Finally returning to the barn, I am watered and hosed down. A cowboy named Brick washes. Somewhat homophobic, his hands never touch. Brick uses a chamois cloth and I am given to close my eyes and pretend it is Nurse Hopkins once again offering her humiliating attendance. His shaving of my entire nakedness is quick, not a strand to remain, the blade gliding without pause, not a scintilla of sensuality offered in performing the task.
Fed again, for the evening my reins are tethered in a stall where some slack is offered, but to a low ring such that I must either kneel or lie down. Sometime about dusk, Clive comes to check on me and offers a hypodermic injection just about where I am branded. It is testosterone. And I am to learn over the ensuing weeks of the level of control with which the
