I’d been watching him for several weeks now. Gliding by with his buddies he’d be, in a white T-shirt and khaki shorts, baggy, coursing elegantly over the corporate cement. I’d be hangin’ out on Saturdays, reading a novel, smoking cigarettes in the late spring warmth, thoroughly enjoying these young studs’ skate stunts (until the goddamn corporation cracked down later that year and put up signs and more security to drive them off). Several were quite nice-looking, but one stood out. About five-nine, jet-black hair of average length, heavy-boned frame, and, around his neck, oddly, a very-seventies shark tooth on a black leather cord. The young hunk was broad-shouldered and clearly well-built; he distracted me often from my book.
As I had decided to be more bold with my interest in good-looking, athletic, cocky young men, specifically desiring to explore my paternal disciplinary instincts, and the possibility of persuading one of these smirky, arrogant skatepunks into bondage and boyish tortures, I determined to strike up a conversation with this guy. . .eventually.