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.
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 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