The Shearing Gun (19 page)

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Elliot,” I chuckled as I tried to compose myself. I wondered how his back was doing from the hardness of the wooden table, but he didn’t seem to mind. His legs had flopped down so that his feet were dangling toward the ground, and he looked as boneless as I felt.

Slowly my heart rate returned to nearly normal, and I stood up to dispose of the used condom. I had to shuffle across the floor with my jeans around my ankles, since my hands were occupied with disposing of the condom, but finally I could pull them up and cover myself. Elliot still hadn’t moved.

“Ell? You okay over there, mate?”

“Hank? Can you come here a moment?”

Instantly concerned, I flew to his side and looked him over. Had he slipped a disc in his back? Had I given him friction burns on his bum?

“What is it? Did I hurt you?”

His head turned toward me. “Hank? Can you see my eyes?”

Oh, fuck! He had turned blind from gay sex! Dad always said it would happen. “What’s wrong with your eyes, mate?” I asked urgently. “Do they hurt? Can you see?”

He smiled wanly. “Just tell me… are they still there?”

“Of course, mate. Where would they go?”

“And my ears? Are they still attached?”

I relaxed a fraction. Was he having me on? “Yes.”

“And my head? Is it still in the right spot? It hasn’t moved or leaked my brains out or anything?”

The dickhead! I grinned with asperity. “It wasn’t your brains that leaked out.”

“Oh, goodie,” he sighed in mock relief. “It just felt that way, then.”

I cuffed him around the ear and hauled him upright. He winced a little, and I was contrite. “Shit, I did hurt you, didn’t I?”

He looked at me seriously. “Hank? Can you do me a favor, buddy? Every time we have sex, I don’t want you having to ask me if you hurt me. I’m a big boy now and I can tell you to stop if you’re being too rough. A bit of a twinge after going a round with you just means I’ve been well fucked. I’m sure that one day we will get around to a slow and gentle fucking, but for now I’m ecstatically over-the-moon about how you ravish me. So stop worrying. I haven’t broken a bone yet from sexual antics.”

I kissed his jaw in apology. “You got it, Quackle. Now do you need me to pick up your pants, or can you get them?”

He slipped off the edge of the table and stretched. “Oh, shit, Hank. I’m twisted like a pretzel. Next time in a bed, okay? But for now, can you pick up my damn pants and help me on with them?”

We laughed, and I did as he asked.

Chapter 16

N
OTHING
WAS
more embarrassing in my life than talking to Doc Larsen the following week. I’d rung and asked for a Monday appointment, and Gloria had booked me in for 2:30 p.m.

I wasn’t joking when I said he was around during World War One. His bones creaked, and his bald head glared at me from six inches below my height—and that distance seemed to be lengthening every time I saw him, as if he was shrinking. But he was one energetic bastard and had a permanent twinkle in his eye that I approved of.

However, it wasn’t like I was comfortable with what I was about to do.

“So, Hank. How can I help you today?”

Shit!
I should’ve asked Elliot what I needed to ask the doctor. All I knew was I had to get tested. What sort of testing did it involve? Did he need to stick anything in me? Up me?

“Oh… umm… you’re not allowed to tell anyone about what I tell you, are you?”

Doc Larsen smiled gently at me—as if he’d heard the same question a thousand times. “No. There is a doctor-patient privilege that prevents me from discussing your history with anyone else. You can tell me anything you want, Hank.”

“What about… you know… notes? What if one of your staff sees?”

“They’re bound by the same ethical obligations I have. Extremely sensitive information can be kept in other places, but I trust my staff implicitly. How about you tell me about it, and you may find I don’t even have to write it down.”

I swallowed and squirmed. Hell, this was hard. The only person I’d ever had to tell was Uncle Murray. Everyone else had found out by accident. But then I reminded myself that this was for Elliot. We needed to know, and I didn’t want to put him at risk.

“Well, Doc… you see… I’m—”
Fuck!
“I’m gay.”

The words seemed to fall between us like exploding shit-bombs. Or maybe that was my imagination, because Doc Larsen didn’t twitch a muscle apart from one furry white eyebrow. He certainly didn’t laugh or run screaming from the room. He waited for me to finish.

I rubbed at my suddenly itchy nose. “I… um… you know? Have gay sex? So I read I need to be tested or something?”

Doc Larsen didn’t lose the gentle smile on his face and simply sat forward and withdrew a couple of forms from a shelf. “Yes. You should be testing regularly. When was your last test? Did it show anything?”

It was like
totally
embarrassing. “I’ve never um… actually had a test before.”

“Oh.” Doc Larsen was frowning at me now. Exactly like Elliot would do. Did they teach the frown in doctor school or something? “You should be testing every six months. There are some sexually transmitted diseases that don’t show up in the early stages, so you need to retest regularly. How long since your first homosexual encounter?”

I could feel the heat from my cheeks now. “’Bout five years.”

He nodded. “Any symptoms that would indicate you have a sexually transmitted disease? Sores on your genital area? A rash? Itching? Pain in your testicles or while urinating?”

“Nah. Nothing like that.”

“Good. Now how often are you having sex?”

Oooh! Hard question. Let’s fudge.
“Not very often, Doc. Just when I’m in the city.”

“Are you safe? Are you using condoms?”

“Yep. Every time. My uncle’s gay, and he makes sure that I’m safe.”

“Good. That’s what I like to hear.” He began scribbling the doctor’s indecipherable scrawl on the forms. “So your uncle’s gay? Well that’s nice to have some support in the family. I take it your parents know, then?”

“My mother died when I was five. My dad knows, but he didn’t take the news well.”

“Oh. That’s a pity. Do your friends in town know?”

“Hell, no!”

Doc Larsen stopped writing for a moment to look at me from under his white caterpillar brows. “Really? Why not?”

“Do you really think I’d get work as a gay shearer?”

“Do gay people shear sheep differently from straight people, Hank?”

“Of course not, Doc. But the shearing bosses are not going to employ a guy who they think will be staring at the other guys’ arses all day and fantasizing.”

He blinked. “Don’t they employ women shearers and wool classers in the shed as well? I’m sure that those women are not discriminated against because they prefer men. I would think that the shearing bosses want to employ the best people, be they male, female, straight, gay or bisexual.”

I had no answer to that. Doc finished up his scribbling.

“I’ll just say this to you and then let it be—if you do decide to tell others of your sexuality, Hank, I think you’ll find it liberating. You’ll also find it surprising. Some may hold it against you, but the overwhelming majority won’t. You may even find a couple of other closeted guys in our community.”

I looked up at him, surprised. Was he implying there were other gay people in town?

Doc Larsen handed me a little plastic jar with a yellow lid and directed me to the bathroom to provide a sample of urine. Gloria took a blood sample from my arm and that was it. Gloria didn’t give me any funny looks or anything, so I felt confident that whatever the Doc had written, he had been discreet.

A week later I was cleared—with the warning that I needed to test clear again to be absolutely certain. I wasn’t planning on putting Elliot’s life at risk, so the condoms were there to stay. I didn’t mind. Elliot and I celebrated my clearance with a late-night bath with lots of bubbles. Elliot had placed candles on every available surface in my tiny bathroom. It was nice. It was romantic. It was lusty.

I was a born-again fisherman.

Although fishing wasn’t all smooth sailing. Fishing trips got canceled at the last minute when Elliot would get a call to an emergency. Once he canceled on me as he was driving to my place, and a couple of times he was called away due to accidents. We mostly fished at my place, but managed a couple of times to throw a rod in the water over at his place.

One Wednesday I headed into town at lunchtime and sent him a quick message.
Are you available for lunch?

We were both circumspect enough to keep our texts vague in case one of our mobiles were picked up accidently. I was at the local stockfeeds when he messaged me back and said he had a free fifteen minutes and was ducking home for lunch. I knew what that meant and was waiting for him outside his house.

Anyone who observed us both entering the house would’ve never believed what we could accomplish in a ten-minute period.

Fishing with a doctor wasn’t all fun. He worked long hours and had to break a planned fishing trip once, due to an outbreak of gastro in nearby Kukerin. That kept him up visiting the local children until nearly midnight, dispensing anti-nausea medication along with medical advice. And the death of an elderly resident involved a whole lot of paperwork I would’ve never imagined before Elliot. But he tended to the community with such loving care that I was, at times, jealous of the attention he gave them.

Of course fishing with a farmer-cum-shearer was frustrating to Elliot too. The needs of the stock often interfered with his plans, and many times I would be falling asleep by eight o’clock at night, cutting short our time together. He did have some great new experiences at my place—but unfortunately for me, most of them were not of a sexual nature. He planted seeds in my veggie garden with me, learned how to bottle feed a lamb who’d been rejected by his mother, discovered how to fix a windmill, and also experienced the physical workout of chopping wood for an hour. I chuckled when he raved over his first time at collecting eggs from my chooks. That was the true highlight of Elliot’s encounters with me—and that included the table episode.

By the time the first day of spring rolled around, my shoulder was nearly at full strength, and Elliot hit the wall of my shearing timetable.

“So when can I see you next?” he asked me one Sunday afternoon late in August.

My timetable was pinned to the wall next to the fridge. It was pretty much covered with red pen for the next two months. I would be shearing for six days out of seven for the foreseeable future.

“I should have only half a day on Friday.”

He shook his head. “I’ll be in Nyabing until five. What about Saturday or Sunday?”

That still didn’t work for me. “Saturday and Sunday I’ll be heading over to Middy’s for the day. Monday I have a job west of Katanning.”

“Oh,” Elliot frowned at me. “What time will you finish?”

“Usually around five. Then I have to head home and finish up the chores around here. I’m really sorry, Elliot, but I’ll be in bed early. Shearing starts at 7:00 a.m.”

We were both disappointed. I had Tuesday off, but Elliot had clinic hours.

“How about you come and visit up at Middy’s on Saturday? We won’t be able to do anything, but you can at least have a chat. Rooster’s on the team—you remember him? You can come and see a real shearing shed in action.”

“Won’t I get in your way?”

“Nah. The boys will be glad to see you. You come to their footy games; they know you. You can just sit on the side until break time. We get regular breaks. I think Middy will prob’ly have his sister Di working the table, so she can show you what she does and she’ll give you a couple of throws if I beg her nicely.”

He blinked, and I could see the cogs whirling in his brain. “I’m not even going to ask what that means.”

I grinned. “So you’ll come on up?”

“How will I know where to go?”

There was laughter in my voice when I replied. “Mate, you’d have to be blind to miss it. There’ll be about twenty cars and several thousand sheep.”

“What time, then?”

Warmth spread through my stomach. It was like a milestone in our relationship. He was coming to see me when there was no chance of any sex—not even a hand job—occurring between us. It wasn’t like we spent all our time fucking when we were together, but there was never a time that we caught up without there being sex involved. Sometimes I would make him wait a couple of hours and help me out with the work around the property, but he would smirk at me and tell me it was only fair since he would take my time up in other ways. I certainly had never spent so much time in bed since Elliot started visiting.

He was a bit of a neat freak too. Not that I’m a slob or anything, but he liked to keep things clean. He would stay the night, and I would slip out in the morning to feed the chooks, only to come back and find he’d already stripped the bed and was washing my clothes in my ancient washing machine. Or sometimes I would be out in the far paddock when he would arrive, but he would potter around my little cottage house instead of coming to find me. I’d appear for lunch, only to discover he’d vacuumed while he was waiting.