Caspar the Boiadeiro
His moustache tickles your face when he kisses you, and your thighs when he goes down on you. He loves like a Californian wildfire: suffocating a body with affection until it is exhausted and he isn't there anymore.
Despite that, this cowboy is an emotional one, lacking only the hat and boots; you may find him by his campsite at night, back to a log and fingering a guitar. He'll tell you of how he once lassoed a falling star and rode it all the way to dawn, and how he would do it again for you, though it appears you've made the stars shy with your own shine. Something in his sidereal eyes has you believing him, too.
You won't be one another's for long, whether by common will or unilaterally. Yet in the dark nights you'll find yourself thinking idly of the way he smelled like burnt wood, his lasso-burned hands which might have tied you up once or twice, and wonder if one day he'll come back astride a comet. He won't, but somewhere inside you know he thinks of you too, wherever he might be and with whomever he is right now.