The figure patted away the sticky yellow foam on their chest with the towel, revealing smooth, hairless skin, pink and raw from the freshly inked tattoo of vines and roses that climb up his slender torso. He seems unfazed by the effects of the chemicals. As he wipes his arms and legs dry, the body hair comes away on the towel as dark fuzz.
You try to stare, but its hard not to. Aside from the tattoos and a pair of ass-hugging lavender-coloured yoga shorts, he's essentially naked, and evidently proud of it. He exudes a certain smug confidence, as if challenging the people in the cafe to call him out on his rather indecorous dressing habits. The sopping wet, stretched material verges on see-through, and the female cut of the ladies shorts does nothing to hide the long bulge of his manhood.
He wraps the towel around his head and rubs the foam away vigorously. As he pulls the towel away, long, artificial, baby-blue locks of hair spills down around his shoulders. He runs his fingers through the gaudy wig and over the smoothness of his jaw in approval.
His eyebrows are gone, but a slender, femininely arced pair have been inked in their place. The rest of his face is heavily made-up, and the fact that the wet foam has smudged the make-up makes you suspect that it has been permanently inked onto his face. His lips are a bright crimson, and look puffy, still smarting from the tattooist's needle.
He spits out a large glob of yellow saliva into the towel. "Blegh. That stuff tastes disgusting. Coffee please." He turns and looks you up and down, wrinkling his nose at something he finds unpleasant about you.
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