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Name: Erica | Gender: woman- hear me roar! | Posts: 2,032 | Roses: 181
Old 05-08-2011 at 11:34 AM
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Myron Bolitar

Myron Bolitar glided down his Rouge hallways, making his way to his office. It would have been a stud-esque strut down the halls too, really having that, in charge look, if there was not a flamboyant piece of flesh behind him.

"Annnnd-" Toddy St. James drawled, Myron hearing him bite down hard on a metal pen, he really wish he wouldn't do that, finishing off Myron's to do list for the day. He wish he wouldn't do that either. "You have an it in your office."

Toddy St. James, ladies and gentleman. Making humans feel like humans.

Fixing his jacket, Myron rose an eyebrow, glancing over his shoulder. "Does this it have a name?"

The Queen of England herself could be sitting in his office, and Myron was sure Toddy would still call her an it.

"Uhhh..." Myron heard flipping through pages. He sometimes wondered why Toddy St. James was his receptionist and assistant. But mostly, he wondered how in the hell they were friends. "Ev-Evrica-" He awaited quietly for his friend to interpret his own handwriting. The fairy still dotted everything with hearts, it could take awhile. "Perriet-"

"Evea Perry." He suddenly felt ashamed for being able to understand Toddy lango.

Toddy flopped his notebook away. "Yeah, sure, that."

Myron Bolitar waved Toddy St. James off, heading to his office. Evea Perry. He wondered what she wanted? Not that Myron didn't mind meeting with his Rouge ladies; it always showed a side of professionalism if they made meetings with him.

Opening his office door, Myron put on a friendly boyish smirk, that was apart of his charm- he dare say- and shut the door behind him. Coming more to his desk, his eyes went to Evea who was sitting patiently in the chair. His eyes looked at her, and he halted.

Well, what a thing to wear. It was revealing. A little too much for Myron's taste. He stared at her for a long moment with raised eyebrows, his mouth open and forming into a greeting, but he was still processing the outfit. Still, trying to, you know, composure. Because, it wasn't, in his taste. It wasn't what a Rouge girl should be wearing, unless they were performing. It kinda' looked like she was still performing. On a normal day, Myron wouldn't have cared. He doesn't judge. If she were looking to attract or define her unique-ism, then why the hell not? But, this was different. Evea was representing the Rouge, representing Myron Bolitar, and what it all means. She was a beautiful girl, no doubt. But, maybe she needed to be told that she didn't need to try. Women needed more respect and more mystery for the eye.

Myron Bolitar. Fashionista.

But, first, Evea's matters.

Myron Bolitar was glad they were having a meeting.

"Well," Myron cleared his throat after that long moment, and went around to his leather chair, plopping down. Smiling at Evea, he leaned back. "What owes this visit my lovely Miss Perry?"


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Old 05-09-2011 at 02:29 AM
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Evea Perry

How to start? It was the very question that Evea ran over in her mind as she waited for her boss to appear. If it had been Toddy St. James that she had to run these idea's with she somehow felt she'd be a little more at ease.

She wasn't to sure how the assistant of the Rouge saw her but somehow she got a funny feeling that at time's he was whispering about her in Myron's ear. She also had a funny feeling that he maybe trying to get Myron to ask her out or see what was before his eyes and take it... Hopefully she was wrong.

Still with these thoughts in mind she had tried to dress down a little the white lace top and jeans from one side of her fashion wise closet. Yet as she heard her boss walk in and see his eyes land on her she somehow thought that even this was to much.

"Well,"

It seemed so drawn out and commanding even as he sat down in his chair with a smile.

"What owes this visit my lovely Miss Perry?"

Start to the point.

"I was wondering how I was doing sir." She said straight out. "And how I could still improve. I do thank you for all your teaching but I still feel that there's more I need to learn. I did tell you when you hired me that I had no... skill at performing on stage, only that I could sing."

Her blue eyes looked dead into his a smile on her face through it was a mask for the nerves that were daring to bubble over.

"Your other performers have been very helpful along with Toddy but also if I may I have an idea for how to maybe bring more of Paris through your doors."

She stopped then waiting to see what look passed over Myron's face at her words. As she looked it seemed like it was best she explain.

"My past has taken me all over the word and though someday I would like to sings songs of other lands here I was also thinking about dances to. I know the people of Paris love Can-Can but what about Tango's and Salsa something that draw more women in."

It was here she let out her breath along with the memories of her past tango's and the skills that had earned her the nick name of Vixen.

"I hope I haven't over steeped my grounds in putting this idea forth sir, it's just I thought this way we could even get the crowds to join in sometimes get them on stage. Show them something that might never see otherwise."


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Old 08-17-2011 at 11:19 AM
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Toddy St. James



Breathing. Sweeties and the like need to breathe. Breathing, is what makes just everything exist. Breathing is what makes Beyonce belt out through those lucious lips, and Lady Gaga rip one with her fierce chords and unusual clothing that is to die for. Breathing is what makes good looking people like himself to keep on keeping on, and grace the world with their glamorous beings. Toddy couldn't remember the time he had taken a breath of fresh Paris air. He couldn't remember a time where he stopped for a moment and actually inhaled and exhaled full out, and it actually got down to his lungs. He couldn't remember the time he had felt Damien's, his forever ago crush that probably didn't even remember his name, breath ever so sexily entwining with his. As if that would ever happen again. At this rate, Toddy St. James was going to pass out from lack of breath at any second, and would just completely collapse like the hot mess he had become. Toddy missed breathing.

It was obvious when Myron Bolitar left that he did not want Toddy St. James to do any breathing whatsoever.

What Myron did to Toddy could be classified as first degree murder. He was like, the girl version of Casey Anthony. Worse. Myron was so committing negative one degree murder. What was this? Runaway Bride? Which was a cray-cray plot line to begin with, because who in their right panties would just up and leave Richard Gear like that? Not this gay man. Hell to the no.

"Ridiculous!" Toddy St. James screamed out, throwing the papers with words that were all mushing together like some freak show black blob onto the floor, off of Myron's desk. This was his torture chamber. He was fed up. He was done. It had to be over soon. He was getting ticked off at budgets. Since when did he deal with financial things?! Oh yeah- since never! But here he was, having to be all serious with money. Here he was, filling out the schedules, cutting the checks, dealing with Rouge girls- which were so much more fun to gossip and have fun with, then to deal with all the serious starchy stuff. Finally, the patience was ending. Look at him. He was in all black because he was mourning. Mourning this new role he was taking on, and mourning Myron Bolitar- which- where the hell was he?!

For a coupe months, for weeks, days, hours, endless minutes- Toddy St. James had become the new Myron Bolitar. Ever since Myron had just vanished but left a pink sticky note saying he was in charge. Okay. Snaps for it being pink. Snaps for him leaving things to Toddy like a good boy, because Toddy St. James was the best. But, really, a sticky note for a vanishing act, and really their best friendship being in one little sticky note? As if.

Toddy St. James couldn't sleep even if he wanted to from all this stress. His best friend was gone. His phone was not being picked up, no emails, no Facebook, no texts. Like, the texting is a serious issue. Myron could be dead. He probably was. Toddy had gone through ulcers and the like- and was so losing his mind.

Everything was going missing. Myron Bolitar. Toddy St. James' social life. His non existent but almost was existent love life with Damien. His friendship with Madeleine, because he was way to busy to be there for her, and way to caught up in losing Myron himself to even think of consoling someone else.

With one non-graceful movement of the neck, Toddy St. James' forehead collapsed onto the desk.

"Ow."


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Old 08-17-2011 at 11:53 AM
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Damien Blackwood-Michaud

There was something distinctly weird getting advice about men from your dad’s girlfriend. It made Damien feel nasty, a little creepy. It was the same feeling he’d gotten when he realized mummy and daddy weren’t just “changing the sheets” when they closed the bedroom door and disappeared for a bit. Voyeuristic. Violated. Violating. And yet, when Damien got up this morning, he knew—knew—that Ashton was the only one who’d have half a hope of understanding why asking Toddy St. James to be his boyfriend scared Damien so much. After all, she knew how to go for that one, forbidden person and make them all hers. Surely, she had some sort of wisdom to impart. She said to be confident. Charming. Intelligent. And above all, to be himself. Which was really a contradiction in terms when it came to Damien. Or, so he thought. He was an artist, recently out of the closet, and was anything but confident. For Christ’s sake, he had been scared of his own, rainbow-colored shadow for much of his adolescent and adult life. Owning his sexuality came about as naturally to Damien as flying came to penguins. Just because they were birds didn’t mean they could get off the ground. Damien seriously didn’t think he could just waltz into the Moulin Rouge and tell Toddy, “Hey, I’m out, I’m proud, and I want you to be my boyfriend”. It wouldn’t have been his style.

His style was subtle. It was romantic. It was sweet. His style was ordering irises the shade of Toddy’s eyes and having them sent to his receptionist desk. His style was a hand brush here and a stolen glance there. It was telling a guy he was brave and admirable, when sexy and strong were the two words he was really thinking. But, like Ashton said, if Damien wanted Toddy badly enough, he’d have to be confident. And he’d have to take charge. He couldn’t hide behind the fear of nameless muggers on the subway or a disapproving parent, because muggers weren’t every day occurrences and Damien’s supposedly “homophobic” parents were bickering over who got the privilege of paying for Damien’s big, gay coming out party. Secretly, Damien wished he still had a rational reason not to do this. That way he could prolong the alluring, forbidden-fruit nature of his relationship with Toddy. That way, it would be romantic and fairy-tale-like and something to tell their adopted children in twenty years. That there had been a struggle, a fight to win Toddy after all. But even now, the only one Damien was left fighting with was himself.

And that was just plain exhausting.

So today, after his awkward talk with Ashton and being plied with tea and breakfast by a clueless-and-semi-helpful Lucian, Damien was on his way to the Moulin Rouge to do something drastic. Something life changing. Something that had the potential to be exactly the stuff of fairytales or yet another horror story in Damien’s dating life.

Today, Damien was going to tell Toddy St. James that he was ready. That he wanted to be his boyfriend. That, if the American would have him, Damien swore to be all his.

Or something fittingly dramatic and picturesque.

The red windmill came into view up a head and Damien took a deep, stabilizing breath. Do or die time, sink or swim… Because chances were, the first thing—the first person—he’d see would be Toddy, sitting at his desk, typing up memos or retouching his coiffed hair. And Toddy might be happy to see him… Or he might say something like, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Closet Case! How’s Narnia these days?” There was always that chance that Toddy was mad at him.

And really, who wouldn’t be? Damien had been nothing short of a cock-tease in the last few months. He’d been skittish and commitment-phobic and sometimes downright catty. Damien wasn’t exactly a catch. Not like Toddy, who’d always been supportive and kind and funny and—

Damien pushed open the doors of the Rouge to see a different receptionist altogether clacking away at Toddy’s keyboard. She was blonde, slim, with horn-rimmed glasses and a bust that suggested that this was probably her day job. She was not the efficient, effusive Toddy St. James that Damien fancied. And a lemon-rind taste welled up in the back of Damien’s throat. He sluggishly dragged his legs over to her and put on his best, fake I’m-not-actually-disappointed smile.

“Erm… Hi,” he said, scratching the bridge of his nose. “Is… Toddy St. James still works here, yeah?”

The blonde looked up and smiled. Damien noticed her hands were rather large for a woman’s and that her fingernail polish was a nasty shade of puce. His smile faltered while waiting for an answer.

“Of course,” the girl said. “I’m just the temp. Mister St. James is in his office.”

“His office?” Damien asked, choking back a laugh. Toddy had once pretended Myron Bolitar’s office to be his. “Whaddya mean ‘his office’?”

“Mister Bolitar’s office. Whatever,” the girl said dismissively. She returned to pounding the keys on the keyboard with those nasty fingernails. “It’s Toddy’s office until the boss gets back from, well… Wherever.”

Damien thanked her and went on his way. He knew the path to Myron Bolitar’s office surprisingly well for someone who scarcely visited the Rouge. He couldn’t help but think of Toddy, yanking his chain, claiming to own the whole of the Moulin Rogue. Now, it seemed, it was almost true. Something about that added a funny little lilt to Damien’s step. It was an old memory, revisited and done right. It gave Damien just enough confidence to not knock on the door and to swing it open wide.

Sitting at the desk, crumpled against it, was Toddy St. James.

And suddenly, that confident swagger that had been in Damien’s step was gone again. It had been there for three whole seconds and… BAM. He got a good look at the man he’d been gaga for since the beginning of the summer.

And holy hell, did Toddy look bedraggled.

He didn’t look like sh*t. He was still the well-sculpted, adorable guy Damien met what felt like ages ago. But there was a weariness to him that Damien hadn’t seen before. And suddenly Damien’s knees were made of pudding. Maybe now was a bad time. Maybe Toddy was having a bad day. Maybe Damien would be making it worse. He took a deep breath.

“Erm… Hi. If this is a bad time, I can try this again later…”
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Old 08-17-2011 at 12:12 PM
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 Post [15] »


Toddy St. James




"Erm ... Hi."

Erm, what the hell?

It was called knocking, it was called Toddy was going to fire whoever the hell it was that was irritating him from just existing, and it was called having a voice that reminded him of a certain someone he was attempting at forgetting so it didn't hurt that he could ever see Dami- the person he was trying to forget. Also, Toddy supposed he could do that whole shocked reaction that someone had just swung the door open and talked, but Toddy St. James' life was in a slow motion, and honey, he heard the door nob from the second it happened. Ugh, he didn't even have the energy to put on a cutesy shocked act for a male voice anymore.

"If this is a bad time, I can try this again later…”

Then the equation just sparkled right into Toddy's brain. The uneasiness, the cute smooth charm, the simple 'Hi', the most awkward of times for it to be happening...

Toddy St. James practically flew up from his mangled up position on the desk when he realized just who the hell was at the door.

"Damien!"

Stumbling from how he seemed to have sprung, Toddy slapped a hand on the side of the desk, tossing a wrist flicked hand into the air, and lying it against his popped out hip. He blinked away the heaviness, praying there weren't any sleep scuzzies just hiding away in the corners of his eyes, but when his eyes hit Damien Michaud, he wished he did have something covering his eyes. The baby looked gorgeous. He looked like a fashion model, he looked slept, fed, and treated well- and it wasn't fair.

Toddy's eyes couldn't help but wander up and down before they even hit those baby blues that he had missed so much. Why wasn't this boy his? Why had it been this long since they had contact? Toddy St. James was missing out on this man, and suddenly began to hate life, fate, hope, luck- whatever had to do with him missing out on this piece of lovely action standing at his doorway. Which, wasn't even his! It was Myron's. Who should be here, and Toddy should be standing over there.

"Wowwwww." Toddy sang out with a weak laugh, throwing a hand up to his hair, and resting his arm on top of his head, awkwardly slapping his feet against the floor. "You haven't-" He blinked in almost shock. "You haven't forgotten about little old me!"

Toddy St. James just described himself as old because that's how he... felt. He-llo anti aging cream, where are you?


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Old 08-17-2011 at 12:44 PM
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Damien Blackwood-Michaud

Damien no longer had a beard. Or a complex. Or an inheritance on the line. Therefore, logically, he shouldn’t have been panicked or scared or worried about consequences. And yet, standing here, looking at Toddy, all Damien could think was: Oh… sh*t.

He hadn’t knocked. He hadn’t called ahead. He’d instead barged into Toddy St. James’ office without a plan or a peace offering. And if Damien had been Toddy, he would have already thrown himself out of the Moulin Rouge. Seriously, there would have been bouncers and security guards because Damien was pretty much the last thing Toddy wanted to see.

Probably.

After all, Damien had promised and promised to come out and get his life together and it had taken for freaking ever. Surely, Toddy had a whole queue of other eligible young men waiting to be his boyfriend. Surely, there were more appealing prospects on Toddy’s horizon than starving-artist Damien, who was technically nothing but spoiled-rich-kid underneath. But, Damien was never very good at mind reading. And Toddy’s tired face split into a grin. Which told Damien that maybe, just maybe there was some hope after all.

"Damien!" Toddy said, snapping bolt upright.

The two men looked each other over. Damien could feel Toddy’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t help but take in the sight before him. That was more important than getting all self-conscious. Besides, how could Damien ignore Toddy’s lips? His perfectly sculpted, generous lips…

"Wowwwww." Toddy sang out with a weak laugh, throwing a hand up to his hair, and resting his arm on top of his head, awkwardly slapping his feet against the floor. "You haven't-" He blinked in almost shock. "You haven't forgotten about little old me!"

“How could I?” Damien scoffed lightheartedly. Then, seriously—much more seriously than he’d expected, he added, “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”
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Old 08-17-2011 at 01:01 PM
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Toddy St. James


There had been a time to where Toddy St. James would scoff and inquire as to how in thee world could someone forget his being? There had been a time also where stupid boys did not leave their dirty works for their too pretty and underpaid secretaries. Those times were gone, and Toddy had now truly wondered what could Damien possibly be doing here. Toddy was a lost cause now. A fashionista without a cause, a used up Prada bag, or a fake Louis in the trunk of a cadillac in Queens. Not... speaking for experience or anything. But, Damien was so no not in the same mindset as Toddy was. At least, the way Toddy wanted to be for him. He wanted to be put together, not such a hot mess, and looking all... like he had sleep. That'd be a start. But the first time they met Toddy St. James had told Damien he was the owner of the Rouge. Sweeties, careful what you wish, because this could just possibly be the cause of what drives mister Michaud away.

"How could I?"

Toddy puckered his lips in thought, and shrugged. Damien had a point.

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

Toddy St. James lips didn't pucker. In fact, they opened a little wide.

Oh. Oh, wow. This was a serious visit. Toddy studied the muffin for a moment and realized, okay. This was not just some light hearted flirty moment visit. The tone of voice, the nervousness- it was all there. Thinking about him? They had barely even spoken. Wow. Oh, wow. Toddy St. James gulped, his eyes a little more round. Apparently Damien didn't need a text, a call, or a to do a day to make Toddy thoughts come and play. Which, was the same for Toddy he supposed, but rare was it that in a flirtationship-dateship- whatever they were ship, that the two people felt the same. Toddy St. James stood up straight, his eyebrows wide, and his head chin up higher to give a glare. A skeptic glare. A not knowing whether this was going to go swimmingly or not glare. It was a compliment. He should take it and go. But this wasn't what he came here to say. If Damien wanted a play date, he'd call and wouldn't interrupt. If he wanted to just say he was thinking about Toddy, he'd send one of those tacky floral 'Thinking of you' cards.

Red b-dazzed flags were waving in Toddy St. James' head!

"Oh?" Toddy chirped, struming his fingers along one another in front of his chest, making his way around the desk.

Gulping, and settling on the edge of the front of the desk, Toddy St. James rested his hands, and smiled a little too brightly and nervously. "Well I hope their happy thoughts, because I sure have the fairy dust."

Oh... Oh kay. Toddy St. James business man could not easily go back to gay joke land.

Going for a not awkward silence, Toddy held a couple fingers to his forehead in just astonishment of how ridiculous he was being, shut his eyes, and waved Damien in with his other hand. Sighing and slapping his hands again on the desk, Toddy St. James gazed at Damien and smiled.

"Now that you don't have to think about me and I'm right here- don't be a doorframe creeper and get in here."


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Old 08-17-2011 at 09:14 PM
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Damien Blackwood-Michaud

He really, truly had been thinking of Toddy a lot lately. Particularly since coming out to his dad. The second Damien’s sexuality became a non-issue, all Damien thought about was telling Toddy. Well, not all he thought about. He also thought his dad was a bit of a prick, shagging Ashton behind everybody’s back; he thought Ashton was ill-prepared to join the Michaud family. He thought Bill needed to decide whether he and Victorine were an item. He thought Natalie was a little more justified—if not entirely justified—in her affair. He thought about applying to another theatre for a costume design position. And somewhere between all those thoughts about his changing world, Damien couldn’t help but think: Toddy St. James every other thought. He couldn’t help but want Toddy to be an integral part of the new life he was living.

"Oh?" said Toddy, making his way around the desk in what felt like slow motion to Damien. Toddy sat down on the edge of the desk and folded his hands. "Well I hope their happy thoughts, because I sure have the fairy dust."

Damien smiled shakily. If Toddy knew what kind of thoughts, what kind of happy and hopeful thoughts Damien had had about him, he might not need fairy dust to fly. Already, Damien’s heart was ballooning in his chest, bumping around his ribcage and feeling as weightless as anything. He wanted to tell Toddy that he could never have a bad thought about him—or at least, he never wanted to. But instead, Damien glued himself to the doorframe dopily.

"Now that you don't have to think about me and I'm right here- don't be a doorframe creeper and get in here."

Get in there? Get in the office? That was permission, an invitation. It was all Damien needed to unstick himself from the threshold and march into the room. He closed the gap between Toddy and himself in five, quick strides and before he knew it, Damien seized hold of Toddy’s face and pressed his own lips to Toddy’s. His eyes fell shut almost instantly and he held Toddy to his mouth. The American was warm and soft and had a sweet flavor to his lips that Damien couldn’t quite place. He wanted to stay lost in the smell of the Chanel cologne that clung to Toddy’s skin and the dewy, thick air around them. He wanted to run his hands in Toddy’s curly, brown hair until he knew every perfectly coifed lock. But moments like these were just that: moments. And even Damien had to come up for air sometime. He pulled away a little and breathlessly, smiled at Toddy.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the day I met you,” he confessed gleefully. And, God, did it feel ten times better than Damien could have ever imagined.
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Old 08-20-2011 at 05:58 AM
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 Post [19] »


Toddy St. James

Buh-bye breath.

It was the first thing Toddy St. James thought as soon as Damien Michaud came striding toward him. Their eyes found one another's and stayed. It was happening and it was all happening so fast. The passion and the intensity behind those usually soft baby blues, were like glassy shards piercing a way right through his chest. And oh baby, it hurt so good. The thing of it was... this wasn't a dream, and he was approaching closer. Shocked, Toddy slid upward from his lazy leaning position on the desk, parting his lips to speak? To-

Be taken by another pair of lips.

His eyes shut. His hands shot up in an unprepared fluster, outstretched and shaky. His muscles tensed, but then just allowing himself to finally feel this moment. Because Toddy had been awaiting for like, ever. Toddy St. James' body became pretty much limb. His knees felt like they were about to buckle down. This was amazing. There were all these splashes of color behind his eyes, a warm feeling in his chest, and everything was spinning in a fabulous way.

Damien Michaud kissing him felt so right.

It was like Toddy St. James being kissed for the first time. This is what a kiss should feel like. A real true kiss. His lips were so tender. He probably exfoliated. Good boy. They were tender with an unsuspected roughness that was turning on worthy. He smelled rich and felt warm. Was this real life?

Puhlease moment, never end.

When Damien pulled away, it was queer. Well, literally. But, odd queer. Toddy didnt wake up. It wasn't a dream or a fantasy. Wow, this was making him all dizzy. Things like this only hapen to Katherine Heigel and Jennifer Aniston. Not Toddy St. James. He doesn't get the romance or the happy ending. He was the side kick who watched nearby with a martini and a box of tissue. Not this time. Not right now. Not with Damien. With Damien, Toddy was someone special. They were special.

"I've wanted to do that since the day I met you."

It would have spared so much if he had just done it then! Ah well. No sense in holding a grudge now.

Blinking rapily, Toddy was attempting to find his breath. Wasn't really working out, but who needed to breathe anyway? If he was Damien it did not matter. A little shaken but gladly stirred, Toddy smiled with an open mouth, still feeling the tingling delights left on his lips, and looked up at him.

"Well, baby, you've just opened a whole new can of glitter. Because you're mine now, and..."

Toddy's arms snaked around Damien's waist that was in front of him. Pulling himself to a standing position, he kept his body up agaisnt his, feeling their heaving chests beat against one another.

"You're mine for the taking."

It was Toddy St. James' turn to take those sweet lips.

And he did.


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Old 07-14-2014 at 10:17 PM
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Bo Robinson

It was the most important question of Bo’s life, or at least that’s what it always seemed like to her, (drumroll please)… What to wear?

Okay maybe that wasn’t as important a question as how to bring world peace or end world hunger or all that philospical man’s-inhumnity-to-man stuff. But those really weren’t her most pressing concerns at this point in her life. Right now it more often than not boiled down to the apparent lack of anything in her closet appropriate for that exact right “look” that she was striving to achieve at that moment. Which was not to say that her closet didn’t have plenty to offer. But let the record state that she wasn't your typical 'daddy's spoiled princess' brand of clothes' horse. She was an aspiring fashion designer who was supporting herself as a seamstress. Lack of clothes was never her problem. Lack of the right clothes was her perpetual misfortune. Tonight that question was all the more pressing as she was headed out to interview for yet another job to support her textile addiction. Okay… in fairness it wasn’t really a job interview. That usually implied some more formal, like an appointment or at the very least for the management of a particular establishment to have any idea who you were or that you were coming. But those were minor technicalities that she would worry about later. Right now she had a portfolio’s worth of idea that were dying to burst forth from her iPad to the stage of the fabulous Moulin Rouge. She had come to a show last month as one of the must see places in her budding love affair with the City of Light, and had been so inspired she had missed a few nights sleep at her sketch book and computer trying to bring forth all of her ideas before she lost them. And though a lack of self-confidence (at least when it came to her designs were concerned) on her part had never been a problem, this time she was sure they was no way they could say no.

Back to more important matters. So how did Bo answer her own age old question? That’s fairly obvious, to her at least. What does one wear to a world famous swanky caberet? Well they doll themselves up like a 50’s house wife of course! Does that seem counter-intuitive to you? Well then you obvious aren’t privy to the clever cunning of a woman like Bo Robinson. This place was famous in both legend and film as a house of tasteful skin baring. It made sin tantalizingly close and obtainable. So how do you stand out? In the exact manner that Bo was most comfortable, by not breaking but shattering convention and embracing contradiction. There was plenty of glitz, glamour, seduction, and skin to show in her designs. But besides that what she wanted to be remembered when she left was her herself. And to do that she didn’t need to show more skin, she needed to show more class and creativity. At least that was what she was reminding herself as she stood outside the manager’s office door that she had managed to slink through the back hallways to find. With her large purse containing her iPad tucked under arm she bounced her pin curled hair with her free hand and took a deep breath, smoothing the front of her navy blue polka-dot dress with its wide belted thin waist giving way to the bouncy bouffant skirt and kicked out her black, patent leather ankle strapped heels. Look achieved? Check. “I am Bo Robinson, and no one is going to change my life but me,” she whispered to herself to ramp up her confidence and beat back the nagging grumbling of nerves. “So what are you waiting for kid,” she prodded herself as she lifted her hand to knock, “get your ass in there and change it!” She rapped smartly on the wood of the door and out of politeness waited a full three count before turning the handle to crack the door open and calling as she let herself into the office, “Mr. Bolitar? My name is Bo Robinson and you are going to be very happy to have met me.”




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