My fascination with Bad Boys began in the same junior high locker room where I first discovered the jock strap.
His name was Tony G. He was a badass even in the 7th Grade. Tony was a short, muscular fella with smooth, olive skin and a thin, black mustache. He wore a slight scowl where others wore a smile.
I never spoke with Tony. He was unapproachable, and we didn't run in the same circles. But we shared the same P.E. class the first semester of junior high, and I befriended him from a distance.
Tony's locker was on the other side of the room, but he occasionally used the shower head closest to mine. My heart raced whenever I saw Tony naked. I was a late bloomer and never took showers after class -- I was too embarrassed to expose myself in front of the boys who were developing into men around me. So I would fiddle with things in my locker and steal quick glances at Tony in the shower.
Tony had a magnificent body, more athletic than beefy but with ample muscle mass. Yet, it was the dense, black pubic hair surrounding his meaty cock and taut ballsack that made him exceptional. The water would crash over his shoulders, run down his chest, and get lost in the wiry thicket of his black pubic hair. It was borderline hypnotic, and on more than one occasion I had to dart my eyes to avoid being caught.
To this day, I still steal glances in the locker room in hopes of finding a man with a black bush as beautiful as Tony's. I'm still looking.