A 06c Country Life 3


by Tim Anders <Timlovesjase@yahoo.com.au>

Country Life (3) by Tim Anders (Extensively revised sequel to "Bush Treatment")

Copyright Tim Anders © 1998, 2002

Dedicated to Dad who gave me a hug when I came out

The episode in the paddocks had placed our friendship on a more intimate course. I knew I was in love with Steve and I told him. He kept laughing it off but I was sure he loved me too. I'm not so sure now. But, love or deep and affectionate friendship, whatever it was, we were a lot closer. We hugged quite openly as a greeting, and even risked a kiss and gave each other's little mates a 'handshake' through our pants, when nobody was looking.

As camouflage we sometimes took girls out to the movies or for an ice cream in one of the two local milkbars. I saw it as a waste of time that I would have preferred to spend alone with Steve, but he was more sensible, pointing out the real strife we could get into if people suspected, let alone found out what we were up to, his parents for starters.

I quite enjoyed the company of girls, even kissed some of them, and surprisingly my little mate responded. I had no intention to go further, I was far too scared they might call my bluff and invite me in. So, I usually said my fond farewells quickly and trotted home. Some of them thought I was a nerd for not even trying, according to Steve who also told me he tried it on all the time but kept getting knocked back. I couldn't imagine why anyone would knock back my gorgeous guy, and so I'm not sure now how reliable that story was.

He was a daredevil without a doubt and had a reputation as a "ladies' man", which at the same time counteracted any suspicion about our indestructible friendship, which, besides all its 'fringe' benefits, had also made a positive impact on our academic work. Parents and teachers were delighted without realising what was behind it all, except maybe Dad.

Our good results seemed to spur us on to compete with each other in a constructive way. We always checked each other's work, pointed out mistakes, discussed errors or queries, it was a very loving and weird competition. If I got better results I felt almost guilty and really sorry for Steve and I'm sure that applied to him too when the case was reversed. Of course, plenty of 'consolation' was required (and given) in such cases.

I was cast for a lead role in our annual school musical, but Steve missed out. I was very upset not only for him but because I wanted to be in it with him, together. My multi-talented mate said he didn't really want the part, and instead did a brilliant job lighting the show.

Dad had an idea of the two of us going fishing for a week or two during the Xmas holidays. I always liked that as a kid, it had a sort of bonding effect like our bush trips earlier on. There often was a more educational or disciplinary side to them as well, because Mum disliked Dad's way of disciplining me (see "Bush Treatment"), and I'm sure this 'man-to-man' relationship contributed greatly to the bonding process with Dad that has lasted to this day.

I wanted to go fishing with him but I also wanted to be with Steve, especially in the summer break when we'd have a bit more free time. Dad said it was 'fine' for Steve to come along, if his parents agreed. The cane had been idle over the last couple of months, and he was pleased with what he saw as Steve's good influence on me.

It was true, Steve often saved my bum from the cane by reminding me of things I had to do, or alerting me to potential pitfalls, which was surprising since he'd told me he got turned on by the thought of me or any guy getting the stick. When I asked him about the discrepancy, he said he didn't like me getting hurt. Not logical, but I know what he meant.

Steve's parents allowed him to come, but only for a week, so he wouldn't be 'a burden'. Dad assured them he wouldn't be, but they were very rigid in many ways. So, we set off for a bit of roughing it in the bush and had a great time. Dad seemed quite happy just sitting there, waiting for the fish to bite, but we soon lost patience and explored the surroundings, which was all new territory for me, although Dad had been here before.

We swam a lot in the river. Well, it was a very small river, more like a creek, but not very far downstream from our campsite it widened and deepened enough for us to swim. Not deep enough to dive, but we were happy, and the water was so clear and beautifully cool, you could drink it. There were tall rocks all around it and a sort of rocky island in the middle.

The weather was hot, so we needed to cool off a lot, after which we'd lie beside each other under a gum tree or between the rocks, talking, dreaming up bushranger stories, how we were hiding out there from the cops, and of course they never caught us. It was wonderful to be so uninhibited about our nakedness and holding each other while we were talking, which led to other 'games' as well, as might be expected.

The '69' option we'd discovered almost by accident turned out to be very exciting and we had little games who'd last longest or who'd come first, the 'punishment' for the loser being a hand spanking. We were tempted to use a switch but it was a bit risky, as we were fairly uninhibited around the campsite and we didn't want Dad to ask awkward questions. So, not only did our bodies in general get plenty of exercise but our little mates got special attention.

We were both so randy! Seeing each other in the nude all the time, being able to touch and kiss when we felt like it was a constant turn-on and we always 'felt like it'. One day after several strenuous 'workouts', my balls started aching, and it got worse and worse. I thought I'd injured myself and was going to die, but Steve assured me it happened to him once after he'd wanked about eight times in a day, but it wasn't 'fatal'. Maybe not, but if it hurt like that, I wasn't going to try and break his record, even though feeling his hand very gently holding my balls, was almost worth it. We took things a bit easier after that.

The first evening we all sat down to sort out the running of the camp, who was responsible for what, and so on. Steve and I volunteered to do all the dishes, general cleaning up and keeping the site tidy, and Dad didn't argue. He just said, "we're all on holidays, and I want us all to have a good time. So, I hope nobody buggers it up," he looked at me, "because I forgot to bring the educational aid."

"Dad!! Do you have to?" I looked at Steve who was laughing his head off. Somehow I felt almost betrayed by both of them.

"What's the matter, mate?" Dad teased, "you should see that as good sign, I didn't even think I'd need it."

"Umm - well, - "

"See? You haven't put a foot wrong for so long now, at least as far as I know," he winked, "it didn't even enter my mind when I was packing our gear." He looked at Steve, "I reckon you've had a lot to do with that, mate."

"Aw, I don't know, Mr. Anders - - " Steve was clearly embarrassed.

"You can call me Mark, mate."

"Geez - um - thanks Mr - um - Mark."

"You've been a good influence on Tim, no question, mate. Things have improved a lot since you two have teamed up. "

"My dad said that about Tim, too."

"Did he now?" Dad seemed pleased, "why? You been getting less stick, too?"

"Da-ad!!"

"What 's wrong with that, mate? Just asking a question."

"Well it's a bit embarrassing."

"It's OK," said Steve, stabbing me in the back, "I don't mind talking about it." He shifted his position but I could tell from the bulge in his shorts he didn't only 'not mind', he enjoyed it.

"Thanks a lot, mate!" I got up, "anyone else want a drink?" I went to get what they wanted from the creek, where we'd put cans of beer and soft drink in the cool, running water,.

When I came back, Steve was counting off all the guys he knew in town who were still getting their bums tanned, which sounded like half our class and most of the footy team. Some of them I hardly knew, but Dad nodded knowingly. He was the footy masseur and of course knew them all. I guess in a hick town like that, word gets around and, as I'd found out through Craig and Dean soon after I arrived, there was nothing disreputable about getting the stick and it really was no big deal like it would have been in the city where I came from.

There followed an animated discussion about whether boys our age were too old to still get a hiding, with Dad saying it wasn't just a matter of age, but of maturity.

"I was nearly 20 the last time my dad - your grandfather - tanned my hide, and I wasn't too old for it then. I more than deserved it. It was a bit unusual, all the same for a bloke that age to get the stick, even in those days, more's the pity. We'd be living in a different world now, if had been a bit more widespread then." Somehow I found it hard to imagine Grandpa doing that to my Dad.

He said he knew some 18+ year olds with occasional tell-tale stripes on their bums, and as far as he knew them, they were more like silly teenagers and clearly not 'too old'. Funnily, we all found ourselves on the same side of the argument, that is was matter of maturity and that Steve and I didn't seem to have quite reached that exalted state yet.

That led back to Steve and how his own punishments at home had become less frequent than they used to be, and his father felt it had something to do with my good influence.

"Seems you're really good for each other then," said Dad jovially.

I tried to be funny, "my bum's never had it so good," and then realised what I'd said and most likely blushed to right behind my ears.

Steve laughed his head off, Dad grinned, I think he knew why I was blushing, but he only said, "good, mate. I don't really enjoy your whackings any more than you do." He didn't know how true that was, except 'enjoy' wasn't quite the right word. Or was it? My little mate certainly got excited before and after a punishment, even now, just talking about it.

"I'm sure my dad enjoys it," said Steve, "he keeps picking on me all the time till I blow up and say something I shouldn't, and then BOOM!"

"Very unwise," said Dad, "ask Tim, he learned the hard way, didn't you mate."

"Yeah, but you're not really picking on me like Steve's dad." I really meant that. But, just so it didn't sound like I was sucking up to him, I added, "well, not much."

Dad raised an eyebrow, ruffled my hair and grinned at Steve, "see what happens? He thinks he's safe so he can give cheek."

I decided not to buy into this, just to be on the safe side, but there wasn't really any great risk. Dad was in a good mood, we were enjoying a nice, if somewhat embarrassing, chat but there was no need to tempt fate either.

Dad and Steve really hit it off, which was great. I wanted Steve to be part of the family, and this holiday together certainly came close, even if it was only for a week. As it turned out, the fish weren't biting as Dad would have liked, so he decided to head home at the end of the week anyway and then maybe go to another spot.

Unfortunately, my bum didn't remain totally unscathed during that time, but it was entirely deserved, and all because of a stupid knife. Well, the knife was OK, I was the stupid one.

When I was still a little nipper of about 6 or so, Dad taught me how to gut and fillet fish he caught. I had a special, very sharp knife for that. Mum had a fit when she heard about it and saw the knife, clearly she had no faith in my ability to handle it. But she was wrong. I knew that knives were not toys, and this one in particular, and I've always been careful with them.

So, it was a major blunder as much it was a surprise when I left it lying open and unprotected by the camp fire and Steve trod on it. He wasn't worried, just picked it up and handed it to me, "I think this is yours, mate."

My heart sank, "you OK, mate? I'm sorry, I never leave it lying around like that. Show me your foot."

"No, it's OK, really." But he lifted his foot, and luckily it wasn't cut.

Dad wanted to know what the matter was, so I told him. I could have made up a story, he was far enough away, but I don't tell lies usually. Must have been impressed on me at a very young age because I don't know that I ever lied, at least not to Mum or Dad. He came over to check Steve's foot, too, but there was no damage. Steve had probably just stood on the handle.

I could sense the storm clouds, but I myself was so appalled, I felt negligence of that order deserved some kind of penalty. Steve also sensed the sudden change of 'climate' before Dad even said a word, and he valiantly tried to minimise the damage by assuring Dad that really, really, he wasn't hurt.

Dad looked at me, "you've never done that before, mate."

"I know, mate, it's bloody stupid. I don't know how it happened."

"See, that's the point! You SHOULD know how and why you left the _d_a_m_n_ thing lying there in the first place."

"I honestly don't know. I must have got up in a hurry for some reason or something. It won't happen again, I promise."

"I hope not, mate. It'd be a shame if I had to take it away from you at our age, after all these years, what is it? Ten?"

"Yeah at least ten." I looked at him, "you want to do it now or when we get home?"

"Up to you," Dad said, looking past me. I turned around and saw Steve wandering off along the track to our swimming spot. He obviously knew what was coming.

"Can we do it now, please?"

"You got your army knife?"

"Yes."

"Well, you know what to do then."

I could tell Dad was really upset, and I wanted to say how sorry I was for spoiling the holiday, but I only said, "won't be long," and went off to cut some switches for him to choose from. That's how we usually did it on such occasions.

"One will do," he called after me. "You know the drill, no need to chop down the whole forest."

"OK," I replied, but it wasn't really. Dad had in one sentence put the whole responsibility on my shoulders. In the past I used to cut a few and he made the final decision which one would connect with my bum. This time the decision was mine, and that was a heavy burden. But he was right, of course. I had done this many times and knew exactly what was required.

It took a while, but eventually I found and cut a suitable switch, which was thinner and whippier than the canes we had at home. I swished it a few times to see if it was sturdy enough to allow full control of its movement - a bit of self interest there - and then returned and handed it to Dad, knowing it would sting a lot.

Dad tested it a few times, looked at me, "sorry, mate, this should not be necessary."

"I know, Dad." I dropped my shorts and bent over, putting my hands on my knees.

Four times it hissed through the air and assaulted my bare bottom, creating a sensation of indescribable pain, and making me groan from the start to the end. I felt Dad's hand on my shoulder, "stand up, mate," and I got the biggest hug in a long while.

"I'm sorry, mate," I sniffled into his shoulder, while rubbing my sore buns.

"I know," he said, patting my back, "go and sit in the creek."

I went down to the creek and did as he had suggested, and that's where Steve found me, as he came wading along the creek bed. He was naked like me, carrying his Speedos in his hand.

He sat beside me in the water and put his arm around my shoulder, "how bad was it, mate?"

"You should have stayed and watched," I blubbered through my suddenly emerging tears.

"Shsh," Steve kissed my eyes and held me close, "you know I couldn't do that, mate. Come on, let's have a look."

I stood up and he ran his fingers over the ridges the switch had left on my bum cheeks.

"Hey, gently!!"

Steve planted a kiss on each of my scorched buns, "hmm, not too bad, mate, no skin broken, I reckon you'll live." And with that he slapped my bum, and next thing we were both rolling in the water, our little mates getting harder and harder, laughing and hugging and kissing madly.

I didn't feel the pain any more, I was deliriously happy as our naked, wet bodies intertwined. "I love you, Steve,"

"Yeah sure, mate, me too."

That was about the closest he'd ever been to saying what I wanted to hear.

We returned to the camp holding hands, still wet and naked, but Dad wasn't there. I never found out why he'd gone but I suspect he heard us carrying on down by the creek and was giving us some space, just in case. We crawled into our tent and made the most of it.

Eventually we got back into our shorts and looked quite respectable when Dad returned a while later. He'd caught some fish and grinned, "thought I'd give it another go. At least we got enough for dinner now. Oh, and I chucked the stick, so you better not pull another stunt like that, mate."

"No, Sir!" never called Dad 'Sir', but it felt right at that moment. He registered it with a grin.

Much too soon the week came to an end, and we went home. The rest of the holidays was dull by comparison because Steve had to go away with his family. They offered me to come along, but Steve and I agreed it wouldn't be much fun.

As a result, I was in a _s_h_i_t_ty mood for a couple of days until Dad's patience came to a sudden end. He'd been bugging me asking again and again what the matter was, and I snarled at him to _f_u_c_k_ off and leave me alone. The moment I said it, I felt absolutely bloody awful. I never talked to Dad like that, it just slipped out, wasn't even directed at him but at life in general.

Dad looked sad and annoyed at the same time. He just said, "go to your room, and when you're ready to talk in a civil manner, we'll discuss this like grown-up people, now PISS OFF!!"

That upset me even more because Dad didn't usually speak to me like that, either. I realised how angry he was. It certainly had a sobering effect and for once I stopped wallowing in my misery about missing Steve. I realised what an ungrateful brat I was and how much I must have hurt Dad, specially after the really good time we'd had the week before. I also knew I deserved a very sore bum for my behaviour.

After a while I took a deep breath and came out to face him. He was working in the garden. "Dad, can we talk, please?"

"Wait inside."

He came in after a few moments, "now listen here, mate - "

"Dad, I'm really sorry --"

"I remember boxing your ears for telling me to get _f_u_c_k_ed, less than a year ago - "

"DAD! I'm really very sorry. I didn't mean to say that to you, mate. I mean I don't usually do that, do I. I - I'm just awfully upset about Steve, and I - "

"OK," he interrupted, "I can understand you're missing Steve and you're angry about it. I don't even mind the _f_u_c_k_-word, but you're not talking to ME in that tone of voice, no matter how upset you are. Clear?"

"Yes," I nodded, "just sort of slipped out, sorry."

"With a bit more self-control, like I've been telling you for ages, things wouldn't just 'slip out', would they!"

I swallowed, "I know, and I've said I'm sorry. I'll try harder in future. But it's not that I'm not trying, mate, honest."

"I was really pleased to see you show more responsibility lately. But I'm not going to stand by and watch you lose it, only because Steve isn't around. He won't always be around, nor will I. You going to chuck a wobbly every time things don't quite go the way you want? Like it or not, mate, one of these days you got to learn to grow up."

"I don't do it intentionally, Dad! It just happens."

"Yeah, well, we're back to where we started, aren't we. Don't LET it 'just happen'!! Take control of yourself and your actions. THINK before you say or do anything!"

"I'll try, Dad, I always have."

"Well, you'll need to try a lot harder, mate, because as long as you and I live together, I'll be whacking your bum every time you 'slip-up', as you call it. And I can be a lot harder on you than I've been so far."

"Yes, I know," I said, and my little mate stirred already, "what're you going to do?"

"Have a guess!"

"I know I've earned a hiding."

"You're not wrong, mate. So why the question?"

"I mean, you going to do it now?"

"See what I mean?"

I looked blank, much to Dad's exasperation.

"You ask 'what are you going to do' when you mean 'I know what you're going to do but when are you going to do it'. That's a different question."

"Sorry."

"Haven't I just told you about the need to THINK before you talk?"

"Yeah - umm. Sorry."

"It's very easy to just say sorry, mate. You got to take in the lesson and work on it."

"Yes."

"In answer to your unclear question, there's no time like the present to reinforce the lesson."

"Now?"

"You heard me," and he went out to the hallway.

It was summer and I was only in my usual garb of footy shorts and nothing else. I took them off while Dad retrieved the cane that lived in the hallway. There was that familiar whistling noise as he came back into the room testing the cane, swishing it through the air.

Dad told me long ago it was quite normal for my little mate to rise on such occasions. He said guys he massaged at the footy club often got hard as they stripped naked. Although he never took any notice, it still embarrassed me. So, I quickly turned around and bent forward, hands on my knees.

WHACK!!

Hell, that stung!! I stumbled a little from the impact. After only one stroke, my bum already felt like a flame thrower had hit it.

"Better get over the chair," Dad said, realising I'd nearly lost my footing. This was where I usually ended up for harder punishments, eg. more than six strokes. Giving my bum a furtive little rub, I pushed the armchair into position and bent over its back.

WHACK!! - WHACK!!

I tried not to yell, but I couldn't help groaning and hissing through my teeth as subsequent strokes connected with my bum. I tried to keep count but lost it when I started sobbing "OWOWOW!"

I kept hoping each stroke would be the last one, but somehow it's always been a question of 'honour' not to ask for a deserved punishment to be stopped, it still is. Although this seemed the worst thrashing I ever had, it probably wasn't. I don't know how many I got, but it must have been at least 10, but of the 'very best'.

"Get up, mate!" I felt Dad's hand on my shoulder, then ruffling my hair, showing he still loved me, and that made me really howl. I felt an absolute _s_h_i_t_. I slowly rose from my position and faced Dad, tears welling up in my eyes. He gave me a big hug. "I'm sorry, Tim."

"I am the one that's sorry," I sobbed, my face resting on his shoulder.

"I know, but I don't like doing this, mate. You're the best thing I've ever produced, and it hurts me when I have to hurt you. So, try not to provoke any more of these, OK?"

I nodded silently as his hug loosened and I stood facing him.

"OK, better go and have shower, mate, and put some stuff on your bum."

He handed me the cane, and I returned it to its place in the umbrella stand on my way to the bathroom. I got a shock when I inspected my backside in the mirror. I couldn't remember it ever looking like that before. No wonder, Dad suggested the Lasonil anti-bruising ointment.

I could feel a lot of ridges as I very gingerly touched my extremely sore buns. The hot water from the shower first made it worse, but as I got used to it, it seemed to ease off. Drying my bottom was a rather delicate affair, even putting the Lasonil on was painful, as you're supposed to massage it in. Needless to say, my little mate had shrunk to nothing during the caning and - uncharacteristically - even now he was in no mood to raise his head again.

I put on a new pair of footy shorts - not entirely painless either - and returned to the sitting room. Dad worked irregular hours and had to go out for most of the afternoon. So, I was left alone with my sore bottom and no Steve to kiss it better. How I longed for him! I should have gone with him and his family, and none of this would have happened.

I finished the weeding Dad had started, dug over the compost heap and did a few other jobs that had been waiting, hoping this would somehow make up for my blemished record. It was a tradition that, once I had been punished, the matter was closed But Dad was pleased to see the results of my work. I think he understood my desire to repair some of the damage.

A few days later he enquired after the state of my buns. By then I was able to joke about it again and asked, "why, are you planning to lacerate them some more?"

He laughingly raised his eyebrows, "can you think of any reason why I should? I'll happily oblige, of course!"

"Certainly not, SIR!! I just wondered, Sir!!" I mimicked and dropped my shorts to let him form his own judgement. I had already observed myself in mirror that there were still traces, of course, but my bum has always been very resilient, and the liberal use of Lasonil doubtless did its share in bringing about a fairly remarkable recovery.

"Hm, if I hadn't done it myself, I'd say you hardly felt that," he joked and slapped my bum, "pull'em up, mate, the close season is over, so you better watch out."

We went fishing for a few days and it was fun, almost like old times again, even though I still missed my Steve. But there was no more moodiness or temper tantrums, it was a happy time.

From then on, there was very little friction between me and Dad, and I got the cane maybe once a month, if that, always earned fair and square, but the best part was that Steve would kiss it better at the next opportunity.

Another great talent Steve had was woodwork, especially carving and I loved just sitting there, watching him carving beautiful things while we talked. Well, to tell the truth, I often sat right beside him and caressed his little mate while he was doing it. I suppose it was lucky he never cut himself with that knife he used! I still have a beautiful hand carved letter opener with my name carved into, which Steve gave me for my 17th birthday.

By then his family had left the district and he lived with his grandparents in town till the end of the school term. We shared all the joys and problems of adolescence, it was a happy time, although the dark cloud of separation was hanging over us. We knew it had to happen, but kids seem to have that ability not to let such things worry them until they happen.

Steve moved away at the end of 2nd term in mid-year. It was a tearful farewell on my part, and he tore my heart to shreds when he said that all this kids' stuff was finished and he was going to marry a nice girl. I felt utterly betrayed and would have killed him if I hadn't loved him so much. He said he really felt guys were not for him, and I was the only exception. He had no explanation why I was still turning him on, but doubtless we'd both grow out of it.

I felt as if he'd died, maybe even worse, because he'd ditched me for someone else. The rest of the year was quite awful. There was nobody else and I didn't really want anybody to take Steve's place.

Dad was very understanding and showed a lot of patience when I regressed into moods again and my school results declined noticeably. At least I did appreciate his restraint and tried to do my work and behave in a civil manner. Somehow a gap had opened between Dad and me as well. He was still my best and only real mate, but he was no Steve. Confidences Steve and I would have shared, remained locked away inside me. It hurt me a lot, but Dad was hurt, too.

Years later he told me how, for a while, he was tempted to cane my bum at least once a day, but he somehow felt he'd lost me and so it would have been useless. He sensed the distance, too, and I regret causing him so much pain. Kids can be so cruel without realising it.

However, there is a surprise happy ending to this story. As the year progressed, I got over the blow Steve had dealt me, I settled down again, even my school marks improved somewhat, and that old bond with Dad was still there. We didn't talk about it, it just came to the fore.

One day in November, after a nice meal and a drink, we were sitting on the verandah, talking about Steve and I suddenly felt so close to Dad that I raked up the courage to open up and tell him what I really felt. I told him how Dave taught me to swim and we made love in the dunes. I still loved Dave, and if he had suddenly turned up I would have even dropped Steve. I said I was pretty sure I was gay.

Dad was very quiet, looked at me for a long while, then he got up, "I'll be right back," and went inside. Had I upset him? Not likely, remembering how cool he was when he found Steve and me in bed together. My courage to come out to him was based on that memory.

Dad returned with a bottle of Port, filled two glasses and handed me one. "Mate, you're nearly 18," he said, "I'm very proud and honoured you're telling me this, and it's time I told you the truth, too. - Remember my 'new lady', as you used to say?"

"Yeah, you said she went overseas and didn't come back."

"I lied. The name wasn't Jo, but Joe with an 'e' at the end. He is a man."

I nearly fell off my seat. "What??"

"It's true, mate," he stood up, "come on, give us a hug." We hugged, thumping each other's backs. We both cried, but they were happy tears.

"Mate, I don't know what to say." - I couldn't believe it. My Dad?

"I suspected, but I kept hoping you mightn't be, mate. It's a difficult life."

"Dad, I don't want to be anything else."

"That's OK, son. I hope you can always feel so positive."

We finished that bottle of Port over the next hour or

so, luckily it was a Saturday night.

Dad never tanned my backside again, and a few months later I moved back to Melbourne.

If you want to know what happened there, read the 'Adam, Beloved Mentor' series.

Comments are welcome


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