Bobby South

Bobby South treks west from Baltimore, his sculpted body primed for the spotlight at Falcon Str8men. He strokes himself bare for our private gaze—no one back home suspects a thing. Now, the reveal unfolds. Thanks, Bobby. And kudos to the cameraman, capturing this hot rod from below, crotch-high. Bobby grips his cock, tugging with firm, relentless pulls. His balls swing in sync, heavy and tempting, a pair to devour. He tweaks his pierced nipples, then reclines, left arm arched behind his head. A sly glance at the lens—pure invitation—as he pumps on. Speed builds. He yanks harder, body shuddering, muscles rippling across his taut frame, abs carving shadows. On his knees now, he keeps at it, that plump, eager ass on full display, begging a taste. He sprawls across the sofa, a modern echo of Goya's bold Maja, but all male fire. Jacking fierce, breaths turn to ragged gasps and growls—he's there. Climax hits, ropes of cum splattering thick. Sly grin seals it: the artist's masterpiece, complete.