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When all else failed, go for the charm approach. “It was so nice having you there today, Evan. I really appreciated it.”
“Thank you. It was no trouble, but it’s very thoughtful of you to say so.”
“And for staying with me here. You must have a hundred better things to do.”
“Nope. Not really. None.”
“And buying healthy food and everything. So kind.”
For a second, I almost thought he knew I was buttering him up. Were you allowed to butter up a vegan? "Margarining him up" didn’t have quite the same ring to it. And "oiling him up" was just downright filthy and right now, with my achy belly, not on the menu. Running out of platitudes, I cast my mind back over the unfuzzy parts of my day at the hospital, searching for any excuse to pop outside. And came up with a splendid one. Oh my God, I was a fucking genius.
“Didn’t Heather also stress the importance of keeping my feet moving, so as not to develop a serious blood clot?”
The surgeon’s green eyes narrowed. His grip on my shoulders eased minutely, and I was even rewarded with a light kiss.
“How about,” he suggested, “we take a very, very short stroll—together—around the farmyard? To keep those leg muscles pumping. And afterwards, we’ll come back here. I’ll make us some lentil soup for supper and then tuck you into bed.”
Plans A and C were on point; Plan B needed a little upcycling. Zeus however, was on board with all three. Staggering to his stiff arthritic legs, he tottered after us. Keeping up with my pace wasn’t too taxing for him.
“The shortest route around the farmyard is via the sheds over there,” I remarked.
Evan fell for it. The April air temperatures had risen from the depths of winter, and Bill had left one side of the cowsheds open to the elements. Most of the herd were out to pasture anyhow; only the few in season and the ones heavily pregnant or with calf were inside. And Watermelons, of course. I whispered my goodnights to the cows while Evan was distracted by my wingman, Zeus, who had chosen to cock his leg up against a shiny alloy wheel, then coil out an enormous turd right next to the Beamer.
Only Watermelons remained. Tonight, he’d plonked himself on a mountain of straw slap bang in the middle of the pen, then lain down collapsed on his side as if he’d been shot. Under the dim light of the sheds, his ink-black chest heaved a slow, peaceful rhythm. In and out, in and out, accompanied by the cutest ruffling snores. At my presence, he didn’t bother opening his eyes. He didn’t need to; we had a bond. He knew I was there, and my heart swelled like always. God, I loved this creature, I loved the rippling and absolute power of him. His coal-black stare, haughty and aristocratic, as though his mere existence in our lives was doing us all a massive favour. I loved the respect he commanded, so much that even I, who’d milk-fed him as a babe, and whom he let stroke his ears, would be a fool to ever drop my guard.
Mostly, I loved that he was mine, that he harboured all my secrets but never told a soul.
I didn’t convey this poetic nonsense to Evan, of course. I was too busy working out if a) I had the physical capability to mount the gate and tickle Watermelons under the chin and b) whether my minder would permit it. I already knew the answer to the second.
Evan caught me around the waist, just as I was contemplating asking him to run back and check I hadn’t left the lights on in the milking parlour. His fingers pressed lightly into my side, not hard enough to hurt my tender belly, but enough to know he was there.
“He’s magnificent, isn’t he?” he said softly, almost reverently. We both stared at the sleeping animal.
“I think so, but then I’m rather biased.”
“No you’re not. He’s beautiful.”
I could spout all that crap about my gorgeous bull to some folk, even add in a few thousand words more, and they’d still not get it. How this farm, this land, my humble cottage, and the rich, damp earth under my feet coursed through my veins. How three hundred dumb, lumpen creatures were my beloved children, every single one of them. How much I increasingly dreaded the day my mangy, stinky poodle no longer had the energy to thump his tail and slipped away into doggy heaven, because that day wasn’t far off.
But I hadn’t needed to say a single word to Evan. He got it. I could tell from the way he indulged me staring at Watermelons, how he hefted a tired Zeus under one arm, and how he hadn’t mocked my wishing the herd goodnight. Until now, I hadn’t believed in love at first sight. Convincing me any sort of romantic love existed would have been pushing it, to be brutally honest.
So, to think that this guy, who could have passed me by entirely, save for that snowy winter’s night, now meant more to me than maybe the snoring beast lying a few feet away, felt unreal, and just a little bit amazing.
But I wasn't about to explain all that. Instead, I kissed him and tried to transmit all my soppiness via my lips. I made a pretty decent stab of it, if the erection pushing against my hip was anything to go by.
“I…um…I didn’t ask Heather when it was safe to resume sexual relations after my op,” I murmured around the most wonderful plush mouth. “I wonder if you would be kind enough to check with the lovely Mr Richardson and give me some advice.”
The lovely Mr Richardson kissed me back, adding in some tongue. His surgeon’s hands left my waist to cup my face, all the better to thoroughly examine every corner of my mouth. And then he pulled away, but not very far. Even a foot or so felt like too big a distance.
“He’s one step ahead,” he answered. “The lovely Mr Richardson said that you shouldn’t try anything for at least a week to ten days and only then if it doesn’t cause any discomfort. But he also stressed, and this was a huge, crucial point, that there is absolutely nothing unsafe if you feel up to it, about pleasuring your sexual partner. Nothing at all. In fact, he hammered on about the vital importance of it.”
Food wasn't the only thing that tasted better outdoors. Cock did too. Once he’d pulled himself up onto a couple of hay bales to accommodate a man who’d recently endured complex major surgery, Evan was delighted with his efficient alfresco blowjob. Watermelons and Zeus less so.
Notwithstanding, the tour of the farmyard, followed by extensive petting (of Evan, not Watermelons) may have been overdoing things. Back at the cottage, I eagerly glugged some liquid morphine, which revolted in my belly ten minutes later. Propped up on the pillows in bed next to Evan, I sucked in deep breaths while he kept a running commentary on my fifty shades of green. Never let it be said Rob Langford didn’t know how to show someone a good time.
Despite a couple of previous nights spent together, the practical domesticity of respecting each other’s bedtime routine still felt awkward as fuck. And a world away from tumbling a random pick-up into bed for the express purpose of screwing him into the mattress and then inviting him to bugger off home afterwards.
Evan, unsurprisingly, flossed every night, and for fucking forever too. Twice I’d hovered outside the bathroom expecting him to have finished, only to retreat to my bedroom and look busy until he’d finally polished his teeth to gleaming perfection. I then had to loiter in the bathroom for longer than usual myself, so it didn’t look like the whole excessive personal grooming thing was beyond me.
