A role in the hay

Do you recall your first kiss?

Was it all you’d hoped it to be? Perhaps a hybrid of fantasy flaunted in teen films Pretty In Pink meets Blue lagoon.

Or maybe more Little House on the Prairie; a nostalgic romp -in -a -barn-kind of fling. Innocent lucerne love, swathed in nature? Wedged between two bales of hay, groping feverishly your lover. Lost in professed amour etcetera. You get the picture.

Does the memory of it creep into your reverie?

Fantasy rarely follows the formula of reality. Such disappointments are more likely to be chafing moments that leave one coughing. Like my encounter of the first kind.

Once upon a time my father and his wife owned an agistment property for race horses, thoroughbreds. Located southeast of a capital Australian city. Dry parched summers, frosty and southwesterly winter winds that puckered nipples if you weren’t wearing wollen thermal underwear. I spent many summers tending to the horses and riding.

Various outbuildings dotted the main farmhouse. Gum trees edging a perimeter around the house; a modern rectangular brick structure with the charm of a school toilet block.

My favourite building was the barn, a rickety, wooden charmer from early 20th Century. We call them sheds in this country, though use the term barn if you like.

If you can conjure the aroma of dried horse manure, sweet notes of hay and a metallic tinge on your tongue (courtesy of the rusty tin roof) you know you would be in this place.

Inside amongst bins of molasses and grain, are hooks hanging horsey accoutrements-saddles, bridles, brooms and brushes. At eye level in the timber weatherboarding is a peep hole. There’s a door to the left that takes you into the stables area. Home and roost to the horses and wandering chooks.

Reverse back to a balmy summer night in 1989.

Distant music drifts from the party at the farm house. You can hear a crescendo of adult laughter amongst the faint thrum of Roxy Music.

Picture four early teens bunking in the barn, on the straw covered floor. Some of them are children of the party guests, one of them my half sister.

Sleeping bags are lined up and hay bales demarcate the sleeping area from the farm machinery, old jig and tractor.

High pitched Giggles sync to boom box radio playing Rick Astley and The Bangles. It’s echoey and the lighting is poor from a single bulb.

In the stables on the other side of the wall Stepmother’s gelding and mare are restless. They’re bunking too, having had veterinarian treatment. Their snorting diluted by tinny music next door.

Four girls sit crossed legged in circle formation. And the coke bottle points towards me. Unfulfilled wishes jotted on paper pulled out of a baseball cap.

We are playing Truth and Dare. The bottle summons me to share a secret or perform an act of bravery. I keep truths to myself and choose the action.

The challenge mounts to a double dare ‘You must get a man from the party and bring him here” Jessica is pack leader and boldly puffs her well developed chest as she reads the randomly pulled wish piece. Jessica seems like she knows a thing or two about boys, and perhaps men.

Off go I and bravado, into the dark following the torch beam. Leaving the giggling trio behind as I make way to the house. I’m tempted to ditch the whole barn sleepover and hide in my room. Pride or shame pushes me on.

I approach the house and watch from behind the eucalypts as a man hangs in the shadows, puffing a cigarette. He’s old in his thirties. Graying sideburns and clean shaven , though apart from the cigarettes, he smells good, although a little overpowering in Christian Dior.

He’s one of Stepmother’s clients, a race horse trainer. I stop, flustered and forget the dare. Oh yeah, right. Bring him to the barn.

I don’t know what to do. So I lie and say I need his help with the mare. She’s in the stables about to foal and could he come and take a look? It’s obvious he knows this horse husbandry territory and stubs the cigarette on the lawn with his shoe.

My palms sweat and stomach churns. We walk intently and I show him to the stable with the plump mare and leave him to assess.

I re-group with the trio. Now what? Jessica the mouthy one is saying “it’s double dare time, you have to kiss him or else eat horse shit. We’ll be watching ...and have fun!” The pack squeal and snigger.

An uneasiness creeps into the lower pit of my belly. I’m not sure about this. Heading next door I quickly confess the double dare challenge and the man nods and mouths silently “the mare is not pregnant”. A discernible eye glint. The mare swishes her tail and nudges him.

Spying eyes and giveaway giggles poke through the hole.

“Let’s pretend” he whispers, “They won’t know any better. You and I know the truth. We’ll make them believe and you win the dare”.

His grin sets my nerves free and I relax into this game.

He stands by the peep hole and motions me over. The back of his head is in line with the hole and I shuffle toward him. The guy winks and the closer I move the more my legs wobble. He smells of something else, like coffee liqueur I sip when my parents are away.

His hair smothers the peep hole. His hands are sun spotted and leathery, and I urge to touch them. I edge and press my body into the man’s, feeling his lips with mine. Tasting tobacco and salt. My hands touch the dimpled chin and slide down his waist. The man jerks his head to the side, turns away and crosses his arms over his hips.

My cheeks burn and his blush. The man wipes his mouth backhandedly then flees. The sting of shame sneaks in. The girls next door guffaw and burst in through the partition door. Jessica appears with the conquest, a Polaroid photo.

I didn’t sleep that night. And those girls I jettisoned happily. The next day spent shut in my room. Listening for the scattering of guests, cars crunching the gravel driveway. Silently pushing myself into a wormhole of embarrassment.

Years later I learn that the man was apprehended by police and cleared of misdemeanour following a hoax and botched blackmail attempt. He was a humble trainer after all, not a wealthy thoroughbred owner.

The senses attached to those moments in ‘89 come back when around horses, hay and barns. And the reverie of an illicit first kiss.