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Ted's Tales:


A World Apart
Part 2: The Exploding Cow and Other Outoor Fun.

Welshpool, Western Australia,in those days of the mid-50s, was a great pace for a teenage boy to have fun - especially if he had a teenage buddy to explore the world - and each other - with him, as I now did. Over the next two years Ron and I ranged all over the district in search of new places for new adventures to have together. When we got tired of the local swamps and bush and paddocks, there was a fresh-water river a couple on mines away in the next district, and the foothills of the Darling Range four miles to the east. And if we really wanted exercise we could pedal our bicycles the 12 miles to the Indian Ocean, which we didn't do too often because the benefits gained were outweighed by the 12 mile trip back in the heat of the late afternoon - especially if we got there to find the beach was closed most of the afternoon because of shark alarms!

It was usually better just to hang close to home and go play in the swamps, deep in the bush close to my home. In late-summer they dried right up, and we would entertain ourselves, running, usually naked, through the trails made by feral pigs from an abandoned farm, throwing sticks and stones at the pigs when we found them rooting for food, and run like mad when they chased us, taking refuge up leaning paper-bark trees til they got bored with trying to get us, and wandered off.

It was a dangerous game, but we never got gored or bitten. Nor did any of the other local kids, but I believe my Dad's sister, my aunt, had a great chunk bitten out of her leg by one of the pigs when she was a teen.

The abandoned farm itself was a neat place. Someone with grandiose hopes had built it before the Great War, but it was already a deserted ruin when my Dad was a boy growing up here in the 1920s and 30s.

We would find all sorts of neat things half-buried in the sand or hidden in the bushes around the remnants of the farm. I once found a rusted cut-throat razor in a mother-of-pearl casing, and Ron found a stone bottle. Mum said they used to use them for home-made ginger beer.

As I said, when we were in the swamps, we were usually naked. We would strip off soon after we entered the bush trail to the swamps, and hide our clothes in some bushes there. Sometimes other kids would come to the swamps while we were there, but they were usually naked too, or completely ignored our nakedness.

But mostly we were there alone, where we would do the things teenage boys do, like skimming rocks off the water, in spring and early summer, when there was still water in the swamps. We didn't swim in them too often, because there were leeches in the water, and it was no fun pulling them of parts of your body, particularly private parts. And there was more of our private parts now. We were both growing rapidly, as teeagers do.

But our favorite game was "bummying." We would butt-fuck each other at every chance we got, in every position we could think of. It was usually a bit risky to do it at my home or Ron's, but out here in the bush, the chances of us being caught were slim. There was little risk of anyone finding out we were "poofters." Out here, it was fun, it was exciting, and there was a sense of freedom. We could explore each other freely. It was perfect!

Well, almost perfect. There were the risks of getting prickles in your bum, and sand in your crack, or mosquito bites, or wasp stings, or ant bites. Apart from the usual big black bull ants, there were fiery red ants in the area, which gave an awful bite, injecting a venom which burned like hell. And, of course, there was the chance of being attacked by a tiger snake, very aggressive, and very poisonous, and which were common in the area. But we rarely got bother by the least of these, so it was, sort of, almost ... perfect!

Of course, in those days, we didn't have to worry about HIV and AIDS. And we were only fucking each other in the early days, so we didn't even have to worry about any STD, including crabs. In fact, I was in my early 20s and still in my bi phase before I ever bought my first condom.

We had also discovered a perfect, portable replacement for the "spit lube." Some of you might remember that the 50s was the era of the greasy hair. Guys would slather their hair, even a crew-cut, with liquid hairdressing such as Brylcream, or another Aussie product which I think was called "Hair-ol," a highly scented version of baby oil, really. We both followed this practice, so all we had to do for lube, for a jerk-off session, or for a bum-fuck, was run our hands through our hair then apply it to our dicks!

*****

Another favorite place was round the railway station and the neighboring shunting area, which serviced trains both travelling through and bringing goods to the "munitions works," a sort of industrial park which had grown up in what had once been a WWII "top secret" muntions factory; and grain to the towering Wheat Board silos on the other side of the track from the "muntions works."

This area was usually completely deserted on a Sunday, and though only fifty feet or so from the road, was partly hidden from view by sand embankments, and between two rows of boxcars there was little chance of being seen. There we would get naked and climb into a boxcar full of grain if we could find one with a roof hatch unlocked or a loose canvas tarp, and have fun sex, although wheat and chaff in your crack is even worse than sand.

One Sunday, after clambering round naked, trying to find an open boxcar, we got too horny to wait any longer and decided to have a stand-up fuck between the cars. There was a flat-car there, and Ron rested his arms on it and bent slightly to allow me to get at his hole. Greased up with Hair-ol, my dick slipped into him, and I began to fuck him rhythmically. My eyes were closed as I enjoyed my ecstasy. Suddenly I heard him gasp and felt him tense up,

"Oh, shit," he breathed.

I opened my eyes to see the cause of his consternation. On the other side of the flat-car was the upper torso of a uniformed railway security guard, glaring at us.

"Oy! What do you think you're doing there? This is railway property! Come here right now!"

I'm sure he knew qute well what we were doing, but there was no way we were about to follow his orders. I pulled my dick out of Ron's ass.

"Grab your clothes," I told him, scooping up my own from the ground where we had abandoned them. "Run!" Ron followed my lead and we scampered off, barefoot and naked back along the tracks toward the deserted station where we had left a our bicycles earlier. If any cars drove by on the parallel road while we were trotting naked along the tracks no longer in the cover of the embankment, we didn't notice them. We were laughing hysterically as we ran, the guard following far behind us. We dressed quickly in the Men's - we were only wearing shirts and shorts, anyway - no shoes or underwear - and were riding off by the time the panting guard was reaching the station. We laughed all the way home.

*****

Another couple of places we enjoyed were about 4 miles away in the foothillss. The two places were close together so we usually went to both sites on the same day. The first was Lesmurdie Falls, right beside the highway as it climbed sharply up into the hills.

The Falls was created by a small stream which tumbled down about 300 feet of sloping rockface in a series of steps. Each of these had little cachment basins where you could strip off and soak, if there was enough water. By the end of summer, the Falls was practically dry.

One weekday, we stashed our bikes at the bottom of the Falls. There didn't seem to be any people around, so we took the chance of stripping off, and leaving our clothes with the bikes, we climbed up the rock face to the top of the falls, stopping now and then to get wet in the little pools along the way and cool down from the heat.

It felt great to lie in these pools and feel the cool water tumble down over you on the way to the larger pool at the bottom of the falls. We had to step carefully, though, because the wet rocks were covered in slimy algae or stuff, and could be very slippery.

We were about two-thirds the climb up the slope when these slippery rocks became my undoing. My feet went out from under me, and I landed hard on my back on the wet rocks beside the stream. My wet body and the wet, slippery rocks were enough to start me sliding down the rockface, completely helpless. I tried to grab and bushes and rock outcrops as I slipped faster and faster down the slope, but in seconds I was hurtling toward the bottom, 200 feet below. I was sure I was going to be killed.

I bounced, bumped, and bashed my way down the wet, rocky slopes, completely out of control. Finally, my acceleration brought me down to the last 'step" before the bottom and sent me airborn to land in the shallow pool at the bottom of the falls.

When I recovered my breath from the crash landing, I dragged myslf out of the pool, lay on the bank, and examined my injuries. I had a large gash on one knee, several abrasions on various parts of my body, and a large bump on the back of my head. I felt dizzy and sick. I suppose I had a minor concussion. I lay there on the rocks, letting the world spin round me.

I could hear Ron on the rockface far above, frantically clambering down the rough trail to the bottom in search of me. I could hear him calling for me:

"Ted! Ted! Are you OK? Answer me! Where are you?" I was still woozie and didn't have the strength to yell out back to him. Eventually, he stumbled out of the bushes at the bottom of the falls trail, splashed his way across the shallow pool, and dropped to his knees at my side, panting and puffing from his run. "Are you OK, mate? he asked. "I thought you were dead, mate."

There were tears tumbling down his face, and I wiped them away with one hand.

"I'm alright," I assured him. "Give me a few minutes and I'll be ready to bummy as always!" I wasn't joking. Seeing him so concerned had given me a bit of a stiffy. "I love you, mate," I told him.

He bent his face to mine and kissed me. "Me. too," he said. I felt his stiffy brush against me and was about to grasp it, when we heard the sound of a car pulling in to the gravelled area close to us at the bottom of the Falls.

"Bloody sight-seers," I cursed. "Let's go to the dam!"

"Right, oh!!" he agreed.

*****

"The Dam" wasn't really a dam at all. It was just a large excavation hole in an exhausted gravel pit about a quarter of a mile further along the bush road that led to to the falls. Maybe it was a sink-hole, I don't know, but it was kept full all year round by a tiny trickle that ran down the same scarp which formed the falls, and maybe an underground stream or seepage. It got called the dam probably because it looked like one of those earth dams you see on farms all over Australia, bull-dozed out to gather rain-water for the livestock.

So we dressed, got on our bikes and pedalled of down the track to the dam. Its warm, fresh water was one of the attractions, but the main appeal today was because few people ever came here, and they were mostly kids. Hopefully, we would be alone and free to fuck.

As it turned out, this was one of our lucky days, and there was no-one to be seen. The first thing we did was to shed our clothes once more, and take a dip in the warm water. The dam was about the size of three swimming pools side by side, and probably 12 feet deep at its center.

We were both randy, and having finished our quick swim, we were soon groping at each other and had raging hards. I wanted my buddy in me so much! I knelt on all fours on the gravel bank, ignoring the minor pain of the pebbles on my hands and knees.

"Do me!" I begged.

Ron didn't need any more encourgement. Im moments he was kneeling behind me, applying a little Hair-ol to his dick, and then he was sinking it into my ass. His cock had grown quite a bit since the first time and felt better and more filling each time he fucked me. I especially liked it when he came inside me. Sometimes I felt sure I could actually feel the massive spurts. He produced a lot more cum nowdays.

It didn't take long before he came, not long enough, it seemed to me. I had been wanking myself with one hand while he fucked me, and I came almost at the same time he did. Finished, we lay there on the hot gravel for quite a while, talking, and fondling each other's dicks, until it was time for another quick swim and the long, hot bike ride home

*****

And then there was the matter of the exploding cow!

As I have stated previously in these ramblings, Welshpool in the fifties was still mostly swamp, and bush, with a few homes on fairly big uncleared lots and a few small farms; with the "muntions works ," the railway shunting area and the Wheat Board silos on the edge of it all; and the general store and grain feed plant, and the Farmer's Co-op Hall smack dab in the middle on the main highway to the hills.

My mum and dad had two acres, mostly cleared, given to them as a wedding present by my grandfather, who lived in a rustic shack with my grandma on his two acres right next door to us. On the other side of us was my uncle and his wife and two kids my age, on the four acres, mostly uncleared, which my grandfather had given to him.

Ron lived with his parents, two sisters, and younger brother about a mile away. His dad had four acres, mostly cleared, which he used as a small farm, to help feed his family. He worked days as a crane operator in a steel fabrication plant a couple of miles away. On the farm, they had a few sheep, a few chickens, a few ducks, and a cow.

The cow, Bossy, was old when I first knew her, but was still producing milk and the occasional calf whenever the bull from the next farm broke down the wire fence between them. She was so placid that she would lie down to chew her cud, and would quite contentedly allow us kids to climb all over her. The picture below is an actual photograph from about 4 or 5 years before the events I am about to relate. From the left is Ronny, his older sister, and me, maybe 10 years old. You can see a larger version if you right-click. Cute boys, eh?

Anyway, eventually Bossy died, as all things do. She just lay down under a tree in the far corner of the property, right beside the sluggish, brackish creek, more of a drainage ditch, actually, which meandered through the Thompson farm. Mr. Thompson, Ron's dad, buried her right where she died, and the grieving kids erected a little maker and cross to mark the site.

It was a couple of weeks later, I suppose, that Ron and I were down in that section of the farm, throwing makeshift spears we had fashioned out of God knows what. But I do remember we had fire-hardened the wooden points after whittling them with pocket knives.

I recall that as we near Bossy's grave, we could already smell her.

"Oh, pooh! What a stink!" Ron exclaimed, then pointed excitedly. Where Bossy had been buried, there was no longer a patch of stomped-down earth, but a huge, swollen, stretched expanse of Bossy's hide poking up from the ground. Mr. Thompson had neglected to slit her stomach before he buried her, and the trapped gases from her insides, rotting in the heat, had caused her to swell up like a huge balloon.

Ron took his spear and tentatively prodded with the sharpened tip, and POW! Bossy exploded, as balloons have a habit of doing. The eruption threw sticking, rotting matter in all directions, but I swear most of it landed on us. We were covered in this reeking stuff from head to toe.

After a few minutes of swearing and accusations back and forth, we considered what to do. There was no way we could go back to the house like this. But at least there was the creek. We moved a way up the creek from Bossy, or what remained of her, and waded in to the murky water, where we stripped of our clothes, washed ourselves, and our spears, and then did the best we could to wash out our shirts and shorts.

We spread our clothes out on some bushes in the sun to dry and lolled around naked. We were far away from the Thompson farmhouse and from the neighboring farm, and screened by bushes anyway. We filled our time throwing our "spears" and running after them, back and forth, back and forth, in that patch of the paddock, until our stiffies told us that they needed some relief.

"Wanna bummy me?" asked Ron. Of course I wanted to bummy him! He got down on all fours in the grass by the ditch. I got betwen his legs and spat on his bumhole, and oiled up my dick with grease from out hair for good measure.

I slipped in really easily, and he squeezed his sphincter around my dick. It tight and warm, and it didn't take much before I blasted into his insides. I finished him off, by sucking and wanking his dick till he blew all over my face, so I had to go back into the creek to wash it off.

By this time our clothes were dry, so we put them on and headed home, leaving Bossy to the hungry foxes and crows and eagles and goannas and ants, which within weeks had devoured every scrap of her.

*****

Continued in Part 3: Caught in the Act ... again and again.

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