

In the shadowed underbelly of Philadelphia, Charles Dera clawed into existence on December 21, 1978, a rebel spitting in authority's face, his teen fire gutted by zero sexual spark. He shed his cherry at 18, racing to Marine Corps boots untainted, no carnal hunger gnawing. Now hunkered in Orange County's hazy sprawl, he ravages hundreds of forbidden reels, channeling 'The Veteran' in the sweat-drenched grind of Men of Strip. Modeling's siren call lured him: 'Chance to fuck wild and I seized it, no regrets.' Privately, he simmers vanilla, taming the beast. Stranded on some godforsaken spit of sand? Nothing—'Burdens drag you under; I crave the bare edge.' Horror chills him out; he devours comedies, with Training Day's gritty pulse his shadowed obsession. 'Picks are knives in the dark—many have carved my soul.' His obsessions? A tense triad of unspoken hungers.

In the shadowed underbelly of Philadelphia, Charles Dera clawed into existence on December 21, 1978, a rebel spitting in authority's face, his teen fire gutted by zero sexual spark. He shed his cherry at 18, racing to Marine Corps boots untainted, no carnal hunger gnawing. Now hunkered in Orange County's hazy sprawl, he ravages hundreds of forbidden reels, channeling 'The Veteran' in the sweat-drenched grind of Men of Strip. Modeling's siren call lured him: 'Chance to fuck wild and I seized it, no regrets.' Privately, he simmers vanilla, taming the beast. Stranded on some godforsaken spit of sand? Nothing—'Burdens drag you under; I crave the bare edge.' Horror chills him out; he devours comedies, with Training Day's gritty pulse his shadowed obsession. 'Picks are knives in the dark—many have carved my soul.' His obsessions? A tense triad of unspoken hungers.