The sun had long since set by the time McKenzie, Jacqueline and I arrived at the potato farm. We drove up the long winding driveway and parked our vehicle next to a nondescript building claiming to be a produce stand. So far, everything checked out – there was an unusually large number of SUVs and sports cars in the parking lot, but perhaps the produce here was really, really good.

We unloaded our gear and walked through a small garden until we reached the farm house. As far as farm houses go, this one was pretty typical – 64,000 square feet of masonry and parquet flooring. We were graciously greeted our farming hosts and given a tour of the estate as well as a brief history of the grounds. There was nothing strange about the farm house – I’m a city girl, and as far as I know, all farm houses contain multiple hot tubs, co-ed group showers, and an entire floor of nothing but beds and condoms.

Among other things, our hosts gave us some hints about their future plans for the potato farmery – a 100-potato mashing pit will be added to the grounds later this summer; a large flat screen television would replace Grandmama’s small set where she and her friends watch their afternoon stories to get them in the mood; and in the summer a large tent would be set up in the garden and filled with mattresses in case any of the farm hands got sleepy. It all sounds very nice, really.

Saturday night was a special occasion at the potato farm. Farm members had been arriving since the previous evening for the annual Farmer’s Ball. The theme was Mardi Gras, and everywhere you looked there were farmers bedecked in feathers and sequins. Before this past weekend I hadn’t realized that farm wear was much more colourful than what mid-west Americana would have you believe – I didn’t see a single pair of overalls (except for that one pair that had no ass, but I believe the gentleman in question had sat too close to the fire pit and accidentally scorched his fanny) and would you believe it, not a single farmer’s wife arrived wearing a flower print house dress! I hadn’t realized how warm a potato farm could get towards the end of winter; the majority of the farmers were actually wearing very little clothing. As more and more people arrived wearing next to nothing at all, someone took me aside and explained that by some miracle of mishap, everyone lost their luggage on the way to the Farmer’s Ball and had to make do with whatever they found in the farm shed – feather boas, pasties, mesh thongs, transparent nurse’s uniforms, stiletto heels, see-through teddies, lacy crocheted robes – all traditional farming clothes, lent out to those who suffered bad luck on their trip to the ball.

Dinner was served, and I was surprised and suspicious to note that not a single potato was being offered up for consumption. I chalked this up to bad timing though, as I spied a large bowl of butter towards the end of the buffet table – clearly, the potatoes had not been put out yet. I scooped some butter to put on my plate for my eventual potato when I was suddenly accosted – my wrist was roughly grabbed, and a voice behind me growled “NO! You can’t have any butter! NO BUTTER FOR YOU!” I whirled about as best I could to see a large man wearing a straw hat and little else glaring at me with a toothy smile. “You can’t have any butter!” he repeated. I stammered out an apology – clearly, the butter was for the farmers only – but just as quickly as he grabbed my arm he let go and said “well, I guess you can have some butter”. I thanked him, took my butter, and continued my search for the potatoes.

Distracted by the couple demonstrating their oral sex techniques at the table next to mine, I quickly forgot about my missing potato.

After dinner, a few announcements were made and the potato farm rules were repeated for any new farm club members: don’t feed the dogs, always make sure you plant your potatoes in straight lines, always use a condom, don’t forget to fertilize, no means no, unaccompanied single men were not allowed upstairs into the potato-sorting rooms, and above all else, enjoy the farmer’s balls.

I’m sure that was just an accidental slip of the tongue.

After the announcements, the farmer’s wives all took their place lining the upstairs balcony. As the music began, I was startled to notice that simultaneously, everyone’s clothes accidentally fell off! How embarrassing, to be sure – but everyone was in such high spirits that the universal wardrobe malfunction did little to stop the party. The farmers politely averted their eyes while throwing as many small trinkets as they could find so that the women could cover their shame, and eventually the women came back downstairs covered in plastic beads with which they could modestly hide their naked bosoms.

McKenzie and I were there to document the farm in pictures, so we made our way to the back room to see what the farmers did in between harvests. Armed with cameras and a tripod, we set out to catch the farmers in their natural setting of plush, dimly lit rooms of wall to wall beds with the occasional frog chair placed here and there. We tiptoed our way through naked, entwined farmers and spied four blow jobs, six couples in complicated configurations, one 10-person orgy, at least 15 naked potato farmers wandering around in varying states of arousal and confusion, multiple sex triangles, one full body massage, one person atop a frog chair being serviced by three others, and countless sets of boobs and wangs and asses and potatoes.

We did not, however, see a single cauldron.

Given the lack of cauldrons, I would say this report is inconclusive at this time. Clearly, in order to fully research the potato farm and find the meaning behind the lingering looks and sly offers we received, we must once again plan a secret mission to infiltrate the farmer’s balls. We have planned a second outing for April, and will file our report accordingly.

Over and out, Charlie.

I was really, really over-dressed for that potato farm.

*ring*

Huh?

“Good morning, Angel!”

What?

“I SAID, Good morning, Angel!”

Why is that white speaker box on my desk talking to me? As a matter of fact, why is there a white speaker box on my desk?

“KIMLI! You know how this goes – when I say ‘good morning, angel’ you are supposed to respond with ‘good morning, Charlie!’ Don’t you remember your training? Now, say it!”

“Good .. good morning, Charlie?”

“That’s better. Are you ready for your assignment?”

“WHAT assignment? What the hell is going on?”

“You forgot, didn’t you. You signed up to be a Reserve Angel, and it’s time – I’m calling you up. You can’t back out; I have papers. SIGNED papers. We’re like the Marines, on rollerskates.”

“Okay, okay, I remember. Reserve Angel, gotcha. I .. I thought it was just a joke, though. You don’t REALLY send women out on ‘secret missions’, do you?”

“Does this white speaker box look like a joke to you?”

“Well, actually ..”

“Don’t answer that. This is very real, Kimli. You are a Reserve Angel, part of my elite team of highly trained sexy agents, and as such, I need you for an investigation.”

“Really? I’m a little surprised .. why me? I don’t exactly fit in with the rest of your ‘sexy angels’. Why not get one of them to help you?”

“.. I didn’t want to have to say this, but frankly .. you’re the only Angel dumpy enough for this particular mission.”

“Ouch.”

“Well, you asked. I need someone who can blend into a crowd and not be noticed, and for this mission, dumpy is good.”

“Fine, I’m dumpy. What’s the mission?”

“We’ve had reports of a potato farm in Idaho that has a curious name among the locals: The Sex Cauldron. I want you three to investigate this ‘potato farm’ and find out what really goes on there when the sun goes down.”

“You three? Who else is coming?”

“I’ve teamed you up with two of our more experienced and sexy Angels – McKenzie is a photographer who has been asked to take some shots of the farm for a book on rural farms in the Midwest, and Jacqueline is her business manager. You’ll be going along as McKenzie’s assistant – and from here on in, your name is Fran.”

“Fran? Hot.”

“You’re not supposed to BE hot. If this ‘Sex Cauldron’ thing is true, we want you to be able to blend in with the crowd – and let’s face it, any sex club in the middle of the bible belt isn’t going to be packed with people who look like McKenzie and Jacqueline. You’re our star, Fran. Go out there and carry cameras and find out why this potato farm is known as The Sex Cauldron!”

“You got it, Charlie. Over and out.”

.. see you tomorrow.