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Bugout! A Novel Coronavirus Novel Ch. 113

Shaking his booty with the passion of a train robber stealing looty, a self-proclaimed new man sashayed in front of a full-length mirror in the corner of his dank basement apartment. He shimmied. He shook. He did a westward pirouette like a dance hall queen baiting the hook. In his mind he daydreamed about his sweaty stripper debut.

Welcome to Ladies’ Night, girls.


The House of Low Lights is proud to present Buck Skin for your dancing pleasure.

Buck Skin?

Last week a half-asleep county court of common pleas judge rubber-stamped Buck’s petition to change his name without asking a single question.

Thank you, your honor, said the newly-christened Buck Skin formerly known as Buck.

Court adjourned, the judge said with a yawn.

Buck Skin headed straight to the Cowtown Outlet store to buy himself a pair of top-of-the-line buckskin chaps. These babies sold for $395.00, custom Buckskin Leather Chinks. That’s what they call them, Chinks, even though the name sounds inappropriate and offensive to our new dancing star.

The new Buck Skin now oozed sensitivity. The bad old redneck days disappeared. And the homosexuality conversion when the late Big Bob tried to electrocute the gayness out of him not only backfired but careened in another odd direction.  Buck Skin now stood poised as maybe the most bisexual mutt in the dog house. Freedom to be the man he hid for so long just made him want to dance.

Buck took an instant liking to that wrangler gear because they made him look better than anybody Miss Kitty ever took upstairs in Gunsmoke, including Marshal Dillon. The best part was how easily Buck Skin could drop those big boy britches, already gyrating when the buckle hit the floor boards. Look out, cowgirls, that’s when Buck Skin really got down, the latest, greatest male stripping bare-assed buckaroo ready to gallop better than a bucking bronco at round-up time.

Cowboy up, Buck said.

Then he began to dance.

Always a fan of the Chippendales male dance reviews, Buck Skin couldn’t wait to form a strip-teasing review called the Strip-N-Tails, a wild and wooly male dance troupe available for bawdy bachelorette parties and scandalous shindigs for widows when the old girls got together to celebrate a new lease on life after hubby’s death.

Yes, indeed, romping, stomping Strip-N-Tails would never let them down.

For some reason, Buck’s legs bowed after getting run over by the redneck stock car with the Confederate flag painted on the roof. So now he walked like a cowpoke stereotype, an old cowhand from the Rio Grande in a black-and-white Western movie on the Late Show.

Time spent in the hospital coupled with physical therapy tuned him up stronger than he felt in years. Bull riding appealed to him for some reason and he thought seriously about taking up cliff diving in Acapulco. With almost everybody who pushed him around for years now dead – except for that mean little JayJay Bone who, no doubt, would someday soon get his – Buck Skin finally walked tall as his own man, a man’s man, among gay, straight and double-dog-dare-you dandies.

Buck aspired to come out of every closet he could find, become the most rip-roaring, rootin’-tootin’ son-of-a-gun go-go hoofer the low-class entertainment business ever saw.

In many ways, this would be his first rodeo.

Buck Skin trembled.

But, buoyed by a surprising wellspring of courage, he shocked Doreen when he called to tell her she could forget about him working as anybody’s confidential government informer and already bought his one way Greyhound bus ticket to cowboy country to seek fame and fortune.

Yippee-ki-yay, get along little dogies.

Coronavirus or no coronavirus, Buck Skin’s taking off for Texas to take it off in Texas.