Midi was African born (Congolese, I think). Whisked away mysteriously shortly after his birth for adoption by a wealthy older Australian couple under circumstances never completely explained. Apparently, there had been several failed family trips to Africa when he was a small child - maybe in hopes of some kind of cultural exchange? I don’t really understand any of his early childhood experiences and I guess I feel, as I believe he does, that I just won’t ever really be able to understand. So we leave it at that.
When he was seven or eight (I can only suppose the couple had reached the limit of their patience for cross-cultural adoptive parenthood) he was sent to an all boys boarding school in the US. Where he lived and studied and grew until he finished high school and decided to remain here, on his own. I truly cannot imagine these so-called parent-people of his in flesh and blood, nor fathom what they were thinking with regard to him. But as it all turned out so well for Midi, I try not to give it much thought.
His voice is deep and resonant, slow and relaxed in cadence but without any kind of accent other than neat measured American English. Which is good. Because with his gorgeous, striking appearance, Midi needs nothing else special about him to draw or captivate the attention.
He is very tall at six foot four inches. His shoulders are proportional to his height but so incredibly leanly muscled and his limbs are long and tight and too full of ropy sinewy strength to ever be considered slight. Best of all, is his skin. Luscious dark dark candy-coating skin. Skin so dark and smooth, flawlessly absorbing light in an array of colors ranging across blues and blacks and the deepest almost purple somethings sometimes. He has magical midnight skin, my dear friend, Midi.
Midi’s large strong hands have big-boned, long, elegant fingers. One of the best photos I ever took of them, Midi and Russ (it hangs above their dining room table, now) is a captivating close-up of Midi’s long black perfect fingers laced through and slinked between Russ’s oh-so-white Irish toes.
It was on a rock-climbing shoot and we had just wrapped it up and Russ was exhausted and cranky and his calf was cramping. Midi was calmly pained and sweetly determined to relieve his lover’s distress. While his facial expression was not captured in the tight frame, somehow Midi’s intense, genuine concern was clearly apparent, unmistakable in the grip of those exquisite lanky fingers wrapped around and through the agonized white foot with its wisps of strawberry blond hair across the toes.