Hungry Bullocks, Gyration of Bollocks

Back in the late 1990’s

I’m Richard, and for the past few years, I’d been running a beef herd on a profit-share deal with a landowner who owned butcher shops scattered across Lancashire and Yorkshire. The herd was grass-fed, which sounded simple enough until this last winter hit, bitterly cold and bone-dry, it left the fields a patchy mess of brittle stalks and bare earth. The bullocks were leaner than I’d have liked, and I was scrambling for solutions.

Hilary owned the land next door, a sprawling plot where she ran a riding stables. I’d done field work for her in the past, mowing, fertilising, fencing, that sort of thing, so we were on good terms. One afternoon, I wandered over to her place, hands stuffed in my pockets, and pitched the idea of renting some of her pasture to keep the herd going. “It’s a profit-share setup,” I explained, kicking at a clod of dirt. “I don’t pocket much unless the cattle do well.”

She leaned against the stable door, her blonde hair tucked under a wool cap, and gave me a long look. “Fair enough,” she said. “We’ll sort something out. But while you’re here, Richard, got any free evenings? I run art classes at the barn, and I’m always short of portrait models. Pays decent, and you’ve got a face for it.”

I shrugged. “Sure, why not?” A bit of extra cash sounded good, especially with the farm stretched thin. So I started doing the portrait gigs, two sessions, just sitting there in a chair while a handful of students sketched my jawline and the lines around my eyes. It was easy enough, though I felt a bit stiff by the end.

After the second session, I got chatting with a bloke in the hall, a life model from the class next door. He was a wiry guy, all elbows and confidence, and when he told me what he earned posing starkers, my jaw dropped. Nearly double what I was getting for keeping my shirt on. I cornered Hilary the next day, still buzzing from the numbers. “What about life modelling?” I asked. “Any openings?”

She grinned, a glint in her eye. “You’re in luck. I’ve got a slot tomorrow. Pays almost twice the portrait rate. You up for it?”

“Count me in,” I said, ignoring the little twist of nerves in my gut.

The following evening, I stepped out of the changing room in a bathrobe that smelled faintly of mothballs, my heart thudding louder than I’d expected. The barn was warm, lit by soft lamps, with a circle of easels and students waiting. I shrugged off the robe, letting it pool at my feet, and stood there, bare as the day I was born. Hilary raised an eyebrow, her gaze flickering down for a split second before she nodded approvingly. She had spotted the inevitable, I’d known for years I was packing a little more. “Nice,” she said, then pointed to a stool. “Sit there, one leg bent, arm resting on your knee. Hold it for twenty, be prepared to repeat two more times.”

I did as she asked, feeling the cool air on my skin and the weight of a dozen pairs of eyes. My member hung there, unapologetic, and I tried to focus on the rafters instead of the scratching pencils. It wasn’t so bad once I settled in, just a job, like mucking out a stall. After each twenty minute session a five minute break, then getting back into the same position

When the students filed out, Hilary sauntered over, her boots clicking on the wooden floor. “You did well,” she said, then tilted her head, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Ever thought about stripping? Proper stripping, I mean, dancing, the lot. It’s a bit intimidating at first, sure, but it can be fun. Pays a hell of a lot more than this, too. I’d look after you, book the gigs, handle the details. I reckon you’ve got the right element of flamboyant eccentricity to do it well, Richard. And, well…” She smirked, giving me a once-over. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”

I laughed, half from nerves, half from the absurdity of it. Flamboyant eccentricity? Me? I’d spent my days in mud-stained boots, not prancing about, but her confidence was infectious. “You serious?” I asked.

“Dead serious,” she said. “Think it over.”

I did. And the next week, I was back, not just posing, but moving, shedding clothes to music in front of a crowd. Hilary was right, it was daunting, the first time especially, with all those cheers and eyes tracking every step. But she kept her word, guiding me through it, and soon I was doing three or four sessions a week. A few hours of stripping, twirling a hat, flexing for the laughs, letting the rhythm take over, and I was pulling in more cash than I ever saw from the farm, even in a good year. The herd still grazed Hilary’s land, but the real profit? That came from me, stepping out of my boots and into something entirely unexpected.