by
The Boys of Bullaroo is a collection of six short novellas, each set a decade apart, spanning the period from the Great War to the Vietnam conflict.
Linked by an outback Australian town, Bullaroo, the narratives follow the loves, the losses, and the sexual awakenings of men over the course of sixty years.
From the deserts of Egypt and the Light Horse, to prisoner of war camps during the Second World War, and to the flood of American servicemen on R&R during the age of conscription in the 1960s, these tales explore the nature of what it is to love, and to be loved by other men.
Razor gangs, male prostitution, and the immediate post-war flood of emigrants from southern Europe are some of the themes that contribute to the colour and private lives of husbands, brothers, sons, and lovers over the course of the century, told from a unique, Australian perspective.
Publisher: Moshpit Publications
Editors:
Cover Artists:
Genres:
Pairings: M-M
Heat Level: 5
Romantic Content: 1
Ending: Click here to reveal
Character Identities: Gay
Tropes: In Uniform
Word Count: 80000
Setting: Australia, Middle East, Far East
The rules were unequivocal at Bullaroo Leisure centre—conspicuously posted on placards around the walls of the swimming enclosure and in the changing rooms.
Tuesdays and Thursdays were for ladies only. For them, the rules stated that their bathing costumes must be modest, covering all parts of the torso.
"Shoulder straps must be at least one and a half inches wide and not be tied behind the neck in a bow. Long hair must be contained by a swimming cap."
Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were for men only.
"As per State regulations for competitive swimming and diving, no bathing costumes are to be worn. No exceptions."
Weekends were for mixed bathing. Occasionally a naked man might make an appearance, but more often than not it was a family occasion, so men normally covered up.
READ MOREIt wasn't a new thing—nude swimming for men. It had always been so, and not only in Bullaroo either. Derrick had grown up in the heat of summer sleeping with three other men who'd only donned fleecy-cotton pyjamas in the winter; at other times of the year they didn't wear a stitch to bed, so he was no stranger to the unclothed male.
However, coinciding with the advent of Derrick's eighteenth birthday and his first visit to the leisure centre since his mother had left to live with his aunt, something new and wonderful had happened. He'd discovered a previously unknown and locked door—one to which he never knew he'd held the key.
It had been Michael Passdale, the twenty-one-year-old son of one of the local graziers, who'd been the first to come knocking at that door. Derrick had been swimming and was sitting on a bench in the changing room, his towel around his neck, his mind filled with how he could plan a new parcel delivery route that would allow him a daily half hour somewhere out of the way, so he could put his feet up on the back seat of his car, eat his lunch, and then pull his hat over his eyes and snooze for a short while.
It was only when he'd glanced up, he realised while he'd been concentrating on ways to manipulate his schedule he'd been idly inspecting Michael's body. The grazier's son had towelled off his hair and was languidly drying the "family jewels", perhaps with more attention than he might have had he not been aware that Derrick's steady gaze was locked on the parts of his anatomy he was attending to. He'd given Derrick a cheeky, lopsided grin, and then, after glancing at the obvious tumescence between Derrick's legs, had asked, "Need a hand with that, Derrick?"
Derrick wasn't really shocked; that was too strong a word for it. His reaction had been visceral—a cold grip in the guts and his testicles that he couldn't ignore. He knew instantly what that feeling meant; he'd taken care of those sorts of needs with his hand ever since he turned fifteen.
Michael Passdale had pulled him roughly into a change cubicle and had closed the door, wedging it shut with one knee as he leaned against Derrick, pushing him back against the cubicle wall. It was then, with Michael's urgent manipulations and hot breath against his cheek, he realised that other men could do with each other what he'd been doing by himself on a daily basis for the past three years. "Jesus, Michael…" he'd whispered, a few minutes later, as Michael Passdale groaned into his neck and collapsed against him. Derrick was amazed to realise he'd also "banged the billy" at the same time as his lanky friend.
They'd grinned at each other as Derrick had wiped himself off with his towel, and then had whispered a quick "See ya later."
He'd flattened himself against the cubicle wall, feeling oddly nervous, yet elated and pleased, to allow Michael to open the door to leave. "Later," the grazier's son had whispered, winking at him, and gently pinching one of Derrick's nipples as he peered cautiously into the change room and then left, pushing the door behind him.
"Crickey," Derrick had said to himself, rubbing his palm across the flat of his belly, and wondering if the hairs would dry stiff and matted like they usually did if he didn't have a hankie handy and had let it go all over himself. He had no idea if other blokes' spoof was the same as his own. It looked the same, it had felt as warm. The memory of Michael Passdale's clenching and release, and the soft groan against his neck as the man's knees buckled slightly, made Derrick hard again. He knew he wanted more. Just like the cubicle in which he stood, a door had opened he knew would never completely close again.
He'd left the stall door ajar and had sat back, his body hidden, but his legs from his knees down plainly visible to anyone who might have been outside in the changing room. Idly, he'd wondered if anyone else might gently prod the door open to see what was going on. He'd hoped another man with heat in his guts might do so, for he'd felt the need growing once more in the base of his belly. He ran his hand slowly between his legs, smiling at the heaviness he felt there, secretly wishing for a quiet tap at the cubicle door.
He was hooked.
COLLAPSEThe Boys of Bullaroo by Garrick Jones is so beautifully written that at times it took my breath away. It offers a glimpse into Australian gay life during, before, and after the world's wars where men are shunted off to battle, then left to their own devices to gather up the pieces of their shattered lives after the fighting is over. Before I purchased this book the author warned me it was not a romance. I humbly beg to disagree. I found a lot of romance in this book. And a lot of love. The gay erotica scattered throughout is some of the best I've ever read, bar none. I don't know what I expected when I opened this book, but I do know I didn't expect to be touched as much as I was. It's a little humbling to be a writer yourself, and then come face to face with such excellent and beautiful storytelling. One more thing. This book is perfectly edited. Many aren't, you know. So there you have it. I can't recommend this book enough. Well done, Mr. Jones. Your book is wonderful.
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