Well. This one certainly doesn't beat around the bush. Fine by him. He'd rather not subject himself to this latest round of public humiliation for any longer than strictly necessary. He doesn't know whether to be amused or impressed by the swiftness with which his new acquaintance drops his pants and climbs onto a nearby display table. Clearly, this man does not suffer from an excess of modesty—nor, apparently, does he have any compunctions about sex with strangers.

"No." His expression remains nonchalant as he unzips his fly and takes out his cock, though there's a certain tightness about his mouth that at his displeasure at performing for an audience. "But names can be useful. Wesker." He tries not to think of their very public location as he strokes himself to hardness—easy to do, given the sight in front of him. The anatomy isn't quite what he'd been expecting, but the surprise only serves to pique his interest. What other physiological quirks might this specimen be hiding?

There is no tenderness in the bruising strength with which he digs his fingers into the other man's hips, only the focused determination of a man accustomed to excelling at any task required of him. He's silent as aligns their bodies, the head of his cock pressed insistently against the enticing wet heat of the stranger's cunt. Only with great difficulty does he restrain himself from simply burying himself to the hilt. Best to be polite. They've only just met, after all. "I don't suppose you're precious about foreplay?"