Becky My Hill Country Redhead 1

Becky, My Hill Country Redhead, #1

My first time meeting this beautiful, redheaded, pretty, country woman with green eyes and freckles.

It was the summer of 1977, just after our country's two-hundred-year birthday, when I had one of my most cherished memories that I'll never forget. I remember it well because it seemed that everywhere I looked, our patriotic reminder, proud of their country, people flew the stars and stripes. Leftovers from the bicentennial, there were red, white, and blue flags, banners, and decorations that adorned and hung from every tree, pole, house, business, balcony, and banister.

My name is David. Forty-five years ago, a lifetime ago, I was 24-year-old. Older and wiser now, much like every older man, I wished I knew back then what I know now. Missing my fun times and regretting some of my missed, sexual opportunities, I wished I could relive those days when I was a horny and virile, young man.

If I say so myself, I was a good-looking, young man. At 6' 4" and gangly thin, just the type of man that young, beautiful women were sexually attracted to, I was a 165 pound cowboy, with long, blonde hair, and bright, blue eyes. I lived in Waco, Texas, made famous 14-years later in 1993 with the Branch Davidians and David Koresh claiming that he was the messiah.

Texas is a good place to live. The people are friendly, and the lifestyle is laid back. It has a great climate, a robust economy, no state income taxes, and affordable housing.

Admittedly, the healthcare costs are expensive, the tenth highest in the nation. Yet, with Mexico just across the border, a 1,350-mile, two-day drive away, I can buy prescription drugs there much cheaper. Plenty of people make the round trip to buy the medications that they otherwise can't afford in the United States.

With Texas the only state that the power grid is not controlled by the federal government, that may be a problem during severe weather. Fortunately, Texas doesn't get much snow. Conversely, bugs, big bugs, are a nightmare. From huge, creepy crawlers to flying bugs nearly as big as small birds, where everything is big in Texas, there are lots of big bugs in the lone star state.

Single with no girlfriend, and no prospects on the horizon, not ready to be attached and settle down, luckily and fortunately for me, I've never been without a date. I always managed to find an attractive woman on a Saturday night at a local, country-western bar to dance with me and to, hopefully, tickle my fancy later. I loved dancing as much as I loved having my fancy tickled. Seemingly, with me filled with an abundance of testosterone, dancing and sex always go together.

Testing the sexual waters by dipping my toe in the deep end, I preferred dating a variety of women instead of going steady with one woman before being engaged to marry. Indeed, I was a horny, young man looking to fill my wild oats while making sexual memories that I'd remember for the rest of my life. With so very many beautiful and available women out there, it was hard to choose only one.

As if buying a box of a Whitman sampler chocolates, I couldn't eat just one. In the way of Tom Hanks in Forrest Gump as Forrest Gump, taking a bite out of each piece of chocolate, I needed to sample the whole box. I needed to sample as many women as I could before deciding on one to be my forever wife.

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When dancing with a good-looking man, women become just as sexually flustered as men become sexually randy. My favorite thing to do was to dance with a pretty lady while holding her close, talking to her, and whispering sweet nothing in her ear as we danced on the dance floor. Fortunately, for me, the state with the most Miss America winners, there are lots of tall, blonde, and beautiful women with big tits in Texas. An ongoing thing, with every woman wanting to be the next beauty queen, there are lots of beauty pageants and beauty queens in Texas.

Along with Miss America's, Texas has a lot of Miss Everything, from towns to counties, to events, to schools, to rodeos, and to parades, Texas has an abundance of beauty pageants. Seemingly, there's a beauty contest on every street corner, in every hall, and at every mall. Starting them out young, as if they were women instead of young girls, stage mothers pushed their daughters to dress up, wear makeup, and practice their walking, posing, singing, dancing, baton twirling, and musical instrument playing.

Back then, before cell phones, the Internet, and social media, the biggest bar that I frequented was called the Melody Ranch. Ah, just remembering the name of the Melody Ranch, with every memory having a woman attached, evoked lots of exciting, sexual memories. With one woman more beautiful than the next, I met more than a few women at the Melody Ranch.

Indeed, the Melody Ranch was the place to go on a Saturday night to meet the most beautiful and sexually available women in Texas. With no cover charge and without a two-drink minimum, the bar was a magnet for tall, Texas blondes. Beautiful woman flocked there to dance.

Some of the women I danced with, included one who was partially deaf, were stunning. Surprisingly, light on her feet, with her a good dancer, she danced without her shoes to feel the music rising up from the floor. A huge dance floor that could easily fit one-hundred or more people, they boasted the largest dance floor between Austin and Dallas.

They featured live bands on weekends including big name, country western music stars, celebrity artists before they were famous. Back then, a few years before Billy Bob's Honky Tonk opened in Fort Worth, Texas, the Melody Ranch in Waco, Texas, much like the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, Tennessee. That was the place to go to not only get noticed but also to get discovered.

Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Conway Twitty, Dolly Parton, John Denver, Glen Campbell, Tanya Tucker, Mel Tillis, George Jones, Dottie West, Ronnie Milsap, Waylon Jennings, Kenny Rogers, Charlie Pride, Merle Haggard, Tammy Wynette, and Loretta Lynn all played and sang there at one time or another. Every Saturday night from 8 pm until 2 am, that place was rocking. Mobbed with young, horny men and beautiful woman looking for a hookup and who loved to dance were there all night.

If a cowboy played his cards right without coming on too strong by being too rude, too randy, and too drunk, that was the place to go to get laid. There were dozens of hookups every Saturday night. Women were looking for men as much as men were looking for women.

My favorite haunting, stomping, and dancing ground, I met more than a few women at Melody Ranch. Interestingly enough, the name, Melody Ranch was taken from a backlot studio that was fashioned and modeled after a small, lawless town where westerns were filmed in Hollywood. When going to that bar with all of the historic details of western memorabilia, of props, and pictures decorating every wall, along with the swinging saloon doors when first walking inside, the bar felt as if I had returned to the wild west.

Being plain and simple, country folk, the women never wore skirts or dresses. Many of them, especially the older woman, didn't even wear makeup. Much like the women that appeared in Urban Cowboy three-years later with John Travolta and Debra Winger, their standard uniform of choice consisted of jeans and a western shirt, or a casual T shirt with boots and a cowgirl hat.

The only women who wore skirts were the mature, married women. Their skirts were usually long, down to mid-calf, while still high enough to show off their fancy and colorful cowgirl boots. Staying in the back and dancing near the end of the dance floor, they seemed embarrassed to mingle with the tall, blonde, Texas beauties who vied for men's sexual attention while showing off more than just their dance moves.

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Considered quite the dancer, again, if I say so myself, I had a long dancing repertoire. I could dance the standard two-step, the waltz, the Schottish, polkas, and the Cotton Eyed Joe. I danced the Cotton Eyed Joe, a circle dance with polka steps and heel and toe clogging, twenty-years before it was made popular by the Redneck's version of the classic folk song in 1994. If a woman could keep up with me, we danced the boots off everyone.

A woman with whom I had danced, once told me that tall men with long legs tend to make the best dancers because, careful where they step, they are self-conscious about themselves. I fit the bill. Definitely tall with long legs, sometimes, I was self-conscious about my height and my long legs. Sometimes, instead of standing tall, embarrassed to stick out in a crowd, especially when I was younger, I tended to walk a little stooped over so as not to show my height advantage over shorter people.

Yet, having long legs when dancing is an attribute. Especially when dancing with a new dance partner, my having long legs is a bonus for my partner. I took advantage of my long legs to easily maneuver her, lead her, and steer her around the dance floor. Most times, my dance partners were amazed how well I danced. Especially when dancing in the way of Fred Astaire with Ginger Rogers. As if armed with rearview mirrors, I danced backwards without bumping into anyone on the crowded dance floor.

On this one particular night, I wore my tight, blue jeans, a colorful western shirt, my chocolate brown, Stetson cowboy hat, my rodeo belt buckle, and my favorite, shit kicking, cowboy boots. Hard not to notice her with her sticking out in a crowd of tall, Texas blondes, I couldn't help but notice a beautiful redhead sitting close to the dance floor. With her not dancing very often, she sat with another woman whom I guessed to be her friend and/or her roommate. Instead of dancing themselves, they enviously watched everyone else dance.

I assumed that the reason they weren't dancing much was that, to the casual observer, they didn't appear as appealing as the multitude of the tall, blonde women with big tits who'd dance standing upright or lying down with anyone. I considered these loud, laughing, attention hungry women whores, women who would sleep with anyone. No doubt, instead of thinking of them as whores, most cowboys thought of these women as sluts, women who would sleep with anyone but with them.

While surveying the crowd of women, I stood with my back to the bar with my elbows resting on the brass railing as if I was a quickdraw, gunslinger without a holster or a gun. When my redhead turned her pretty head to scan the room, she stopped to look at me with sexual interest. I gave her a big, white, toothy grin. I smiled at her, and she smiled back at me. Giving me the signal that she was sexually interested in me as much as I was sexually interested in her, that was my key to introduce myself to my woman of choice.

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I approached her and her friend with my confidence builder in hand, my tall glass of Budweiser beer. Not wanting to be inebriated enough so that I'd be unable to drive myself home, I had a one beer limit that I sipped throughout the night. I walked over to her from the bar. I introduced myself and asked if she'd like to dance. It only took one sip of beer to give me the courage to ask a pretty woman to dance.

"Hi," I said to the redhead while acknowledging the blonde with a smile and nod of my hat. "My name is David," I said with a smile to the woman of my interest and sudden, sexual desire. "May I have the pleasure of this dance," I formally asked while offering her my hand.

I not only wanted to show her that I had manners but also, unlike the rest of the regular cowpokes, I had class. I wanted her to know that I knew how to treat a lady. If I was going to treat anyone with respect, I was surely going to treat the woman of my sexual interest with respect.

Back then, it seemed that there were only two brands of beer on tap, Bud, or Schlitz. Much like the Ford vs Chevy debate, an endless debate, each brand of beer had their own followings. Their followers were loyal to their favorite brand of beer while ignoring beers that tasted so much better, especially those imported beers from Ireland, Canada, Holland, and Germany. As ignorant as the rest of them were about beer, I was, too. I was in the Budweiser camp.

Having never been to Ireland, I never had the pleasure of drinking a real beer. Wouldn't I have been surprised when many of their beers are dark instead of light. Again, wouldn't I be surprised instead of Bud or Schlitz on tap, their most preferred beer was a stout beer called, Guinness.

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Fortunately, for me, with me one of the few men on the dance floor, most cowboys needed more than a couple of beers under their belt to be ready to dance. Then, after having too much to drink, embarrassing themselves, most of them were better gropers than they were dancers. Yet, sticking to my one beer limit, ready to trip the light fantastic, I only needed a couple sips of beer to be ready to ask an attractive woman to dance.

Certainly, this redhead was more than attractive. She was stunning. She was beautiful. I couldn't wait to twirl her around the dance floor. While holding her around her waist, I couldn't wait to allow my hand to slowly slide down from her waist to the top of her round, shapely ass while talking to her and whispering sweet nothings in her ear.

Unfortunately for the women waiting for men to ask them to dance, but fortunately for me, whether sober or drunk, most cowboys don't dance. Typically, not a shy group, yet, instead of dancing, they drank, and they stared. Thinking that was going to get them laid, they gave women the same old, stale lines.

"Howdy, beautiful. Where have you been all of my life?"

Seemingly, they were unaware that if they danced with a pretty woman, introducing themselves while talking to her, physically and emotionally connecting with her on the dance floor, they'd have a much better chance of getting lucky and bedding her. While dancing with her, as if they were in a phone booth with her, she was their woman until the dance was over. If they could make their romantic connection in those first, few minutes, they'd be getting lucky tonight. Unfortunately, most men didn't see dancing as a way to sexually seduce a woman.

Not wanting to drive home drunk on a Texas road filled with Texas police, constables, state troopers, marshals, and Texas Rangers, with them waiting for the bars to close, I didn't want to be arrested for drunk driving. Actually, the main reason for drinking only one beer, I always wanted to be in control should an altercation break out, which sometimes happened at the Melody Ranch, and many of the other bars around town. After all, this was Texas and not New York.

Even though big, bouncers were there to break up a fight, they'd never get there fast enough to stop a quick, right hand or a roundhouse punch. As if they were angry bulls at a rodeo, some of these cowboys were trouble, especially when they were drunk. With them working all week punching cows and herding cattle, they looked forward to letting off some steam on a Saturday night. The last thing that I wanted was to be burned by a big bruiser of a cowboy.

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Always the gentleman, something that allowed me to see my partner better and for her to better see my face, a habit that I had, I always removed my cowboy hat before dancing. A polite gesture, as if bowing to my dance partner, or bowing to my opponent in a dojo, it seemed that few cowboys did that anymore. In the way that cowboys died with the boots on, oddly enough, cowboys danced with the cowboy hats on, too. To me, the dance floor was sacred. With the dance floor my church, and when in church, I always removed my cowboy hat.

Obviously, just me, but I considered wearing a cowboy hat while dancing as rude. Cowboys wearing hats inside a building is one thing, but not while dancing? That's just inconsiderate and downright impolite to your dancing partner. It's just wrong. If she was willing to dance with me, not wanting to hit her forehead with the brim of my hat, the least that I could do was to remove my hat.

"My name is Becky," she said smiling up at me with her big, green, beautiful eyes. "This is my friend, Shirley," she said introducing her blonde friend. Shirley smiled up at me and shook my hand while holding it a little longer than she should have held my hand. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, cowboy," she said while staring up at me with her big, blue eyes.

Interesting that Becky is the name of the redhead, I never knew anyone named Becky. I wondered if her name was Becky or a shorter version of Rebecca. I looked over at her roommate. With her still smiling up at me, she was coming onto me.

Only, I was more interested in Becky because she was a redhead. I wasn't interested in Shirley because she was a blonde. I remembered what Paul Newman once said when referring to women, specifically when never cheating on his wife, Joanne Woodward.

'Why go out for hamburger when you have steak at home,' asked Paul Newman with a shrug of his shoulders?'

In my regard and choice of preference, why go for a blonde when I could have a redhead?

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Shirley was a pretty but not nearly as pretty as Becky. A dishwater, dyed blonde showing her black roots, even though she looked tall from her seated position, taller than Becky looked, she wasn't my type. I've had sex with plenty, enough blondes to know that I preferred redheads, especially a woman who was a natural redhead as evidenced by her freckled complexion.

There are a lot of tall blondes in Texas. There are a lot of signoritas with long, dark hair, too, especially those arriving from south of the border. Yet, again, more than just a choice, for some reason, I'm more sexually attracted to redheads. There's something about a woman with red hair that made her look mysterious. Perhaps, that's why they burnt redheads in 17th century Salem, Massachusetts as witches.

Yet, if she was a witch, a good witch like Glinda in the Wizard of Oz, Becky had already cast a spell over me. Stopping myself from staring at her, I couldn't stop looking at her. She was the most beautiful redheaded woman that I had ever seen. I was more interested in her than in just dancing with her. Hoping she'd ditch her friend and go home with me, I hoped to put the moves on her, and romance this sexy redhead later.

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Becky stood much shorter than me, which was easy to do. Yet, she was surprisingly cute. She stood about 5'4" tall, about 13 hands on a horse. She barely came up to my shoulder. With me 6' 4" tall, a foot taller than her, I stood about 16 hands on a horse. Used to riding, a hard habit to break, I measured everything with my hands or with my 12" boots.

Showing me that she did some form of exercise and physical fitness, she had a toned and firm build. When she stood, her well-formed body filled out her blue-jeans in the most delightfully, sexy way. I loved allowing her to walk ahead of me so that I could stare at her shapely ass doing a samba in her jeans.

Clearly, something that evoked me to stare, she had a nice ass beneath her tight blue-jeans. Her form fitting gingham shirt with the top two buttons unbuttoned showed a substantial line of cleavage that gave me an imagined image of what rested in her low-cut, white brassiere. With her having bigger breasts than a handful, I figured she had large B cup breasts or small C cup breasts. Whatever size they were, she had nice tits that complemented her slim waist and her shapely ass.

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With her a colorful woman, she had short, ginger hair that contrasted her bright, green eyes. She had freckles everywhere, as I would discover much later when undressing her and stripping her naked. Having a thing for redheaded women, I preferred redheads to blondes. I especially loved redheads with freckles.

For some reason, unless they looked like Robert Redford with his head of blondish, reddish hair, women are more attractive with red hair than are men with red hair. Every time I see a man with red hair, I think of Howdy Doody or Alfred E. Newman from Mad Magazine. For some reason, red hair and freckles aren't as appealing when on a man than they are irresistibly appealing on a woman.