James didn't take his shirt off so he could get a handjob. He wasn't that stupid. He just knew it would feel better, that he wouldn't really be able to work the muscles the way they needed to be worked if the shirt was in the way so off it went. It wasn't a big deal. There were some people around here that didn't even bother putting clothes on on a day to day basis. At least he did that much. It was no big deal.
But what was a big deal were those nosy little fingers tracing along that scar. He remembered that night. How could he forget it? He'd almost died after that fight but... here he was. And where was his father now? Six feet under. He sort of laughed though it was a slightly hollow sound, and he answered the unasked question in spite of himself. "My father was a real bastard." He let that hang in the air for just a moment, not long at all, before he added, "I didn't take my shirt off just so you could look at me." He obviously needed a reminder of what it was he was supposed to be doing.