His tall frame extending to all four corners of the bed, his arm out, as if holding the place for a man he needs beside him, with his cargo shorts and strawberry colored t-shirt, Jorge looks like a Cuban Sean Connery on his day off. There is a slight mysterious quality to his eyes, sexiness to those scattered flecks of grey in his goatee and a soft smattering of hair across that tanned chest and stomach that draws your eye towards the prize waiting just below. The folds of the fabric radiate from his crotch like sun flares and it must be morning since something is rising inside his shorts that look to be big and heavy. While guessing how big the piece is inside is half the fun, we can give you a hint; in the case, our secret agent’s name should be “009.” He swirls around that big piece inside at first, as if he is smuggling a helicopter in his pants. But opening the fly and revealing a trimmed brown bush over a thick, meaty slab of flesh that still soft, almost reaches his navel before coming to rest well down a good portion of the inside of his thigh.