Fifty More Bales of Hay. Rachael Treasure

      ‘Randy, hi!’ said the pimply girl in the tone of an airhead, Anne thought.

      ‘Why hello, Darlene,’ he said in a slow southern American accent.

      ‘Thanks for visiting my brother in hospital last week,’ the spotty St John volunteer said, her eyes illuminated with an obvious display of girlie crush.

      ‘My pleasure. He’s a cute kid. I hope he’s feelin’ better.’ Randy turned to look at Anne. ‘So, they tell me you’re the lass from the uni, come to grill me?’

      ‘I…?’ Anne began, embarrassed to be found in an ambulance by her interviewee. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, just as the St John man stepped forward with a rehydration drink for her.

      ‘Sit up slowly, young lady. We don’t want you cracking your scone if you faint again.’

      Randy surveyed her from behind his clown make-up and shook his head. ‘No point you interviewing me in your present state. You’d better come back to my camp. Have a bit of a rest. Thank you, Darlene, thank you, Frank. I can take the little lady from here.’

      A while later Anne found herself with a thumping headache at Randy’s ‘camp’, which was an extremely long horse trailer he called a Gooseneck. Inside were angled bays for the horses, where a big palomino stood munching on hay. Randy had sat her in a deck chair and showed her where he cooked, ate, slept and showered, which was basically in the back of the truck with the horses.

      ‘It’s charming,’ she said sarcastically. ‘And why isn’t this poor horse out in the yards with the others? Why is he shut in here?’ Anne turned to look at the strangely dressed man before her. It was hard to tell his age through the face paint. It was hard to tell his body shape. He had protective gear under his shirt and just looked boxy and square.

      ‘Mostly coz he likes it in here with me. We’re pretty good mates and because he’s a bull.’

      ‘A bull? But he’s a horse,’ Anne said.

      Randy laughed. ‘I mean he’s a bull. He’s a stallion,’ he said. ‘You want to know about male aggression, little lady? He’ll kill another male that gets between him and his girls.’

      Anne looked at the placid horse with the golden mane that looked as if it belonged in a Disney video. ‘Really?’

      ‘Ma’am, with all due respect, you don’t know much about animals and men, do ya?’

      Anne felt herself stiffen. She was dux of her year last year at uni and had scored distinctions right the way through this semester. And she had a boyfriend.

      She was about to answer when Randy, who was chewing on the end of a bit of hay, said, ‘Why do you think we castrate most of the male animals in our farming systems? It’s to keep order. That many males and all that testosterone would be too hard to handle. If you had seen them bulls out there today, you would’ve realised that running one thousand of those boys in one herd together would create all kinds of hell-raising. That’s kinda what’s happened to humans on planet Earth. There are a lot of males out there should never been bred, causing wars and pollution and a whole world of trouble. In farming, we leave the nuts in the best of them, the calm ones, the handsome ones, the most productive ones. You cut the nuts out of the rest, because that way you have order and a nice line of animals. I reckon there’d be plenty of women like to do the same to humanity. No use it being a “man’s world” when the men ain’t payin’ attention to what the women want.’

      Anne tried to take in what he was saying. Her head was still thumping.

      ‘Way you come across in the world, ma’am, I reckon you’d like to castrate the aggressive, useless males and select the ones you women want and need for breeding.’

      ‘Excuse me? No! I…’ Anne said, her cheeks flaming red with offence.

      ‘Of course, I can say that confidently, about the castration, because I know the women would keep me as a bull. Not many women wouldn’t want babies outta me.’

      Anne’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. The arrogance of the man! ‘Why … you…!’

      She was about to stand up, but Randy had already ducked out of the Gooseneck. When he returned, he handed her a packet of painkillers and a pannikin of what smelled like rum.

      ‘Wash it down with that and it’ll all seem better, darlin’. And you do know, I’m teasin’ ya. You look like you could do with a bellyachin’ laugh.’

      ‘Don’t you darlin’ me,’ Anne said. ‘It’s patronising.’

      ‘Patronising? Or flatterising?’ he said with his clownish grin. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to take a shower. I’m stiff, I’m sore, I’m busted and I’m dusted. This make-up is annoying the hollerin’ hell outta me.’ And with that, the rodeo clown began to take off his runners and proceeded to undress right there in front of Anne.

      ‘I … You … Um, excuse me?’ she stammered.

      He stopped unbuttoning his shirt and looked at her. Anne could see vibrant blue pupils ringed with grey.

      ‘Well, you are in my shower room. You never seen a man’s body before? You can sit outside, but the mozzies’ll eat you this time of evening. I suggest you stay right there with your headache and look away, young lady. Or you’re welcome to jump right in and join me. It’s river water pumped from just outside. Makes your hair nice and soft. Might wash away your headache and your sins.’

      ‘Sins?’ She rolled her eyes again. This man was frustrating! Arrogant, aggressive and frustrating!

      But Anne found she couldn’t help sneaking glances as he dropped the denim clown shorts, pulled off the skins and stood just in his shirt, which he had unbuttoned and was now dropping to the floor. The Velcro of his protective vest made loud ripping noises as he peeled it from his body and then slipped off his singlet. Unashamedly he dropped his underpants, turning to the shower bay that was right there in the back of the Gooseneck alongside the small stove and a pile of horse gear and Anne’s chair.

      Anne’s mouth dropped when she saw his male perfection from behind. The broad shoulders were so brown and muscled that as he reached for the taps she could see the mechanics of his divine body beneath his skin. The way his waist tapered into narrow white buttocks that topped muscled thighs, sculpted as perfectly as the statue of David. Across his back and his side were red welts and bruising. Along his knee she saw a deep red scar that ran in an arc down his shin.

      ‘Why do you do it to your body? Why do rodeo?’

      ‘Why do people base jump?’ he said, scrubbing soap onto his chest. ‘Why do people race cars? Or surf giant waves?’

      ‘Males seeking mindless adrenaline, through egotistical risk-taking,’ she answered.

      ‘Not only males. You take risks.’

      ‘I do not.’

      ‘Why do you risk your life taking them dangerous party drugs? Why do you jeopardise that tiny little body of yours that’s no bigger than a widget and your busy brain that’s too noisy to think straight?’

      She sat up, surprised at his question, insulted by his comments.

      He ducked under the spray of the shower and began to soap his legs, turning his head to her. Waiting for an answer. She saw the colours of his clown face run in rivulets down his tanned body.

      ‘How do you know I take drugs?’

      He began to scrub his face with a flannel, and she watched his shoulder blades move beneath his smooth skin.

      ‘Your eyes are dulled by something, and it isn’t the hardship of life. You’re as spoiled as Paris Hilton. Nope. You take them drugs. I can read it in your energy. You ain’t balanced.’

      ‘Oh, great. Judged by a clown. What would you know about my energy?’

      ‘It’s