Back and buckin'
Lick the salt.
Shoot Jose.
Suck the lime.
Ride the bull.
It seemed straight-forward enough. Yet, I was nervous. I didn't know what I was doing, and not just with the tequila.

Mechanical bulls are bucking saw horses covered in faux-cow skin. Immobile, they look harmless. Headless, buttless, completely still animals often do. To notice the mechanical bull's natural habitat is to question how harmless such a contraption really is. Anything surrounded on all sides by three-foot thick brown cushioning is either dangerous or fun. I was about to find out that this particular breed was a little bit of both.

The riding advice I had received earlier in the evening was of little to no help, but the bull operator must have taken pity on me when I foolishly reached for a second riding glove.

"You only need one," he said beneath his brown cowboy hat. Sheepishly I put the left glove back as he pantomimed the bull-riding posture I should take. "You grab hold and throw the other hand back like so."

I half-heartedly mimicked his gesture.

With a little hop off the cushioning, I climbed up on the bull. The cowboy told me to scoot up. "Git that hand in real close, almost in your crotch."

I did as I was told.

The sign for buck is to throw that ungloved hand up. It wasn't long before the bucking began. At first it was a little like riding a drug-store horse that takes quarters. I may have been a little dramatic in the early part of that ride. When the "head" went down, I leaned back and when it came up, I leaned forward, all the while gripping tightly with my knees and my hand close to my crotch. It wasn't complicated, or even particularly fun. Just really funny and a little awkward. As the bull got more comfortable, or as the operator saw that I did, there was more bucking and even a little twisting. I got caught in a funny position and realizing I had two rides left decided not to fight it and tumbled to the cushions.

I popped right up and rode again. This time the bucking and twisting came faster, but I had the rhythm and the giggles. I found it hard not to laugh as I was spun and rocked all over that bull's home. I rode a good long while, perhaps as much as 30 seconds before I grew tired of having my knuckles slammed into my privates. Again rather than hold on with too much pride, I tumbled off.

I stood up again, a little less ready for my final ride.

"You can take a break," said the cowboy. Sweeter words have not often been spoken.

So I took a break. During my break I considered the chafing on my thighs. I considered the awkward way that my back had been turned. Most of all I considered the giggles. Mechanical bulls make me smile.

I readied for my final ride. When I motioned to the operator that I was going in, he smirked at me. I had a hunch I knew what that meant, but I was ready. Probably four whole seconds of ready before the bull bucked me right off laughing most of the way to the ground.

"That's when I have my fun," the cowboy smiled. "The third ride is for me."

"I figured," I smiled back.

After that I watched the bull toss the likes of frat boys, cowboys, and 45-year-old birthday girls having a whole lot of fun. I watched the bull get seduced, ridden backwards, and treated like a diving board. A debate roared inside of me. Chafe some more and ride the bull or wait for another day.

My legs won out, but I will ride again.