The revving of a motorcycle engine filled the air. When Hansen located the biker, he knew that must be Cooter, though he couldn’t see the patches on his leather jacket yet — he was a big beardy man with long stringy hair like a greasemonkey. He was old, like forty, maybe even fifty, with gray tinges in his copper-gray hair. You could just tell he smelled like gravy. He was a squat, off-bodybuildery man, Hansen realized when he got off the bike, built like a mound of meatballs, like he coulda been a real cut weightlifter but he couldn’t quite bring it together and now he was too old. Cooter was hairy as a tan-pearl baboon with a bird’s-nest beard, and the tattoos visible on his neck were some humpty amateur-looking bullshit. He looked like a hobo who snuck into sorority houses to sniff used panties.
He wrapped one arm around Hansen’s side. Since he wore only his leather jacket, no shirt underneath, Hansen felt the bristly almost-gray hair of his chest and his side and his back, brushing against him. Cooter had withered skin atop a powerful body, and his armpit stank like an old burn barrel full of rainwater. He continued giving Hansen a tour of the bullshit trailer and the bullshit sheds and a bullshit firepit and endless bullshit like that. None of this was gangsta.
Rob turned around in time to see the door open, revealing a tall, solid man in a black tee-shirt, leather jacket, and tight, fitted denim pants. His boots thumped solid and heavy against the concrete floor as he walked up to the bar and sat down right next to Rob. He was middle-aged but powerfully built, with a spring in his step like a much younger man. His wild beard like a gold prospector made him look like a vicious Amish or maybe a redneck Muslim.
A new murmur of conversation sprang up, people craning their necks to get a better view of the interloper. Rob watched the man out of the corner of his eye. He was tanned and had a strong jaw, dark brown hair, darker brown eyes. He sat with a confidence that was inherently alluring, and Rob shifted uncomfortably in his seat, turning his attention back to his beer. The man’s biceps flexed within the confines of his t-shirt, almost bursting the seams, and Rob couldn’t think of anything else but what those muscles would feel like wrapped around his body.
From The Dallas Alpha
His accent was thick with redneckery, but with a Western twang to it, the sound of a native longhorn. Rob was from out east, but here in Texas, most folks jawed like that stranger storming in like a silent tornado.
Cooter led him up the flimsy steps at the door of his trailer and pressed open the door, and this time he gestured for Rob to go first. He did, taking in the unmade bed; the couch piled with papers and wrappers; television set; the table with a gun, polish, and a cleaning kit; a counter with a six-pack of beer on it. A Confederate flag was mounted on the wall.
From The Dallas Alpha
Cooter Wilde was short and thickly built but not fat; he looked like he wanted to be fat but didn’t eat enough, his oversized heft overflowing from overtaut skin. His thighs were muscular like a horse’s haunches. He had a big torso and no belly to speak of, though he was far from having a six-pack.
Perhaps his greatest non-foot feature, however, was his beard, which was big and bushy like an Old West gold prospector. It was coppery — the hair on his head, a tangled, greasy mullet, was dirty blond, but his beard hairs were gray-tinged copper like a nest made of wire covering his cheeks and chin.
From Miles the Pervert
Cooter was swarthy-skinned, with an old-fashioned mustache that was well-groomed atop a beard that was scruffy and poorly-groomed. He wore a series of black clothes — they blended in, in layers, so much that it was hard to tell how many shirts, vests and patches he wore. But above it all was a sterling black leather jacket, under which his chest was broad. His hair was long and curly, in a jet-black mullet that piled up behind his neck.
This biker was thickly built, and he reeked of engine oil and stale sweat — not like he was sweaty, but more like it had soaked into the black leather of his biker jacket.
Cooter Wilde’s feet were bare, and Miles got a hardon as soon as he saw them. He had massive feet, even bigger than seemed appropriate for his body, and there was a tuft of hair on the top of each foot and a few more hairs on each toe. His feet were dirty, literally filthy, covered in dust and and caked with dried mud, which it looked like he had scraped it off over the night. Miles could still see it sticking to his skin though, a thin layer of dirt. He had been given jailhouse sandals, which sat, unused, by the door.
From Miles the Pervert