“I can’t evencallyou?”
“I’ll have it, I just have to leave it in my room at the main house.So, I can callyou, on occasion.”
He stared at me.“You better fucking call me.I’m going to want to know every fucking thing you do there.”
“I’m just taking pictures, Grif.”I shrugged.“That’s all.”
He sat back in his chair, regarding me quizzically.“Apparently, you’re going to live at this—ranch?—for six weeks.Maybe you won’t just take pictures.”
“What?”
“You’re telling me, you’re going to spend your days photographing half-naked, kinky men, playing pony for sexual kicks, and that’s it?”
I nodded.“Yeah.You know I’m a professional.I can be professional at a kink ranch just like anyplace else.”
He seemed dubious.
“I’m not going for pleasure, Grif.I’m going on aprofessional assignment.”
“So, you’re not going to get any pleasure from taking intimate photos of naked men in the pony barn?Wearing bridles and harnesses, and who knows what-the-fuck else, and you’re not going to getanythingfrom that?”
I levelled a meaningful stare his way.
“I’m sure that— Look, I’m obviously going to enjoy this.What gay guy wouldn’t?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But it will be a vicarious enjoyment, because I’m going to be there as a professional photographer, not a member of this very exclusive fetish club.I’m going to have to keep a professional distance in order to do my job properly.”
“If you say so.”Grif took a gulp of his beer, put it down, and laughed softly.“Wow.I’m actually thrilled for you, Ollie.Sounds like an incredible way to spend your summer.”
I grinned, lifting my beer.“Let’s drink to that.And not a word to anyone about where I am.Just say you don’t know, that I needed a vacation, and I didn’t tell you where I was going.”
“Of course.I can keep a secret.But you have to promise you’ll call me and let me know what it’s like.”
“Fine.”
He clinked his glass with mine, and we drank to half-naked, kinky men, and a secret, summer retreat.
*
I DIDN’T KNOWwhat to pack.
Adam had said the summers were hot, dry and sunny, and to bring shorts, boots and flip-flops, comfortable cotton shirts, and a few nicer pieces to wear to the communal suppers and the annual Canada Day bonfire.I also might want to go off-site to the bars and restaurants in Huntsville on occasion, or the resort hotel attached to the ranch.
But I’d never had to prepare for such an unusual assignment before, and I found myself wanting to bring clothes that made me look not only professional, but…hot.I would be taking pictures of incredibly good-looking young men (if the photos already on the website were anything to go by) for six weeks.Even though I planned to maintain a professional distance from my subjects, I wanted them to think I was a passably attractive man.
I’d hit the ripe old age of thirty several months ago, and it had taken some of the wind out of my sails, to be honest.True, it wasn’t that old.And I had been able to make a good name for myself in the business of digital photography.I was established and rarely had to go looking for work anymore, which was a huge accomplishment at my age.
But as a gay guy, I hated to admit there was a stigma about men in their thirties—that we weren’t any fun anymore—that we were over the hill.I felt stuck in an in-between land of gay stereotypes.I was too old to be a twink but too young to be a Daddy.
I know, I know, it was ridiculous to think in terms like that, but I couldn’t help it.My social feed was full of posing twenty-somethings who’d throw out offhand comments about gay men over thirty, and it…stung.
Maybe the problem was who I followed on Twitter and Instagram—largely, men who were younger than thirty.So, yeah, maybe I had a thing for cute twinks with biteable asses and an affinity for drama.And it hurt that maybe they wouldn’t be attracted to me anymore, because I’d reached the expiry date for fellow twinkdom but wasn’t yet “Daddy” material.Even though I felt like a “Daddy” most of the time, since I’d become responsible and predictable due to my entrepreneurial business and need to earn an actual living.
I’d be the first to say those preconceptions and assumptions were unfair.But it still seemed they existed.
Anyway, I ended up with one suitcase and my camera bag, both of which I stuffed in the trunk of my eight-year-old Toyota, before locking up my house and heading to the highway for the two-and-half-hour drive to the Braided Crop Ranch on Skeleton Lake.In exchange for occasional bits of information from my secret mission, Grif had agreed to look after my house and feed my fish every few days.
I’d jacked off twice the night before to the photos on the website.So yeah, I was excited to observe the ponyboys at the Braided Crop Ranch in person.But I wondered how long my professional distance would hold once I found myself deep in the world of kinky pony play.
