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Sexual Attraction

Maurice O’Reilly

There was a time in our distant past when my wife and I could claim to be farmers. This is of course, quite an elevating status in New Zealand where agriculture pays the foreign debt run up by those city slickers. There was even a time that the majority of the All Blacks were farmers and even another time when it was only the farmers who could afford to purchase exotic cars that were imported to New Zealand by exchanging their precious ‘foreign currency’ for an even more precious ‘new’ car. The first SP250 I ever drooled over was owned by the son of a wealthy farmer who lived on the outskirts of our rural town. It had the colour and shine of a freshly peeled carrot. The owner burbled into town on Friday afternoons, undertook his business, then parked outside the Chemist shop. At one minute past 5 o’clock the most beautiful girl in town sashayed out and swung into the passenger seat of the SP. Even at 14 years of age and even when my attention was focused on the most magnificent car in our town, I noticed that, for a young lady to deposit her derrière onto the low slung seats, her skirt rose alarmingly up her thighs. What a dilemma. Stay focused on the car or, in the knowledge that my education about females was far from complete, follow the hemline. The one thing that this weekly tantalising experience confirmed was that - I wanted one of those cars.

Later in life, as the owner of the car of my early dreams, I discovered that the fantasies generated in my mind during the bus ride home on Friday evenings, did not eventuate into real life experiences. However, the sexual attractiveness of the SP250 was demonstrated on occasions – one of which I will share with you.

We weren’t real farmers. Our status was ‘Queen Street’ farmer. That’s someone with more money than brains who takes their profits from a good business in town and throws it into the rolling hills of the New Zealand countryside where it is converted to some commodities (purported to have value) and a whole lot of dung. The dung clung to us while the commodities disappeared back into the city where they were represented on our balance sheet as a tax loss. Given these circumstances, our farm never had a really flash tractor. Perhaps this is the time to confess that our farm didn’t produce milk or lamb chops – it was a deer farm. Deer have the dubious distinction of being the most efficient converters of grass into dung in the farming community.

The tractor was a 75hp Kubota. When new, it was a similar colour to that first Daimler Dart SP250 I saw as a lad. The farmer down the road had a flash green John Deer - but he lost it a few years later, along with most of his other assets, when it was discovered he had a fine crop of marijuana cunningly planted in what I had come to believe was the finest example of a gorse plantation ever owned by a Caucasian. Our Kubota was 4WD but lacked any real traction due to the absence of tread on the tyres. I could tell you about some really exciting trips down various wet slopes and even the clay stock race from the deer shed to the duck pond – but that’s another story – and I would probably be wise to wait for the statute of limitations relating to OSH offences to expire. 

Eventually the inevitable happened. ‘Koby’, as we fondly referred to our mechanical donkey, became stranded partway up a wet paddock while attempting to tow a trailer of stock food to the top of the hill. The farm manager was away doing what managers are best at – avoiding serious ‘issues’ – which left me and the Mrs to cope with our dilemma. You will appreciate that, in the kitchen, the Mrs is boss – but on a farm – well, that Men’s work.  The 4WD Ute was away with the manager so I made the executive decision to use our personal transport to tow the tractor. That day, we had travelled to the farm in our Daimler Dart SP250.

The SP250 has lots of fine attributes, but ground clearance is not one of them. It’s quite astonishing how deep the wheel ruts on a farm track can be when you descend from the seat of a tractor to a low slung sports car. After grading the track I arrived at the top of the hill above stranded Koby and tied the tow rope the Mrs had dragged up the hill, to a ‘yoke’ cunningly devised between the rear bumper irons. These in turn were bolted to the chassis. “Not just a pretty face” I said to the Mrs.

While she applied power to the tractors 4 wheels I gunned the little V8 in an attempt to gain some fresh grass under the wheels so she could proceed up the hill. You will find this difficult to believe and quite unexpected (ye of little faith) – we were making progress. I was so proud of my choice of a spouse. Not only could she wield a skillet and manage an oven at the same time, but she could handle a 75hp 4WD plus trailer on a slippery slope. (I made mental note to reconsider my earlier decision to forget the flowers on our wedding anniversary.)

Suddenly, my attention was diverted from the rear vision mirror where I was admiring the skills of my chosen one, to the source of a ‘thump’ at the front of my SP250. Standing there, head down with antlers firmly against the front bumper, was our principal stag. ‘Hercules’ was a World Champion antlers stag that we were proud of for various reasons. Not the least was his ability to service over 60 hinds each year. At this moment we were in his paddock, during mating season, in a machine that was making a noise that could be easily confused as the mating call of a competing stag.

You, dear reader, would have coped much better than me, given your naivety. ‘Herc’ was over 300kg and armed with 22 razor sharp daggers each long enough to enter my neither regions as I ran away and protrude through to those parts I try to keep private. I involuntary s**t myself.

During the ‘roar’ competing stags make a noise that is primeval. It both excites the ladies he is trying to impress and warns the young usurpers to stay away. An SP250 has a certain audible resonance that overlaps the roar of a stag in mating season. Crudely put, the SP250 had a sexual attraction for the stag.

My advice to all members – when passing a deer farm between March and July – get your boot into it and keep an eye on the mirror.

Maurice O’Reilly - November 2013