“Chummy? I suppose i can give it a go,” He agreed, glancing discreetly over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the aforementioned ex-wife. She was incredibly beautiful, almost intimidatingly so, and he was suddenly much less willing to get in between whatever loose ends the two had left between them.
What did chummy entail exactly? Finn hadn’t the slightest so, in an attempt to avoid making a fool of himself, he raised his own glass of champagne and downed the whole thing in one go. Thankfully it wasn’t anything stronger or he would’ve coughed up a storm at the burning sensation of alcohol sliding down his throat. “I like your suit, it suits you.” A pun. The author prided himself on his cheesy wordplay and he hoped it was enough to get a laugh or at least start a natural-looking conversation.
Man he needed to get out more.
Yes, his ex-wife was intimidating. About as intimidating as a six-week-old kitten with a teething problem or a Louis Vuitton bag without its insignia. It may be in part because of the critics’ own track record of intimidation, with his provocative essays and scathing reports of linguistic abuse, or the fact that when he didn’t suffer from resting bitch face he suffered from resting bedroom eyes—He didn’t find himself quaking in his boots. On the contrary, he was always thrilled to parry with the best of them.
The company he earned tonight was quiet. Thoughtful, perhaps, in the way that he oriented himself in the bar. Giulio’s brows raised as the stranger downed his champagne in one go, the bubby liquid disappearing in three, two, one as the man inhaled his final gulp. The critic wasn’t expecting much, a polite rejection if the guy was straight, a moral objection to the request if he wasn’t.
A pun wasn’t in the cards, but the man couldn’t help but let out a laugh—bright, surprised, and genuine—as the words sank in. He dragged a hand over his face, low chuckles escaping his lips as he desperately grasped for words.
“It suits me,” Giulio groaned, unable to contain himself. He shook his head, all toothy grins and embarrassment. “If you’re trying to flirt with me, I’m disappointed to inform you that it’s working. It shouldn’t.” He took a swig from his own glass, his smile beaming against its rim. He let his left hand idly rest on the other’s arm as his laughter settled, setting the drink down as he continued to speak.
“Now’s the time to tell me if you’d like to go along with my act. Otherwise, my hands are—” he brought his right hand up to his suit, tugging at the narrow length of cloth that wrapped around his collar. He whispered lowly, “tied.”
Reyna was there on behalf of one of her customers. She’d gotten an invite as a thank you. Fancy places weren’t exactly her norm, though she knew how to behave. She did seem mildly surprised at the man’s request, before she gave him a happy smile.
She laughed, leaning forward and resting her hand on his upper arm. She leaned forward again to murmur in his ear. “How chummy do you want? Because I’m just going to hit on you unless you correct me.”
Fancy was relative to who it was fancy to. Giulio, in more ways than one, felt right at home at the bar. The dim lights, the well-crafted drinks, the gorgeous company. His ex-wife’s contempt at the hand that now rested on his upper arm. Ah yes, all very familiar.
The critic huffed a laugh, shaking his head as his body leaned forward. He familiarized himself with the space between them, letting his eyes gauge the other’s expression as he tested the waters. “I hate to break it to you, but getting hit on by a gorgeous woman isn’t exactly a punishment for someone like me.” He let out a sly grin. “So by all means, feel free to be as chummy as you can handle. I may be chummy back if you ask nicely.”
Not that Eddie was much of a party goer but every once in a while he would enjoy some nice social interaction with others. His family was used to give their huge fancy parties almost every month but Eddie was never very social at them, he only started that social life thing after moving to his own apartment. That night he was just trying to enjoy some drinks while writing some stuff and at first, he looked to the man by his side and caught that smile, the man was attractive and Eddie kinda smiled back at him, by his own way. As he noticed the man talking to him, the first thing he did was to look up from his notes, searching the place for any good looking woman maybe looking at their direction but he couldn’t ind any. “Er… ok, do you want friendly interaction or firty interaction?” He murmured while yet doing his search with eyes. “Where is she, by the way? I can’t find anyone looking your way.”
In the time span in took to acquire the man’s attention, his ex-wife had been conveniently sequestered away behind a burly man in black. Burly man in black, aptly dubbed BMB now in the critic’s mind, wore a suit with shoulder pads that made him about four inches wider than he really was. His former spouse, a naturally slender woman with a penchant for subtlety, made no attempts at shifting from her position. Instead, her steely eyes merely looked over the man’s frame, almost entirely hidden from view.
Subtlety was a keyword for Giulio because subtle the stranger was not. His eyes darted across the room like he’d lost his mother at the supermarket. The critic responded with a bemused, if not pointed, look.
“Whatever comes naturally to you, tiger.” He affirmed, eyes steadying on the other. “—But easy on the soul searching if you would. She’s behind the man with five pounds of shoulder pads in his suit.” His gaze drifted to the set of paper in front of the other, a friendly lilt working its way through his features. “I’m not interrupting you, am I?”
Marco didn’t come out to this bar too often—too stuffy, way too many white people, and fifteen dollars worst Negroni he’d ever tasted? It was a hard pass. But the people watching? That was what kept him coming around. Marco was a total people person, he loved to gab—but loved to watch other people gab too. One of his favorite past-times was watching random people from across the bar and dreaming up a background, creating a totally new person based solely on what the person looked liked and observing the way they moved and acted. It was a fun little past time, and it made the god awful drinks a little bit bearable.
Marco had been completely in his own little world, nursing his Vieux Carré all the while—it was the only bearable drink this whole forsaken place. His gaze had entirely focused on the blonde woman from across the bar, her steely gaze in Marco’s vicinity: she was clearly staring at someone over this side, but it wasn’t Marco. He’d already come up with the facts in his head: her name was Carole—with an e, because mother wanted her to have a unique name. She twice married, twice divorced without any children, her biggest regret. She was a secretary at a doctor’s office, a son of a bitch with a sharp tone to any patient that dared to show up without their insurance card or co-pay, and no she will not reschedule your appointment if you’re more than five minutes late, too bad and so sad. Her hobbies including asking if she could speak to the manager and crocheting socks for veterans in Afghanistan. All in all, this was probably the saddest back story he’d ever given anyone in the whole time he’d been doing this, but it still was cracking him up regardless.
Bringing his glass up to his slips, Marco took a small sip—allowing the amber liquid to slip through his lips with a light hum as his attentions shifted towards the male that’d been standing next to him all this time with a coy smile on his face. “Ex-wife, huh?” Marco immediately remarked, his eyes flickering briefly towards the woman he’d been analyzing. That explained everything. When the other told him to act chummy, Marco gave the briefest shrug before plastering on his beaming grin—leaning inwards as he whispered in the other’s ear. “Tell me something that’ll make me laugh.”
Giulio was familiar with fantasies. After all, he crushed them more often than he cared to count. Literary critics shaped the cultural landscape. They took ideas, examined them, and determined whether or not they were worthy of being read by a distinguished set of audiences. The rule of thumb was that if something was accessible, it wasn’t intelligent. If something was intelligent, it wasn’t meant to be accessible. Only those shaped by the institution ever had a place in it, deep grooves and ridges burned into their spines by a legacy built from the suppression of ideas, the oppression of a people, and, above all, an aristocratic flair that set this circle so far above the rest. The likes of EL James, JK Rowling, and Suzanne Collins were left to the masses. Broomsticks and BDSM existed on the same playing field, but literature, capital ‘L’ literature, was something that mattered. Giulio took a distinct pleasure in telling bright eyed 20-somethings their stories didn’t matter. That Knopf wasn’t interested in some eclectic novel about a Buddhist merman who was a devout vegan. That even McSweeney’s, brainchild of Dave Egger’s alcoholism and manic depression, didn’t have the stomach for a grand love story between a grown man and his pet turtle—
Leslie, back when every day was a Coquette type of day, wrote stories about Buddhist mermen and tantalizing turtles. As far as fantasies went, the stranger’s wasn’t too far off the mark: twice married, twice divorced. Her first husband was a starry-eyed cuck that believed he could make a living off Spotify streams and street side performances. His Soundcloud consisted of five songs (each inspired by one of Leslie’s physical traits, like her long, blonde hair or her coffin shaped nails) spanning about twelve minutes each. He claimed it was a Dream Theater kind of thing, insisted that there was a market for it, never mind the fact that Dream Theater died its proverbial death in the early 2000’s alongside his withering bank account. Leslie, being the sensible woman she was, then met her second husband: an Italian literary critic who introduced her to all those shiny, glittering prizes. She was recruited by a modeling agent in 2008. They went to their first gala together in 2014. Giulio told her she was worth more than Franzia, and she believed him. He never wrote songs about her lips. He told his wife her stories didn’t matter—out of love, of course, but love looked different on everyone. He couldn’t bear to see her fail, so he watched her fall out of love with life instead.
No kids. Lots of regrets.
Tragedies sold very well in the literary market. In that way, Giulio was a great businessman but a bottom shelf husband. Leslie didn’t crochet socks for veterans in Afghanistan, but she did love to ask for managers. If her life was miserable, then the natural next step was to make someone else’s just the same. Parallelism. Juxtaposition. The critic liked these terms, they grazed against him familiarly like the soft edges of a page. His fingers absently tapped against the bar countertop as he recounted these memories, dark eyes watching as the stranger took a sip of amber cool. Vieux Carré, if he had to put a guess to it, a New Orleans classic. A coy smile and good taste. Giulio didn’t need to be a critic to spot that.
His expression shifted as the stranger’s voice brushed against his ear, smug bemusement giving way to his thinly veiled excitement. It buzzed and danced beneath his skin. He took a sip from his own glass—Dom Perignon, his dry red of choice— and set it gingerly onto the bar top. His free hand, now stilled, found the side of his own face, his body leaning closer as his hand cupped secretively over their mouths. He shot a glance at his ex-wife, then to the stranger, and deadpanned a line he could only regard as pure comic genius:
“Her mother’s so stupid, she goes to Barney’s Rooftop Deck Restaurant for lunch and orders a niçoise salad and calls it a nik-coy salad.”
He wasn’t sure at first if the words were meant for him or for another one of his colleagues scattered about the place. It made sense either way, really, as much as he could figure. And so, with a tall glass of the finest sparkling cider - he was strictly sober at these affairs - he raised an eyebrow in the gentleman’s direction. When a response didn’t come, and the man continued to look his way, he put two and two together. Or better yet, one and one.
It didn’t matter that he was painfully not intoxicated, or that this was a fairly prestigious gala directly benefitting the arts around Westwood, his company and studio included.
No. What mattered here was the drama, and that the company was easy enough on the eyes. One hand fell to the other man’s hip, closing the distance between their bodies like it was second nature.
“I do kisses - lips, cheek, forehead - but those’re extra.”
The other had a distinctly wild look to him. Maybe it was in his eyes or the way he carried himself, some kind of youthful vigor that Giulio himself once embodied. Oxford was all about structure. Don’t walk on the grass, don’t dine in the wrong hall, don’t piss off the women who cleaned your bedsheets. Life was a hamster wheel and the students kept running, running, until they spun off course and landed headfirst into trouble. The distinct buzz of alcohol and sweat, the way sticky skin clung to dense fabric. The critic felt the other’s hands find his hips, his own reaching out to envelop the younger man’s waist.
Yes, he decided, the stranger reminded him of trouble. The problem was, he was trouble too. His lips tugged into his signature half-smile, a bemused mix of intrigue and surprise. “Yeah?” Giulio challenged, head cocking as his eyes met the other’s. “And how do I know your services are worth paying for?” He shot a look over his shoulder, dark eyes finding his ex-wife’s contemptuous form. The man chuckled under his breath.
“Something tells me this isn’t your first rodeo. I’m impressed by your professionalism."
“Hmm?” Jax tried not to look at the ex and instead was talking with the other man. “If you say so…” The man then leaned in for a kiss, wanting it to look very real for his ex to see. Though, he had to admit, the man was very sexy and Cal wouldn’t mind having him for a night at least.
Well. That certainly wasn’t what he meant. This was typical New York behavior, sure, but a small town in Colorado? Life was a box of chocolates, he supposed. Giulio allowed it, if not only for the sake of authenticity. When he pulled away, he uttered lowly, “Awful bold of you. Usually I demand to be taken out to dinner first. You do this with every John you meet?”
This was perhaps the only moment where the thought ‘I should have stayed home.’ crossed Willow’s mind. She was never a very convincing liar, it’s why she was never destined for certain professions. And in that moment she determined that this man had chosen the wrong person in the room, surely any one else could have gave him the flourishing act he seemed to be looking for. Pausing–her hesitation was clear, even though there was heavy doubt the ex-wife would approach, there was still a big enough chance. But still, despite the urge to just walk off, she lingered. “You should possibly get used to running into her in a town like this, and you won’t always find someone to stir up a little jealousy.”
“Possibly,” the man echoed, quirking a brow the stranger’s way as he observed the blonde’s fumbling. Not a natural liar indeed, that much was clear, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Not everyone could be perfect, after all. The divorce taught him as much. “But a man needs to have a hobby. Some of us like football. Others like long walks on the beach, watching TV, emotionally manipulating our former spouses. The usual.” He took a swig from his glass, his gaze drifting from the blonde before him to the blonde he was once married to. Their similarities were uncanny. Maybe he had a type.
“What do you like to do for fun, darling? I take it lying for strangers isn’t it. Admirable of you.”
· Job Occupation: Literary Critic, chief staff of writers for The New Yorker
A LITTLE MORE DETAIL
· Height: 5′10”
· Weight: 172 lbs
· Eye Color: Dark brown
· Hair Color: Dark brown
· Any distinguishing marks/birthmarks/scars: None.
· Tattoos: None (“Why put a bumper sticker on a Lamborghini?”)
· Piercings: None
· Three Positive Traits: Authoritative, witty, self-assured
· Three Negative Traits: Pretentious, judgmental, manipulative
HOME LIFE
· What is their relationship like with their parent(s)?: Their relationship is tense. Giulio’s parents were both narcissists that were more focused on their careers than their two children. Giulio makes an effort to have dinner with them monthly, but they don’t appear to have much in common.
· Any Siblings?: One, a younger brother named Cristian.
· Where did they grow up?: Uptown Manhattan, although he spent his 20’s studying at Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar.
· What was their economic class?: Haute bourgeoisie (so much money, he doesn’t have to answer in English).
· Did they have a good or bad childhood? Why?: It was an emotionally deprived childhood.
· Their favorite home memory: When he and Cristian were teenagers and threw house parties every weekend. They once knocked over an urn containing their grandma’s cremains, panicked, and filled it back up with dust from their vacuum cleaner. No one’s ever found out.
LOVE LIFE
· What’s their sexual orientation?: Bisexual
· What’s their bedroom status? (Dom, Sub, etc.): Dom
· Relationship status: Single
· How long have they been with their partner? (or single life): He’s been divorced for six months.
· What do they look for in a partner?: Giulio needs a partner that can keep up with him intellectually, socially, and sexually.
· What is their turn-offs in a person?: Ignorance, complacency, tactlessness.
· What is their turn-ons in a person?: Quick wit, drive, and taste.
THE FUTURE
· Where does your muse see themselves in 5 years?: Possibly back in New York. Possibly back at Oxford.
· Do they plan to live in Westwood for good? Or do they see travels in their plans?: No, Westwood is not permanent.
· Do they want to be married?: Never again.
· Do they want to have children?: Never.
· Where do they hope their career is in 5 years?: Exactly where it is. Giulio is content.
· Give us three items on their bucket list they hope to achieve in the next 3 years.: Own a bottle of Hennessy Beaute de Siecle Grande Champagne ($265,953), spend time in Dublin, publish his new collection of critical essays.
Danny was just minding his business—it’d be a long day down at his studio trying to get things ready for the grand opening, and honestly? He deserved a drink. He’d picked a bar out of random, though once he was inside, it was clearly a place where he was a little under dressed. He’d found a spot at the bar, ordering his usually whiskey—nursing it all the while before he’d eventually decide to call it quits and head home. Danny was minding his own business as another male caught his attention, quirking his brow at the other’s request. My ex-wife’s across the way. Act chummy with me. “You want me to pretend to laugh, like you said something fuckin’ hilarious?” Danny asked with a low murmur, not even giving the other male a chance to respond before letting out a natural chuckle, his free hand coming to rest on the other’s arm. He knew all about this game, and he figured this guy was probably wanting a bang for his buck. “You’re hilarious,” Danny crooned, his focus entirely on the guy in front of him—almost certain the guy’s wife was probably paying attention now.
The man’s ex-wife was, in fact, paying attention. She leaned into her seat, the corners of her mouth pulling into distaste as red lips met stilted glass. The critic could always tell what shade she was wearing. Her expressions were most telling, even in the dark. When she was playful, it was Lancome’s “Nuit & Jour”. Casual was “Coquette”. Vindictive was “Caprice”—it was a caprice kind of night, that he could be certain of. Giulio’s smile widened into a sly grin.
The stranger wasn’t too shabby at the act, his free hand meeting the crook of Giulio’s arm as they fell into the games. He laughed right along with him, his dark eyes steadying on the other’s features as he observed him under the low, yellow bar light. He was a bit younger than he was. Thirty, maybe, with the attitude to pair alongside it. Thirty with an attitude. Medium rare wagyu steak with a dry red. It worked for some people.
“I am hilarious,” Giulio echoed, his voice giving way to a smirk. “And handsome. Well-read. Many would say great company. Would you like to keep adding onto the list, or am I doing a good enough job myself?”
That was the issue with divorces. You fall in love, you plan a life together, you start a life together, and then one of you decides you’re bored. Maybe it starts with the nine to five thing, or maybe it’s the way dinner becomes a rotating menu of the same seven dishes your wife stopped seasoning properly. Himalayan pink salt turned into iodized. Red, white, and green peppercorns turned into rectangular black flakes. Somehow, the world had forgotten what the hell oregano was. A shame.
Giulio grimaced at the thought, the stem of his wine glass perched between his middle and ring finger, palm upturned. He looked over the rim, his eyes meeting his ex-wife’s as they exchanged glances from across the bar. She was a blonde vixen. He was a brunette egomaniac. They were always destined for failure.
That was the issue with divorces: moving to a new state together but then divorcing in it soon after. She hadn’t moved back to New York. He hadn’t either. They were both too stubborn—it was always about the games.
Destined for victory, Giulio fixed his attention on the stranger before him, a coy smile tugging at his lips. He raised his glass.
“My ex-wife’s across the way,” he motioned with a cock of his head. “Act chummy with me.”
andulkaphoto
theartofmadeline
prguitarman
baratheonpilled
ellievsbear
areudirty
