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He’d often work shirtless, which made sense considering the heat, but I always imagined him doing it deliberately, as if to torture me. It wasn’t just the size and firmness of his bronzed arms and chest, and it wasn’t the sweat that dripped from his glistening nipples into the crevices of his rippling abs either. It was the way he proudly strutted around our stables, lifting and heaving with a cocksure swagger that seemed to suggest he was putting on a show. I watched him all summer from the porch of our home, separated only by a few yards of dirt and my fear of being scolded for interrupting his hard work. MenMachine.com |
D.O.
Photography by Henning-Von-Berg.com |
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