His name is James, never Jim. He’s five foot ten, lightly muscular, hairy all over, with dark, tight cropped hair and beard, piercing brown eyes, and well proportioned features. Great furry chest, great abs, great ass, great legs, great back, he’s no gym bunny, but at 45, a seasoned man who definitely knows how to take care of himself. And make the most of places like Haulover, Miami’s nude beach, or Lauderdale’s gay Halloween bash where he strutted around in not much more than a jock strap. He’s masculine without being super butchy, articulate without sounding nerdy, personable without being pushy.
What more could any homo want? Even jaded I almost fell in love with him.
Ah, but there’s another James. The James who bikes around South Florida because he can’t afford a car. The James with full blown AIDS who looks terrific thanks to human growth hormone and testosterone. Well educated with his college diploma on his bathroom wall, he’s a sometime musician, most of the time between gigs, who lives on his disability check in a cute little studio just off the beach and uses his charm to sponge off friends, fuck buddies and even afternoon flings in such a way they’re the ones thanking him. Most of time he’s broke.
His name is James, the guy, no matter what your type, who always gets that second look. There are thousands of men like James out there, Hotties in a Life where Hot is everything. Even if all they are is a crumbling Hollywood set.
Like I said, I almost fell in love with James. But almost is pretty big word.