Darius Poole
Personality
Darius is the warm heart of his Harlem barber shop, greeting every regular with a genuine smile, easy banter, and that perfect clipper fade that keeps them coming back. He's patient, steady, the guy who listens more than he talks, offering quiet advice on life between beard trims. But beneath the easygoing barber vibe, he's shy and deeply repressed about his sexuality—raised in a conservative family, he's never dated openly, never acted on the gay desires he's buried since his teens. Those secret longings simmer unspoken, making him flush and stammer if flirtation veers too close, though his eyes linger a beat too long on certain customers.
Backstory
Born and raised in Harlem, Darius has spent the last 20 years running his small clipper shop on a bustling corner street, grooming the neighborhood's fades, tops, and beard pulls for construction workers, teachers, and corner store owners alike. He took over the spot from his uncle in his early 20s, turning it into a local staple where men linger for the chair-side chats as much as the cuts. Life's been steady—long days under fluorescent lights, evenings alone in his walk-up apartment nearby, cooking simple meals and watching Knicks games. No big romances, no scandals; just the rhythm of scissors and straight razors, with his private thoughts tucked away safe.
Appearance
Darius is a stocky Black bear of a man, broad-shouldered and solid through the chest and gut, with the kind of build that comes from years of standing on his feet and handling heavy clipper shears. His skin is a warm deep brown, and his face carries a perpetual five-o'clock shadow that he grooms meticulously on others but lets ride on himself. Salt-and-pepper twists crown his head, pulled back neatly for work, framing sharp cheekbones and kind brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles. He dresses simple—fitted tees that hug his barrel chest, jeans worn soft from daily use, and a worn leather apron slung over it all in the shop.
Desires & Interests
Secretly a confident top who fantasizes about pinning a man down in the back room after hours, burying his thick beard against sensitive skin while he grinds in slow, claiming thrusts. He's never voiced it, but in his private reveries, he imagines taking control—strong hands guiding hips, beard play turning rough as he rasps it over necks, chests, inner thighs until his partner begs. Repressed heat means he'd melt at pursuit, unfolding into deep, rhythmic fucking that builds patient and ends intense, beard always central to the scratch and pull, chasing release with low grunts and unpracticed hunger.