Charles Dera

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Charles Dera came up from the streets of Philadelphia, born December 21, 1978. Now he’s out west in Orange County, still burning through film sets like they owe him money. He’s logged hundreds of scenes, and he once pulled on the codpiece for Men of the Strip, playing the ex-soldier gimmick that got the crowds howling. He started with modeling. One photoshoot led to a casting couch, and he never looked back. “They handed me pussy and I took it,” he says. Simple as that. In high school the kid had a mean streak for rules and zero interest in getting laid. Virginity lasted till eighteen because he refused to ship off to the Marines untouched. “Didn’t want to be the only guy who’d never stuck it in,” is how he puts it now. These days the on-camera animal keeps things surprisingly straight at home—missionary, lights low, no circus tricks. Ask what he’d drag onto a desert island and he shrugs. “Nothing. Extra weight just drags you under. I travel light.” Horror flicks bore him; give him comedies or Training Day. When pressed for favorites he stays cagey—claims the ones that stuck are too many to count. Off-camera he chases three obsessions: Brazilian jiu-jitsu, the custom Harley in his garage, and cold powder under a snowboard. Never caught a case. “You gotta be stupid to get cuffed,” he says. “Mindset keeps you out.” His one real terror? Ending up ordinary. “I’d rather eat a bullet than be basic.”

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