Chapter One #2
“Okay. Good. Anyway, as I was saying, I’m not ashamed or embarrassed to do this work. Not at all. And those harnesses and the cages…I mean…Jesus. Do the ponyboys wear those things day-to-day?”
Adam chuckled softly. “They do. Almost every day.”
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “Every…day? Okay, you’ve got to tell me. How does the Braided Crop Ranch function, exactly?”
“I’d rather explain that to you in person, Oliver. When you arrive in July.” He paused. “All I can say is, four years into operations, the ranch works beautifully. I’d like you to come and make a photographic record of that.”
If I passed this opportunity up? It would be a huge regret. There wasn’t any reason I could think of not to go.
“What sort of compensation are we talking about?” I asked, getting down to the nitty gritty. Perhaps I should have led with that. But my brain was blinded with pictures of pretty ponyboys, so…
We went over what Adam was willing to offer.
He’d house me, feed me, entertain me, as long as I took a good amount of photos and tried to make the ranch look as professional and exclusive and exciting as it really was.
He also offered me enough money to make the venture worthwhile, even if I chose not to add the images to my professional portfolio.
His confidence in the workings of his ranch was contagious, and by the end of the discussion, I was eager to see the place.
“All right. I’ll do it.” I said, tossing the pen across the table and rolling my chair back. Fuck you, stupid red tomato. I gave my computer the finger, grinning ear-to-ear.
“Fantastic,” Adam said. “The summer session begins on the twelfth of July. The ponyboys will be arriving over the weekend and getting settled, so if you come on-site midweek, that would be perfect. It’ll give me time to let everyone know you’ll be wandering around taking photos, as long as they agree.
Consent it very important at my ranch, even for something as seemingly benign as this.
But I don’t think we’ll have a problem with a lack of participation.
Most of the men who play pony here are very much into exhibitionism. ”
I could only fucking imagine. “Sure.”
“When you arrive, I can give you a quick orientation and you can dive right in. That work for you?”
“Yes. That’s fine.”
“Text me your email address and I’ll have Connor send out our standard welcome letter with attached directions and information. We usually send it to incoming staff, so just ignore the parts that aren’t relevant.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“I’ll see you on July twelfth, Oliver. Thank you so much for agreeing to my request. Jaden couldn’t say enough positive things about you.”
“I’m glad he passed my name on. I’m looking forward to it.”
We ended the call, and I texted Mr. Marsland my private email address.
*
I FOUND MYSELF unable to stop thinking about my summer contract. Time couldn’t pass quickly enough, and when my planned assignment was a week away, I could hardly believe it.
“What do you mean?” My friend, Grif, said, when I explained that I’d be out of town for six weeks at an undisclosed location. “You’re not going to one of these new-age monastic retreats, are you? You know they’re all money-grabs, right?”
“Uh, no. That’s not where I’m going. And I’m being paid well for my time.”
He side-eyed me and sipped his beer. “Well, I just hope I eventually get the inside story. Seeing as I’m your best friend, I really do deserve to know where you’re going. I assume you’ll be reachable by cell?”
I hesitated. “Well…”
“Okay, come on. Where the fuck are you going and why is it a big secret?”
“Fine. But I need you to keep quiet because I’m doing this assignment under the radar since it’s a little out of the mainstream.”
Grif’s eyebrows flew up. He was older than me by a couple of years but still looked like he was twenty-five.
He didn't have any trouble getting laid, and he thought I was overplaying my concern at turning thirty.
But I didn't have the genes to look boyish my entire life like Grif apparently did.
I was starting to get lines beside my mouth and eyes—barely visible so far but they were there—and I'd already found a couple of grey hairs
I thought for second. “Actually, it’s way out of the mainstream. And I don’t know if I want my professional name associated with this.”
Grif sat up straighter. “Now I’m going to die if you don’t tell me.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“But you’re going to tell me, right?”
I tapped my fingers on the wood of the tabletop and smiled, staring at the varnished surface and wondering if telling Grif was a good idea or a bad one. I knew he’d keep it a secret if it killed him, but knowing Grif, this secret might just kill him.
“I’m going to be photographing men at a kinky pony play ranch in the Muskokas,” I said.
Grif stared at my profile silently for a few seconds. Then he slammed his beer down so hard, the liquid sloshed over the sides.
“What?”
“Shh, Jesus, this is supposed to be a secret.”
“Did you just say—”
“Kinky ponyboys at a ranch in Northern Ontario. Yeah. That’s what I said.”
“Ponyboys?” He whispered, grey eyes glinting dangerously, breaths becoming ragged. “Ponyboys!”
“Griffin, are you having an asthma attack?”
“Maybe? I can’t breathe all of a sudden. Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No, I'm completely serious. You know I'm a photographer.”
“How? How did you finagle this? And why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You can’t come with me.”
“Even just to visit?”
“I won’t have my phone most of the time.”
“I can’t even call you?”
“I’ll have it, I just have to leave it in my room at the main house. So, I can call you, 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 a professional 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 get anything from 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 KNOW what 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.