The Old Jism Trail: The Sexual Misadventures of Cactus Jim and Miss. Opal

Some men pan for gold. Sit for hours in some cold river, bent over like a cripple, looking for that flash in the pan. Not Cactus Jim. Screw that He looks for gold where gold can be easily found...in the inviting smile of a soft face...the glow of warm eyes...in the soft touch of an easy woman...Cactus Jim saw Miss. Opal for just a split second, but it was enough for him to know how he would be ending the night...Miss. Opal was not like the other girls. She was different, strange, she didn't fit in. The other girls would do whatever it took to get a client, but not Opal. She just sat back...eternally cool...smoking a cigarette and drinking from the flask she kept in her garter. Left leg. Yes, she sat back, watching and waiting. Cold...icy cold...her coldness worked like magic on men like Cactus Jim. Big bloated men, puffed up on their own ego and the lies it fed their minds. Cactus Jim was a legend, a hero, a singing cowboy, a minstrel man, a wanderer, a dreamer, an expert at love making.Miss. Opal knew that Cactus Jim would be packing...she knew it the moment he walked in to the saloon. He had been throwing money around all night like a damn fool. Songsters like Jim were a dime a dozen, but even Miss. Opal had to admit that he was charming, witty and his parodies were hilarious. He was a bard in the old Shakespearean tradition...a carefree minstrel, wandering from town to town...but poor old Cactus Jim had picked the wrong town...and maybe, the wrong girl.