One
I love my job. Seriously love it. Best job ever. I should tweet my job love right now; this calls for a hashtag. The images I thumbed through as I made my way to my studio were pure fantasy material. I’m a self-employed photographer, which isn’t too shabby of a gig under normal circumstances. But after a few of my heavily stylized images from an impromptu gym shoot hit social media, my services were suddenly in high demand by the type of guys who, normally, wouldn’t spare me the time of day.
The next time I visited the gym, I found myself being cruised by the free-weight dudes. Dudes. Yep, plural. If I was texting or composing a post, this was where I’d drop an appropriately stunned-looking emoji. Trust me when I say that receiving this sort of attention was an unprecedented occurrence. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a bad-looking guy: five-nine, a lean build, sorta shaggy brown hair, amber eyes, with a strong jawline. I would go so far as to say I’m reasonably attractive… to a certain demographic. Guys sixteen to twenty-one think I’m the bee’s knees.
Unfortunately, guys my age tended to dismiss me without much hesitation. Why? Well, it wasn’t because I emitted an offensive odor, at least not that I’d been told. (I’m totally tempted to sniff my shirt now.) No, the bane of my existence was the fact that, at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, I had a hard time passing for an adult. It was disgusting. Yeah, sure, one day in the far distant future, I’ll be grateful. But until that time comes, I’d like to come with a certain level of frequency. And that wasn’t happening. My dating choices consisted of an endless buffet of twinks-a-plenty or guys bent on being called Daddy or Sir. No thanks. I wasn’t looking to be anyone’s Pup, or Boy, or whatever.
Which brings me back to the deliciousness packed on the memory card of my reliable Canon 5D Mark III. Dudes with acres of oiled skin, rippled muscles, bulging bulges with super bulges, and a veritable road-map of veins. Did I mention the bulges? I’m a healthy male, with a hearty sexual appetite, but this was the next level of epic. For a guy like me, and many others, I was looking at the ultimate feast of man meat.
That’s the only excuse I have for why, on a beautiful October afternoon walking down Heartsville’s Market Street, I would step off a curb without looking first.
The urgent “Watch it, kid!” penetrated my awareness a split second before someone yanked the fuck out of my hoodie, obviously intent on choking the life out of me. What the hell? I had no time to figure it out, as my entire focus altered to one prime directive: save the camera. I wanted to tug at my hoodie to ease the clothes-hanger strangle, but I didn't dare. I clutched my kit with a zeal previously reserved for mothers protecting their young.
As I tipped to the side, my body instinctively curled around the precious gear. I closed my eyes and braced for impact. Shit, I hope I don’t lose any teeth. Yeah, that’s the kind of stuff that goes through my mind. I spend a lot of my time admiring nice dental work.
I landed on the concrete in an inelegant heap with the camera safe in my hands. It took me a moment to piece together the hows and whys of my predicament. After a quick mental assessment of my body, noting a blooming pain in my elbow and hip, I turned my attention to the man standing over me. With three short words, he had set my teeth on edge.
The “kid” stung, as it usually did, but it’d be poor form to snarl at the guy who just saved my bacon, and possibly my life. Hey, the situation called for high drama, am I right? Besides, he was the kind of good-looking that made the images in my camera pale by comparison.
Sure, he was fully clothed. I noted and appreciated his style—casual chic—lots of great fitting layers, but it was his face and build that set him apart: sculpted jaw covered by a neatly trimmed beard, artfully tousled tawny waves,
I love my job. Seriously love it. Best job ever. I should tweet my job love right now; this calls for a hashtag. The images I thumbed through as I made my way to my studio were pure fantasy material. I’m a self-employed photographer, which isn’t too shabby of a gig under normal circumstances. But after a few of my heavily stylized images from an impromptu gym shoot hit social media, my services were suddenly in high demand by the type of guys who, normally, wouldn’t spare me the time of day.
The next time I visited the gym, I found myself being cruised by the free-weight dudes. Dudes. Yep, plural. If I was texting or composing a post, this was where I’d drop an appropriately stunned-looking emoji. Trust me when I say that receiving this sort of attention was an unprecedented occurrence. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a bad-looking guy: five-nine, a lean build, sorta shaggy brown hair, amber eyes, with a strong jawline. I would go so far as to say I’m reasonably attractive… to a certain demographic. Guys sixteen to twenty-one think I’m the bee’s knees.
Unfortunately, guys my age tended to dismiss me without much hesitation. Why? Well, it wasn’t because I emitted an offensive odor, at least not that I’d been told. (I’m totally tempted to sniff my shirt now.) No, the bane of my existence was the fact that, at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, I had a hard time passing for an adult. It was disgusting. Yeah, sure, one day in the far distant future, I’ll be grateful. But until that time comes, I’d like to come with a certain level of frequency. And that wasn’t happening. My dating choices consisted of an endless buffet of twinks-a-plenty or guys bent on being called Daddy or Sir. No thanks. I wasn’t looking to be anyone’s Pup, or Boy, or whatever.
Which brings me back to the deliciousness packed on the memory card of my reliable Canon 5D Mark III. Dudes with acres of oiled skin, rippled muscles, bulging bulges with super bulges, and a veritable road-map of veins. Did I mention the bulges? I’m a healthy male, with a hearty sexual appetite, but this was the next level of epic. For a guy like me, and many others, I was looking at the ultimate feast of man meat.
That’s the only excuse I have for why, on a beautiful October afternoon walking down Heartsville’s Market Street, I would step off a curb without looking first.
The urgent “Watch it, kid!” penetrated my awareness a split second before someone yanked the fuck out of my hoodie, obviously intent on choking the life out of me. What the hell? I had no time to figure it out, as my entire focus altered to one prime directive: save the camera. I wanted to tug at my hoodie to ease the clothes-hanger strangle, but I didn't dare. I clutched my kit with a zeal previously reserved for mothers protecting their young.
As I tipped to the side, my body instinctively curled around the precious gear. I closed my eyes and braced for impact. Shit, I hope I don’t lose any teeth. Yeah, that’s the kind of stuff that goes through my mind. I spend a lot of my time admiring nice dental work.
I landed on the concrete in an inelegant heap with the camera safe in my hands. It took me a moment to piece together the hows and whys of my predicament. After a quick mental assessment of my body, noting a blooming pain in my elbow and hip, I turned my attention to the man standing over me. With three short words, he had set my teeth on edge.
The “kid” stung, as it usually did, but it’d be poor form to snarl at the guy who just saved my bacon, and possibly my life. Hey, the situation called for high drama, am I right? Besides, he was the kind of good-looking that made the images in my camera pale by comparison.
Sure, he was fully clothed. I noted and appreciated his style—casual chic—lots of great fitting layers, but it was his face and build that set him apart: sculpted jaw covered by a neatly trimmed beard, artfully tousled tawny waves,
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