Noah

His gray BVDs poking loosely out the back of somewhat worn khaki pants, Noah is the only man in the room not wearing a shirt. A white and blue striped ribbon belt marks the whimsical boundary to his smoothly muscled upper half. A large tattoo of a bull, recently acquired, spreads across the upper right corner of this freckled terra incognita. The image derives from a Cretan wall painting in which a group of men dance around a bull while one leaps up and over its horns. The dancers are absent in Noah’s version. When asked, he explains, “I’m already the dancer, right? And my body’s the bull.”

It is not hard to see why he thinks so. Consider the following. The bull’s shaggy hide, a variegated palette of reds and browns and tans, resembles a raw marbled Porterhouse. The sweeping, almost elegant curve of its barreled torso hints at awesome power. And Noah? He, too, is matted with hair: blond fur climbing up his chest, blond tufts ringed around his nipples, strangely long blond hairs perched haphazardly between the bottom of his neck and the base of his closely cropped blond beard. This delicate fleece is distinguishable from flesh only by the latter’s ruddy flush. He is the David Hasselhoff of blondes. Hooga chaka, hooga chaka. His lats, his pecs, his biceps, his triceps, his delts, his abs, all give off an impression of enormous latent power. For him, a shirt would simply be an imposition. He is the bull.

(Choose a person you know well to describe physically)