Fred the Sailor

“I asked Fred if I could spend the day with him. From the start, he knew I wanted to take photos of him working on the oyster boats, but our messages on Grindr had a degree of flirtation, so the option for more was left open.

We met at his apartment with a plan to we head to the docks together. He invited me up for a coffee — Nescafé from a jar mixed with hot tap water — and made it clear that he’s not “out” to his colleagues. I promised to act accordingly.

An hour later, the boat shoved off, and our nine-hour shift began. Over the noise of the engine the captain shouted that there’d be plenty of time to take pictures, but no one rides for free. He pointed to Fred, ‘He’ll show what to do.’ Fred gave me a devilish wink and directed my eyes to the faraway horizon.

The boat stopped and we all jumped into the shallow cold water in our rubber overalls. While working, Fred and I didn’t speak much but each time he passed behind me, a big bag of oysters in his arms, he’d lean in to smell my neck or push his nose into my ear. Each time, I suppressed a grin — terrified of getting caught — and continued working. After eight long hours we set out on our return to the dock. Fred and I sat next to one another and as we silently stared at the approaching shore, he put his hand on top of mine and squeezed.

Back on land we peeled off our overalls and I asked Fred if he knew somewhere where we could watch the sunset — Bretagne in late June sees the sun set close to 11pm. We bought some beer, and he told me of an empty artichoke farm just a few kilometers down a dirt path.

We found a spot in the field and took off our shirts. Fred rolled a cigarette, I rolled a joint and together we shared the beer. As I was taking his portrait, he swatted the camera away and pulled me in for a salty kiss. Quickly, belts and jeans came undone. We took turns giving each other head, until we ended up with our foreheads pressed together as we furiously stroked our cocks. We came at the same time, locked in a kiss, painting one another with our loads.

Fred is a gentleman, he offered me his shirt to clean with as we both put our pants back on. I continued photographing him, while he smoked his cigarette and basked in the afterglow. As the sun finally set, I took a seat next to Fred, leaning my head against his chest and enjoyed the last fleeting moments of a day that’d likely never repeat.”