom side of the hood. He yelps, stands up, rubs his head then waves around a Craftsman wrench, "Don't you call your girl a bitch, that ain't right!" Our cowboy is red faced clinched jaw mad. He is thinking to crack the boy's head with his wrench.

Our daughter takes hold of her daddy's arm to remind him to stay cool. Girlfriend of this young boy tells us, "That's alright, he calls me ‘bitch' all the time. I don't mind." She heads off to fetch her boyfriend a beer.

Our girl takes to whispering in her daddy's ear while he puts a Choctaw death stare on the young boy. She whispers, he says, "I understand how they talk these days but I don't like that." They talk for a bit in our native Choctaw tongue for privacy. I am glad our girl and her daddy talk Choctaw, what our cowboy says ain't nice, not at all, actually quite vulgar. Our girl's daddy is as mad as grandpa the day that land baron hits grandma.

Three of us frequently enjoy a Saturday night date, quite romantic, quite thrilling. We fancy up ourselves, dress to impress, then head up to town in our equally fancy ‘53 Chevy sedan of a show car, a real beauty. We enjoy dining, drinking, dancing and diddling. When we remember, which is not often, my daughter and I check over our cowboy to be sure he is not showing what Mother Nature gives him as a generous gift. He tends to show, really show, obviously show, right there where dumb boys brag on themselves with little reason to brag.

Our cowboy is stunningly sizeable, simply huge. Our girl and I cannot help but notice, bit of a game for us, we always just have to look. We two girls are ornery and enjoy annoying our cowboy. Under a table, in a dark corner, standing close to a bar, we team up for some fun. One of us will reach right down there and make adjustments so he doesn't show so much. When enough privacy we make him crazy, we will reach right into his jeans and hand move him around. Our cowboy cannot fight us off, this would draw more attention than his showing. We girls have fun, so does he much to his blushing consternation. This is a loving game for us, kind of like straightening up his tuxedo bow tie but a heck of a lot more fun!

When out in public we do not dare make hand adjustments, too many eyeballs. He shows, we do not tell him this and enjoy watching people looking at him. This photo on your right is at a car show, our girl's daddy is visiting with two of his favorite girlfriends whom he clearly likes a lot.

We are invited to a backyard barbecue by this young boy who owns a Malibu. Usual boy stuff, burnt hamburgers, way too many beers, loud boasting and bragging and in his house, a big screen television football game blaring while watched by beer belly boys flaking out on a couch and on a floor littered with empty Budweiser cans and crumpled potato chip bags.

There is a bit of anxiety for us after the bitch-car-hood-smacking incident but we are gracious and accept this invitation to attend the young boy's backyard party; we like him but certainly do not like his sexist behaviors.

Standing around talking with a half dozen or so boys tanked up on beer, their talk gets around to mine-is-bigger-than-yours bragging and boasting. We stop talking, we don't like this, there are women around, ain't supposed to talk like this in front of women. They continue swapping lies about what little dangles between their legs.

Our Malibu boy thumps his girlfriend and he does this again, "Go get me a beer, bitch!" She does give us a quick glance, there is hidden distress in her eyes and on her face but she heads off for a boyfriend beer. Couple of wives or girlfriends fade back then walk away. Those girls don't like this disrespectful boy talk.

This go around our daughter becomes red-faced enraged and her daddy keeps his cool. I keep an eye on my girl should she decide to hit or kick a boy.

Girlfriend comes back, hands her bitch boyfriend his beer. Before popping the tab, darn dumb boy holds his beer can in front of his crotch then strokes and brags, "Bitches can't get enough of me!" There is laughter amongst those jerks of boys and some crotch grabbing and shaking.

I take hold of my husband's arm just in case but this is our girl who needs holding back. She is ticked off, says, "My daddy is bigger than any of you." With the boasting and laughing going on, only a couple of boys hear her and look at our girl. She becomes aggressively assertive, this time loudly says, almost shouts, "My daddy is bigger than any of you little boys."

This has their attention, there is snickering and laughter, a boy says, "Yeah, right!" A boy tanked on beer in back says, "Whatever, bitch!" They laugh, some high five hand slapping. I tighten my grip on our cowboy but he does move to punch out lights. Dawns on me he is displaying respect for our girl, he will not steal away his daughter's thunder. He knows she has a plan of some sort, and knows she and he have a score to settle for the previous bitch fit by the Malibu boy. What our daughter and her daddy talked about in Choctaw needs vengeance for deeply offending them.

This is our girl's thunder, her daddy will play along, he respects our daughter.

Our girl starts working at her daddy's belt buckle. He pretends to put up a fight for appearances. He could easily stop her but does not, he respects his daughter. She loosens his belt buckle then starts in on those fly buttons of his jeans. Those beer boys become whisper quiet and intently watch. I glance at their faces, I see disbelief all around. Some glance at each other and make big eyes; they are shocked.

She reaches into her daddy's jeans, gets a hold, pulls him out and lets him flop down then puts a Choctaw death stare on those boys just like her daddy does when mad. Our cowboy blushes but he will not silence our girl's thunder, he respects her.

Watching those boys, they get bullfrog big eyes, some drop their jaws, all are stunned to silence. Those beer belly bitches are surprised by what our daughter does and surprised by what they see; a huge nicely tanned penis bigger relaxed than those boys are erect. Boy who calls our girl a "bitch" blurts, "Damn!"

Certain and swift Oklahoma justice is served, we have our vengeance; those boys are shocked and fiercely belittled by our girl's lightning and thunder.

Risking a glance at her, girlfriend of the Malibu boy has a hand over her mouth to hide her grinning, she is twinkling eyes delighted we bitch slap her boyfriend. I carefully stuff my husband back into his jeans, our girl buttons and buckles him and this is his teamwork cue to speak his thunder, "Thanks for inviting us to your party, this has been a lot of fun but we must leave now." I take the lead, our girl next and her daddy brings up the rear. Our girl is always between us, sitting, walking, dancing, sleeping, her daddy and I surround her and protect her. This time she certainly does not need protecting, she panther pounces on those boys like our grandpa does a sharecropper land baron.

Grandpa teaches, "Son, don't ever raise your voice or a hand to a woman, that ain't right." My husband and I are together literally since I am born. All those years he never raises his voice to a woman nor raises a hand to a woman and he never will, he is a well spoken cowboy gentleman.

Nicknaming a girlfriend "bitch" is not sexy nor sensuous and certainly will not have this girl take a boy to bed. Even during these modern times of taking liberties with words, calling a girl a bitch or another of those endless offensive terms of endearment is likely to have a boy slapped. Some old fashion values still hold true today.

Certain swift Oklahoma justice is served at this backyard barbeque but not quite a type of just deserves we dispense during our childhood like cracking a land baron's head with a stick or trampling him to death with a plow mule team.

Our cowboy enjoys his bragging rights, he earns his bragging rights not by Mother Nature delightfully endowing him with a Clydesdale stallion quality rather this boy of ours earns his bragging rights by simply being an old fashion cowboy gentleman who loves and respects girls. He never brags on himself but we two girls certainly do. We two bitches cannot get enough of him; we madly love our silver tongued devilish cowboy gentleman.