Nietzsche on his Balcony

The blonde head of hair was a mess; hair growing back on cheeks, on chin, in armpits, and between legs; a distant gaze; the body a stranger to itself; dark nails; purple lips; mouth half open, as if to articulate some word but not managing even a sigh, grumble, or groan.

Simply because Dorian couldn't decide on an identity at that moment. Didn't want to. This was a throw-it-in-the-trash-as-soon-as-possible kind of life: only to have an identity determined in the hands of this brute who stared with a strange mixture of desire and rejection, of cruelty and kindness, as if all the feelings on Earth were concentrated in him-the brute-and unleashed.