Fifty More Bales of Hay

‘Torment! Those animals are bred for it, trained for it, fed and conditioned for it. They are athletes too. They have long lives, long careers and they love it. You can’t make a bull buck, same as you can’t make a horse buck. You’ve no doubt heard the expression that you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. It’s the same with this game. If they don’t want to do it, they just don’t do it. But the animals that do want to do it, they’re chasin’ the same rush as us. We’re a team, them animals and us.’

‘I don’t need to hear your pro-rodeo spiel,’ she said, realising she’d been staring at his buttocks and back for a long time. She took another big slug of rum. ‘I’m just here to ask questions for my assignment.’

‘Well, that’s a shame,’ Randy said, turning to face her as the water streamed over his toned body. ‘I thought I could’ve changed your mind about aggression in men. Most of us cowboys are gentle types. Gentle with horses, gentle with women. Family men.’

When Anne saw his face for the first time clean of make-up, she almost fainted again. He was so good-looking, so beautiful, it felt to Anne as if she had looked into the eyes of a god. Cleaned of the face paint, Randy had looks that stole hearts. His skin was smooth and tanned, his jet-black hair framed a manly square-jawed face, his teeth were white and perfect and his sensuous mouth was now moving into a slowly evolving grin.

‘I don’t mean to be rude, Miss Boxright, but if you stay at university too long, you’ll forget about real life. And you may miss your calling as a mother.’

‘Excuse me!’ she said, red-faced, and angry yet again at this arrogant, yet incredibly delectable, man before her.

‘You use this too much,’ Randy said, tapping his temple with an index finger. ‘When you don’t get around animals much, lots of folk forget they are animals. You are an animal, and you gotta go with your instincts as the female of the species, not against them.’

‘My instinct is not to have children yet … I’ve got a whole…’

‘Would your instinct be to hop into this shower with me, as an animal, say, not as a woman, a student and a feminist? As an animal?’

‘No, it certainly would not!’ she said.

‘That’s a shame. You might only have fifty eggs to lay.’

‘Pardon? Fifty eggs to lay?’

‘That’s all you might have left inside there.’ He gestured to her stomach region. ‘So if I were you, I’d be gettin’ in touch with your animal instincts. Can you get me a beer, by the way? I wanna wash my hair. If you’re feelin’ fine to stand and all.’

As Anne got up and reached for a beer out of the tiny fridge, she felt anger simmering within her. She knew he was teasing her. She knew he was playing her. A cowboy as good-looking as him, and clearly as smart as him, could get any woman he wanted.

She thought of Simon, of his spindly legs and flaccid computer-geek arms. His glasses that had fogged when they first kissed. The way he liked to tie her up and hit her with his computer cords. He was weird with sex. She had thought it might grow to be fun, but as time went on, Anne had found herself withering within as a woman. As a lover. No amount of academic reading or study on the matter seemed to ease or help the situation.

‘I have a boyfriend, you know,’ she said defensively.

‘That’s just a social construct,’ Randy said. ‘You know back in the day when we all lived in caves, women mated with many men, at the same time. That’s why nowadays men are visually stimulated by watching copulation, because essentially, we are all still animals. It was the strongest sperm that the female was after, so to get a whole bunch of it from different males meant the strongest would fertilise her egg. Mother Nature helping human survival. And, I’m tipping, it’s the same today. If women were more like animals and forgot about the money and what life is supposed to be according to the TV, they’d pick the kinder males for most of their love action.’

‘And where on the rodeo circuit did you come up with your ingenious anthropological insights, Mr Carter?’

‘You’re not the only one who is university educated, ma’am, with respect,’ he said with a quick tilt of his head and a lift of one eyebrow.

As she handed Randy the beer, their hands touched. She felt water splash onto the front of her top and she looked down to see that the lace bra beneath was clearly showing through.

‘You’re very pretty,’ Randy said, ‘and I’m going to embarrass myself in this here shower if you don’t turn that lovely face of yours away along with those two pretty lady thangs.’

She looked at him with her deep brown angry eyes. ‘Getting all male on me, are you? And what about my prickly energy … you happy to fuck that too?’

‘There’s no need to be coarse and hostile now, Anne,’ Randy said, sipping calmly on his beer. ‘I can see what’s within you. You’re like a scared filly that keeps laying her ears back at the world and threatening to kick. Once you find your place of love and lose the fear, you’ll learn to look at the world with your ears forward, gal. And you’ll learn the words “thank you”. You’re a rare creature. And a beautiful one at that. Worth educatin’, I’d say.’

Her present mind flashed insult and anger, but beneath the surface flashed disappointment in herself. In her disasters with men. Her anguished relationship with Simon. His distant, cold ways once he was unplugged from the violence of his virtual reality games. She felt she had been lost in the world of drug-induced nights in clubs, along with other sweating unhinged souls, lost in the facades of materialism. But here before her was perhaps the toughest, rudest, yet most peaceful, gentle man she had ever met. She felt a tiny crack in her armour.

‘And how would you suggest I find my place of love? Through some southern-drawling Jesus church, like you clearly have?’

Anne felt Randy grasp her tiny wrist.

‘Our capacity to love is all we truly have,’ he said. He pulled her under the jets of the shower and began to kiss her. With a hunger like no other, Anne began to kiss him back. Desperately she helped him peel the sodden shirt from her, reefing off her skirt, dragging down her lace panties, unhooking her bra until she stood naked. The water caressed the skin of her hot, fearful body, washing away the stress of the day and softening her to this foreign world that was such a contrast to the rush and bustle of her life in the city. The aggressive rush and bustle of the city, she realised now, that man-made concrete world of commerce and consumerism. She was swamped by it.

Not like here, this dozing place of summertime and countryside, where Mother Nature ruled and there was a peacefulness even in the midst of a jostling rodeo ring. Coarse and rough maybe sometimes, but Anne had seen there was a steady, polite and caring rhythm in the people, a calmness in the animals and a grounding presence from the land. It was all so much more gentle than where she was from.

Pressing herself against Randy’s torso, Anne felt his gentle hands roving over her skin. There was a sureness to his touch and with it, she felt every nerve in her body settling. Yielding to him, like she’d seen the horses yield. Big strong men reining their beautifully educated horses around with the softest of imperceptible cues, like a male dancer leading his partner in a waltz.

Randy’s lips were full and soft, and his tongue inside her mouth felt warm and sensual. His hands reached for the shower gel and pumped a dollop of pearl liquid onto his palm. Still kissing her, he began to lather the gel over her firm small breasts, and as he did, she felt his knees give a little from the hunger of his own desire. The slide of the lather, the caress of his hands up and over her body, the way he cupped her face, the way he cupped her soft white rounded arse, all made her gasp. A feeling of weakness in her legs from desire overtook her as well, but a feeling of strength in her feminine power suddenly consumed her. She was gone. The thoughts in her head silenced. There was only the beingness of living.

Randy scooped his hand under each of her thighs and, with rock-solid strength, lifted her up and held her, her legs wrapping around him, her hands reaching for the solidity of his firmly muscled shoulders. Then he lowered her onto him. The tip of his large, blood-infused penis dipping in and out of her, slowly at first. Edging in gently, thrust by wanting thrust. Anne couldn’t wait though for such a slow entry. She tilted her pelvis, pulled herself down and slammed herself deeply onto the rigid strength of his cock. He was so powerful, his thigh muscles like steel, his tanned biceps like rocks. He moved her up and down with ease, pleasuring himself with her, all the while giving her all she needed in the form of the hardest erection she had ever been blessed to know.

Next she heard him turning off the taps behind her.

‘We’ll drain the river and flood the campsite at this rate, baby,’ he said quietly. ‘Come with me.’

Then he stepped from the shower, still inside her, and carried her over to where the horse tack was stored. He dragged down some rugs and horse blankets and gently lay her in the nest of fabric, of summer rugs and coarse cotton-weave saddlecloths. She felt the rough sensation on the skin of her back as he lay on top of her, the sunburn sting barely registering beyond her longing for this cowboy. His horseman hips began to grind against her, so exquisitely slowly, so achingly deliciously, she thought she would die if she couldn’t pull him closer, get him to ride her faster.

She cupped her hands around the cheek of each of his pert buttocks and pushed upwards to him, wanting him in every way. He kissed her along the side of her neck, and she shut her eyes and breathed in the smell of horses and working men. He began to ride her faster now, driving into her more firmly and deeply, and she felt the crest of an orgasm build. Lost in a galloping rhythm, she gave in, gave way, gave up and gave to him as her body convulsed in one enormous heave of orgasmic bliss. Then she felt her entire being soften, her whole world soften. Pliable in his hands, he turned her, rolled her onto all fours and pulled her hips and buttocks up to him. In the wet gush of her recent coming, he plunged into her from behind, his hands drawing her to him as he pushed into her.

From beneath the veil of her bobbing fringe, Anne looked up to the end of the Gooseneck trailer. There she saw Randy’s golden stallion, his ears pricked forward, his excited gaze in their direction, his head held high. And then Anne saw it, the horse’s enormous erection, the mushroom head of his penis inflamed and dripping fluid, bouncing excitedly up against the stallion’s belly. The horse didn’t shift his hooves. He didn’t cry out. Instead, the stallion simply watched.

Anne watched him back. Looking at the giant sex of the animal, feeling like an animal on all fours herself, she gave way to a primeval urge to sap her lover of his semen. She wanted to feel her animal nature that was buried within. She began to flex her buttocks upwards in a rhythm, answering every slam the cowboy gave. The chains of the Gooseneck’s dividers began rattling; the whole truck started rocking. She slammed and slammed and slammed against the man behind her and grunted with effort, gritting her teeth. Then she felt the strong clutch of his cowboy grip press into the skin of her rump as he cried out an explosion within her.

Sweating, he draped his body over hers. She kissed the length of his upper arms, their toned perfection. Then Randy rolled onto his back and gently coaxed her to lie in his arms on the horse blankets. He kissed her on her sweating forehead and with a gravelly voice asked if she was alright.

She giggled a girlish giggle. ‘I’ve never been better.’

They lay there for a time, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, its tune a fit and steady rhythm. His was a good heart. This she could feel.

‘Tell me the truth,’ Randy said eventually, in his mesmerising southern drawl. ‘A girl don’t learn stuff like that from her mama. You’ve been reading that naughty book everyone’s been goin’ on about, haven’t ya?’

‘I most certainly have not,’ Anne said, her tone of offence returning. ‘It’s not to my literary tastes. Nor feminist ideology. I would never read a book that—’ But Randy cut her off mid-sentence.

‘Ah, never say never, darlin’! Before today, cowboys weren’t your taste. But now you’ve tried one, you’ll want him again.’

‘Will I now?’ she said, knowing it was true.

‘You wanna come back to my farm where I breed the bucking bulls? I can show you some real good beef. Nice animals. Top bulls. Heck, I might even have fifty bulls of grey. How’s that grab you?’

She looked over to his manly godsend of a face and for the first time in years Anne laughed properly. From her belly. Without the weight of the world. Without thinking of anything, other than simply feeling gratitude for the bliss, beauty and mystery of life.

‘Fifty bulls of grey!’ she laughed. ‘That’s funny! Oh, you clown!’

‘Actually, in the industry,’ Randy said with a slow and cheeky grin, ‘we ain’t clowns. We prefer to call ourselves bullfighters. And that’s what I do, with people and animals, fight the bull out of them.’

‘Is that right?’ she said.

‘That’s right,’ he said, winking.

And with that, Anne sank back into his big strong cowboy arms and sighed, realising how long her journey to find this place had been.

The Joining

It came as somewhat of a pleasant shock for Marrilyn Ruthbridge that she was getting banged solidly from behind, doggy-style, by Garry Goodwood, in her home. Both of them were almost fully clothed save for Garry’s half-mast trousers and Marrilyn’s slightly unbuttoned blouse and rucked-up tweed skirt. Her undergarment of cream bloomers had been hastily tossed away and now lay beneath the chaise.

How this act came to pass was something of a mystery to her, but for now, feeling the happy slap of the gentleman’s low-slung balls against her buttocks and sensing the thick smooth skin of his manhood rim in and out of her own surprisingly moistened lady parts, Marrilyn had decided to go with the situation. She glanced sideways beyond the floral couch and out her lounge-room window to the decking where King, her prizewinning trial kelpie, stood, knotted and panting with Garry’s bitch, Cindy.

As Garry pumped like a man possessed, Marrilyn decided she was enjoying being on all fours. It was so much nicer than the last time she assumed this bodily position, when she had recently been cleaning the kitchen cupboards. The slate flooring had given her knees hell at the time, but today, her knees felt rather fine on the pure wool carpet … tickety-boo, in fact. It was possibly a decade since her last sexual encounter and Marrilyn had forgotten how vigorous it was. And how much fun.

She was not used to entertaining men in her home either. Certainly not like this! It was only recently that her lovely wisteria-shaded deck outside the lounge room had become a place of canine lovemaking, as kelpie bitches roamed the deck with swollen vulvas, squatting to leave urine and a heady dose of pheromones ready for King to inspect, and later, for Marrilyn to hose away. The men who brought the bitches would make polite bloodlines and breeding chitchat as they sipped from Marrilyn’s small teacups, while King humped his way home.

Up until today, Marrilyn thought the men had all come to woo King for the purposes of breeding, not her. But then Garry, the quiet widower, had surprised her with a stammering confession. He had fancied her for the past year on the Yard Dog Trial competition circuit and would she be so kind as to have a meal at the local hotel with him tonight, before he began his journey back to his property in South Australia?

Marrilyn had felt a flash of shyness. But as King and Cindy began to flirt and King mounted Cindy outside the window, Marrilyn felt a sudden rush within her. Garry must have sensed it and had swooped upon Marrilyn, holding her breathlessly and pressing what was a desperate kiss upon her lips. In the past, she would have been shocked, but it had been a lonely few years and Marrilyn was grateful that a fine man like Garry would have deep feelings for her. Her memory flickered through a movie of past encounters with Garry at various Yard Dog competitions at various showgrounds around the country. She recalled Garry bringing her a salad roll during a lunch break, and a paper plate loaded with slice and biscuits during morning tea. On their arrival at the trial grounds he had often walked with her while King emptied out, the dog focused intently on his toileting. The way he had heartily congratulated her with a kiss after she had beaten him and Cindy by three points in the semifinals. His concern each time she put King in the dog crate and started her engine to make the long journey home to Glencraig. She smiled. She hadn’t seen it. She hadn’t been looking to see.

Now with each thrust from Garry, she noticed the rattling of the glass cabinet containing her fine bone china figurines. The floor shook and the Limited Edition Monica, who carried the flower basket of roses, began to wobble; the delicate woman teetered on the dust-free shelf inside and was rattling her way dangerously close to the Swan Lake ballerina. Suddenly the Limited Edition Monica took a tumble, toppling the ballerina over with a chink. That, in turn, brought down the tuxedoed Rhett, who up until a moment ago, had stood in an elegant waltz pose with the equally limited edition ‘Gone with the Wind Scarlett Southern Belle of the Ball’. Marrilyn had set herself a goal of collecting fifty of the figurines before her fiftieth birthday. If one broke now, it would leave her with forty-eight in her collection. Two off target before June.

‘Excuse me,’ Marrilyn said to Garry. ‘Tewwibly sowwy to point this out wight now, but my Woyal Doulton is getting quite upset. Would you mind?’ She nodded towards the cabinet.

‘Pardon?’ said Garry, who momentarily stopped his thrusting and looked towards the oakwood display case. ‘Oh, yes. Awfully sorry. Shall we … ah?’ He inclined his head in the direction of the dogs outside the French doors.

‘Ehm, yes,’ she said primly, which she realised was rather an odd tone for her to use, given her situation. ‘That would be tewwific. Thank you.’ Then Garry and she, still joined, crab-crawled across the rug towards the window, safely away from the figurines. There, in a patch of sunlight, Garry Goodwood gently cupped Marrilyn Ruthbridge’s broad horsewoman’s hips, and began again to tip his pelvis towards her, in and out, with a punctual beat.

Normally she wouldn’t ever have entertained the thought of starting a relationship with a man named Garry. Not that they were in a relationship, and not that she had an aversion to his name, although she knew her mother would have. But she had always been careful in her younger years to select boyfriends who carried no ‘r’ in their name. Not that she’d had many boyfriends. Only one to speak of. Only Hugo.

Back when Marrilyn’s parents had christened their baby girl in a Cambridge church, they hadn’t known that their child wouldn’t ever be able to say her ‘r’s. Had they known this fact, they would never have named their baby Marrilyn Roweena Ruthbridge.

The issue of Marrilyn’s speech had meant a lifetime of avoiding eye contact with people so as not to engage in conversation. It had meant not saying very much at all … especially to Australian boys. Boys who cruelly teased her at her rural school.

‘Mawwilyn Woweena Wuthbwidge,’ they would taunt. ‘Fwom Gweat Bwitain now wesiding in Victowia, Austwalia, on Glencwaig Fawm!’ Then they would pretend to ride horses and call out, ‘Twot on! Twot on!’

Her adolescence was a disaster. It was easier for Marrilyn to stay out with the poddy lambs and the sheep dogs when Mother entertained the other graziers’ wives and their children than to sit and join in. As a result, Marrilyn spent much of her time on the farm with the workmen and Father, or on her pony getting more and more precise in her riding and competitive about beating the popular girls at pony club. She had quite a talent with animals. And Father had taught her about British class and status, so her speech deficit never bothered her around the workmen, because she became a good leader to them. It was only in the world outside Glencraig Estate that she struggled.

Marrilyn’s life had been something of a solo journey for her. She had been twelve when she had been shipped out from Britain to the antipodes by her parents, following the death of an Australian-based relative, who owned a rather large estate in Victoria’s Western District. The distant uncle was somehow connected to them through the Earl of Dottingtonshire, a somewhat distant line itself, and in a twist of fate, had left his entire farming estate to his sole surviving relative, Marrilyn’s father.

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