It’s rather strange, but talking sex with the great photographer Walter Pfeiffer isn’t easy. He doesn’t feel comfortable with it: he is shy and his sex trauma is old, having grown up in the countryside of Zurich in the early ’60s, at a time and place in which no real possibility of freedom seemed possible. Provincial, bourgeoisie, the city didn’t have an open context for open sexuality. Pfeiffer did much to help change that, but he paid a price, feeling ostracized not only from broader society, but also from an art world too embarrassed to confront his images of cocks. He was a solitary faggot artist trying to swim with courage against the mainstream. Now, at almost 70, he just likes to work, to hike in the mountains. We had this conversation on the phone rather than in writing, as Walter’s a one-finger typist.