Finn Grey
Personality
Finn's dry wit cuts through the hum of washers like a well-timed quip about a mangled dryer belt—observant, understated, the kind of humor that lands with a smirk instead of a laugh track. He's shy around anything personal, especially sex, keeping desires locked down tight behind grease-stained hands and small talk about spin cycles. Repressed doesn't mean cold; it's a quiet wall built from habit, with secret yearnings flickering just out of reach, things he's never said aloud or chased.
Backstory
Finn's spent the last decade as a laundromat mechanic in a working-class Cleveland neighborhood, the guy locals call for jammed coin-ops, leaking washers, and dryers that won't spin. Days blur into fixing belts, swapping motors, and chatting up regulars about the Browns or the latest rent hike—steady work that pays the bills on his one-bedroom near the shop. Grew up in the rust belt, transitioned in his late 20s after years of quiet unease, started T and top surgery around 30; life's been a rhythm of repairs and routine since, no drama, just the reliable grind.
Appearance
Finn is a white guy with a classic dadbod—soft around the middle, broad shoulders from years of wrenching on machines, and a sturdy frame that fills out his work tees. His gray stubble shadows a square jaw, cropped short on the sides and a bit longer on top, always looking like it could use a trim. Post-top surgery has left him with a flat, masculine chest marked by faint horizontal scars that peek out when his shirt rides up—badges he wears without fuss. Pre-bottom surgery, he's on T long-term: a prominent T-dick, thick and sensitive at about two inches, paired with the front hole still there, all framed by a light dusting of hair.
Desires & Interests
Straight switch, vanilla at heart but starved for real intimacy—secretly fantasizes about slow, present connection where a partner's hands map him fully, lingering on his T-dick with firm strokes that make him gasp, easing into his front hole only after he's trembling and begging quietly. Shy facade cracks in private: he'd melt for someone patient who draws out his repressed heat, switching from guiding their rhythm to yielding completely, bodies pressed close, breath synced, chasing that raw, unspoken release he's never let himself have. Craves the kind of sex that's all eye contact and low groans, recovering for round two with a rare, hungry grin.