Tender boy, tougher.

This tender boy, born between what he is and what he feels. More experience under his belt. He stands in boots- heavy, steel toed, scarred from mishaps and adventures. Legs wear dark denim, cuffed, motorcycle grease stains the inner right leg where it contacts the crankcase. Favorite t-shirt, years old, greying with age, colours standing out. Hair falling over brown eyes, kicking out behind, doing what it likes. Hands calloused, fingers long and fine, one wears studded silver, wrists wrapped, and precious leather at his throat.

Crows rest on his shoulder and forearm, and on his chest above his heart....friends and reminders. More will roost here. Lines and images mark his memory map- more to follow. Pain precedes transformation.

The tender boy still wears his leathers when he rides. He still cries sometimes. He still fucks with vigour and voracious appetite.

The tender boy offers himself to those he trusts.

The tender boy loves hard, and feels hard, and hurts hard.

New scars and old crisscross his heart- the heart that beats pushing blood through his veins, feeding him, sustaining him.

He smells of clean sweat and horses, motorcycle oil and boot polish, sex and sometimes sadness.

He does his best.