Post by BEVAN KRIS GRAY on Jul 22, 2011 22:36:39 GMT -6
( bevankrisgray )
( behindthescenes )
( behindthescenes )
name: Bevan Kris Gray
nicknames:
age:
gender:
birthday: April 10th, 1986
sexual orientation: Straight as a board.
ethnicity: English
( theexterior )
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face: Wojtek O. ( Polish model )
eyes: My eye colour is a dark green.
hair: Dark blonde.
distinguishing features:
appearance:
Skin and Voice My skin is in the middle: being English, I am on the lighter side. However, I am not so pale that my skin colour is the first thing you notice about me, and neither am I incredibly tanned. As surely you can tell by now, I speak with a noticeable British accent - I have lived in city of London all my life. Though, I have worked with a few Americans before; to me, they all sound the same, even though I've been told there are multiple inflections throughout the country, same with us Brits. Since I am well past puberty, my voice is even and has a deeper tone.
Hair My hair is a dark blonde colour, and sometimes looks sort of coppery in the light. In primary school, my aunt always kept my hair cut properly short, but now that I make the decisions, I've let it grow out; and it does, sticking out all over the place. I have natural curls in my hair that can really wind me up on a bad hair day. On one of those aforementioned days, I usually just make a selection from my plethora of beanies and caps. If I'm meeting with a special client, I'll part it at the side and slick it back, but otherwise I pretty much don't have a hair-care routine, unless you count shampooing in the shower. Thankfully, none of my hair has begun graying or receding - the males in my family have a history of keeping their hair long into life, so I'm thankful I inherited that trait.
Face I have a rather defined bone structure, and a strong chin; my nose, Aunt Violetta told me, is the only piece of my physical appearance I have inherited from my mother. I have never liked the feeling of facial hair, so I always keep myself clean-shaven. My eyes are set into my face, and are a dark green colour; a few different clients have told me they are jealous of them. Personally, I don't see much in the colour of eyes, but in the expressions within them. My eyes are heavily lidded, and my eyelashes are thick and dark. I also have thick black eyebrows, and dimples I have never really cared for. My smile changes my entire face - I suppose it is up to you whether the change is positive or negative. I do not have any redness or discolouring in my skin; when I am nervous or embarrassed, however, my face feels hot and a slight rosy colour tints my cheeks. I have a strong chin, probably one of my most defining features, and I had braces as a lad, so my teeth are white and straight—never had a cavity, I am proud to say. (This is surprising, because I have quite the sweet tooth). My neck is averagely long, and my ears are average, as well. I have full lips, with a pinkish tint. Being a straight male, I have never worn makeup or beauty products in my entire life; however, I do know a bit about women's makeup, because it can have a big impact on how the entire model's photograph—God, saying that makes me sound like a total bendo. It is important to my business, but I certainly will not be flaunting that knowledge around. You won't tell anyone, right?
Extremities My fingers are thin and long, and though I have never gone to a salon or anything, I keep my nails clean and really short. The only rings I have ever worn were my wedding and engagement rings with Selia, and I have only recently begun to keep those in my dresser. I wear an expensive watch I inherited from my father, and a thin twine ankle bracelet I got from one of my aunt's students a few years back. My legs are long and muscled, and it feels more comfortable to wear tighter jeans—I have been told I can pull them off. My feet are thin, but long, a shoe size of about 9 UK. I do not believe the (myth) about the implications behind a man's shoe size, but I just happen to follow the rule: my shoe size is slightly larger than average.
Clothing To the studio, I wear nice shirts, trousers, and sometimes tight-fitting sweaters. If I have an appointment with a special client, I will wear a suit without the jacket—so basically shirt and tie. I do, in fact, know how to tie my own tie. If I am going to a film or just out with some mates, I wear darker-coloured blue jeans and a tighter-fitting t-shirt. Common theme with my wardrobe: I do not like clothing to be loose or baggy. I cannot even deal with loose underclothes; all my underwear is boxer-briefs. (Though you probably did not need to know that.) When I go running every morning, I wear basketball shorts—the only clothing I feel okay with being looser around my body. I also wear running shoes and keep my phone in my pocket—I don't wear a shirt because the morning breeze just feels too great against my skin. When I sleep, I pretty much always sleep unclothed: again, I do not have a roommate that could be annoyed by it, or a girl; Neap always roams the apartment at night, so that is never an issue. Only when it is cold in the winter will the silly tom try to sleep on my chest or at my side—in which case I'd already be wearing long sleep pants and a shirt, anyway.
Overall, I do not spend much money on clothing; I save most of my profit for when business is low or to pay the bills. The only material things I invest in are cameras and equipment, my laptop, buying music, my phone, and quality cologne.
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( theinterior )
[/color] I have a vivid passion for photography, and I have spent my entire life perfecting my art. I have a studio in London, where I am available for pretty much any picture-related need. I have done a few weddings, and have had a few editorial shots featured in various publications. Not world-famous, but I'm working my way up.
personality:
• I am quiet, though that doesn't mean I am shy. I have never been one to just strike up a conversation with a stranger—especially one of the female persuasion. However, once you begin talking to me, I have no problem coming up with a reply; I am just not as entertained by the sound of my own voice as some blokes seem to be. When I am nervous, I tend to ramble a bit off-topic, or say things I do not mean. Once you and I become more familiar, however, I start to talk a lot more and might even crack a lame joke or two. Not that you are guaranteed to laugh.
• I have a soft spot for children, and they are beautiful to photograph; I love the innocence that shines through in every capture of a child. Eve since my marriage with Selia, I thought children of my own would be a part of our future together; however, I am not so sure about things now. If I am ever blessed with another wife and kids, I have always hoped for a son—though a baby girl would be just as magical. I have always loved animals, especially cats; I hold no fear of spiders, snakes, or badgers—though I am terrified of horses.
• I have never been one to jump to conclusions, or to make any rash decisions. I am rather logical, and I look over every decision carefully, reviewing the positive and negative effects before executing an action. I keep close track of my money, and I always make sure I have enough to pay for the bills on my studio and apartment before I spend on anything frivolous. I have always had a knack with reading people's expressions; I can see emotion clearly in body movements and gazes. Rather than be the center of attention, I would much rather fade into the background, where things are simple and easy.
• I am uncertain in my faith, and the question of religion is always a struggle for me. I attended church every Sunday as a child with my aunt, but the preacher never made much sense to me. Meeting Selia changed me; my faith in God grew, and I understood so much more about His word. But her passing...I know that He exists, because Selia was too beautiful a person to just disappear. I was baptized when I was twenty-one, and I volunteered a lot with the events at our church. But if God is truly merciful, why does he seem to find so much humour in screwing with my life? Selia would have told me He is just testing my faith, but now, I don't think I have any faith left to test. [/ul]
likes:
dislikes:
strengths:
weaknesses:
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( thehistory )
parents:
siblings:
other family:
history:
I was born about a week before my mother got the phone call. I was born about a week before my mother got the phone call. April 10th, 1986 - I was a healthy infant, born right on schedule. My parents had tried to have children before, but their first child, Carlin Peter, was a stillborn, and Emilia Nevada past soon after they left the hospital. My siblings are buried in the cemetery that also holds both sets of my grandparents, who all passed away due to old age before I was born. My parents, Peter Gray and Cynthia Weathers, had grown up together. Their parents were family friends, and neighbors as well. My aunt, my mother's sister, had told me their history; how Cynthia was in love with Peter from the start. They were close friends, attending the same primary school, and even after they attended separate private schools they stuck together like glue. My father was ambitious; he had always been interested in the Royal Navy, and had his heart set on that course of life. My mother was a home-maker; she wanted lots of kids and her only job to be raising them and keeping the house tidy. My father didn't seem to want children - he wouldn't be home much to see them, anyway, but my mother was beautiful, and at least some small part of him must of loved her, because he refused to leave her and agreed that they would at least try.
My father worked his way up the ranks, becoming an officer rather quickly. He sent checks home to his wife, and he would try and come home when he could. My mother found she was pregnant in the summer of 1981; she was twenty-two years old, then. It took time, but she got word to my father - who returned with a very reserved letter of congratulations, and that he would try and come home to visit the baby soon. Aunt Violetta always told me my father was a quiet man, a strong and frigid presence; she has also told me we have the same kind of thoughtful expression. My mother had a rather easy pregnancy, but she was devastated when Carlin was delivered. The news to my father had gotten lost in the mail, and when he finally did return home six months later he had bought a new crib and a bouquet of flowers for my mother. That was when the depression started; it was only after she found herself pregnant again that she returned to her cheerful self. Emilia was buried alongside her brother, and by then my mother was on the verge of a breakdown. My father took a small leave of absence, and took care of her at home for a while; she cheered right back up when I was conceived. A sick sort of way to live, if you think about it; my father left abroad, and my mother, Aunt Violetta told me, was "just as perky as always".
I was the first and only one of their children to survive two weeks; my mother named me "Bevan", which means "young soldier" - for surviving what my siblings had not. Violetta told me she loved me the most; she was so protective, and wouldn't let anyone else hold me for more than a minute. She said I was a beautiful baby, and their friends would always remark on the similarity between my father and I. Those were the good days, my aunt had told me; then the phone call came.
My father and his ship were attacked by pirates at sea; and not the Captain Hook you see on the tele. These pirates had guns, not plastic swords, and they killed my father and the crew, took their ship, possessions, and clothes, and left their bodies to rot at sea. They were found a week later, and my mother got a phone call expressing the Navy’s deepest consolations, and that Peter Gray's body was being shipped back to England for his burial. I never liked Peter Pan.
After his death, my mother became even more protective of me. I lived with her in our small house in London until I was in year three of school; the first year, Aunt Violetta told me, she took great care of me. My mother kept our home spotless, and I was always healthy and happy. She invited friends over often, and they took their children along to play with me; I was cooed over and tickled, and Aunt Violetta said she almost never heard me cry. About a year after my father’s death, it finally hit her that he would never come back. She had refused to see his body at the funeral, and instead they had him concealed in his coffin throughout the ceremony. I suppose it was because she was always so use to him leaving for months that it didn’t seem like anything had really changed. My mother had convinced herself that he would soon come home, as he always does; but this time, when he didn’t, things did change. Aunt Violetta said it started with her diet. She stopped eating, and began losing an unhealthy amount of weight every week. Then she had mood changes; she would be extremely happy one day, and repressed and saddened the next. My aunt moved in down the street with us; at the time she had told my mother that she had received a better job offer – which, she did – but the truth was that she was worried about her sister, and even more about me. My mother had always smoked, but now she was going through a pack a day; she started bringing alcohol into the house, and would sit in front of the tele and spend her evenings drinking. She stopped giving me baths; stopped changing my diapers. Violetta came to our house daily, to clean me up and rock me to sleep. She would keep me over at her house as long as my mother would allow; once, on a particularly gruesome night when my mother was hopelessly drunk, she didn’t even notice my absence until two days later, when she stormed into Violetta’s home screaming about calling the police. Her sister took her to the doctor, and Cynthia was diagnosed with depression. My aunt invited my mother and I to live with her, but she refused; I would cry every time that Aunt Violetta would take me back to my mother’s home. Once, when I had accidentally called my aunt “mother”, my biological mother screamed at her and demanded she left the house. That was when things turned; my aunt went to court, and fought my mother for custody. Violetta would tell me later that it was hardest decision she had ever made; she had never believed in tearing children away from their parents – especially if one is all they have – but she truly believed that my mother was not stable enough to give me the proper care. The evidence stacked up, and my aunt was given full custody over me.
We moved to the other side of London, away from my mother in Barnes, and I attended school, took regular baths, and was finally toilet-trained. Violetta had always been my real mother; ever since I began to live with her, I called her “mum” and my biological mother “Cynthia” – she didn’t deserve such an endearing title. My childhood was rather normal after that; I attended nursery and primary school. I received gifts – always new cameras or camera equipment – for birthdays and Christmas. My aunt brought me to church every Sunday, and we said a prayer before every meal. Blaire actually attended the same nursery as me; but we were too young, and I was too shy, to remember her, or to talk to her even if I had noticed her at the time. When I entered year nine, I was accepted into Bales Private School, and attended for the rest of my school years. I was never the most popular, nor was I a complete dork. Never the smartest, or the best at sports; but I was also never the dumbest, or the worst player. I wasn’t a ladies’ man, but I did have a few relationships throughout school. I was a good boy, and never caused trouble with my aunt; I didn’t smoke, I didn’t drink, I didn’t have sex, and women only broke up with me because they thought I was too dull or didn’t pay enough attention to them. I wasn’t the loudest, or the shiest; I was always middle, and always average.
My biological mother moved to Ireland when I was eleven, and I’ve never had anything to do with her. I had heard something about my mother having other children, but I’ve never looked into it. When I was eighteen, I finished school and my aunt was going to help me pay for university. My father – who had written his will right after he entered the navy – had left me a sum of money that I inherited after turning eighteen. I’ve used this money to pay for school, and to open up my studio when I was nineteen, and I was accepted into London College of Communication, where I majored in photography and minored in graphic design. I had an apartment with a roommate, and my aunt moved to a small cottage home in Barnes. She teaches year-one children at public school. All I did in college was work; I was able to graduate at twenty-two, and now I’m growing my business and gradually becoming more well-known. My work has been featured in a few magazines and used by various businesses; but I’m not world-famous (or country-famous, for that matter).
It took me awhile to realize that I loved her so much more than she had ever loved me. Don’t misunderstand me, though: I loved Selia, and I know that loved me, too. We dated for about nine months before I proposed; we were engaged for only two months before getting married. We were married for only a year, but our relationship was something that made me feel like I had known her for a lifetime. You’ve had that experience with someone, haven’t you? We didn’t really enjoy the same things – she liked to surf and keep up with the elections in America, I had never been to a beach in my life and didn’t care for politics – but we really connected, something that I can’t really explain. She use to joke that we were a match made in Heaven, and maybe we were. We were opposites in many ways; she had a great relationship with her parents, and would call them at least once every week, while I...well, you know that story. Like I told you before, I met her when she came from America to try and get a modeling job in London. She did get that job, and she was able to stay in the city for about three months. We went on a few dates, and (I feel silly saying this) but we were “officially boyfriend and girlfriend” after about two weeks. She was like no other girl I had ever dated before; in fact, for about a year until I met Selia, I was beginning to think that I should play a different field. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never felt attracted to men, but while delving into fashion photography, most models and their mangers tend to assume your gay, so it wasn’t like the people I usually worked with would think me odd.
Anyway, dating Selia certainly evaporated any cloudy thoughts in my head about my sexuality. She was drop-dead gorgeous, and I hadn’t felt more attracted to any woman before, physically or emotionally. She had a certain presence about her; she commanded a room by simply entering it. I had always thought she would have made an excellent lawyer, or maybe a politician – some sort of position of leadership. She was a very strict Christian, and the only physical contact we had before our wedding night was a kiss on the lips – and even those didn’t last nearly as long as I would have preferred. She talked about God a lot, and tried to get me to come to church with her on Sundays. I did, and at first I didn’t understand a lot of what the preacher was saying; she’d explain it to me afterwards, and I finally began to grasp that little thing those sermons always talked about—faith. I began to pray even when Selia wasn’t with me, and it was the happiest time I had ever had in my entire life.
She was able to find work in the city, and stayed long after she should have returned to the US. She saved up her money, and rented a small apartment a few blocks away from mine; I had always been frank in inviting her to live with me until she settled things, but she had always been frank with me that wasn’t what God planned for a man and woman’s relationship before marriage. I told her we could rearrange the room so she could have her own bedroom, but she said she didn’t want us to tempt ourselves, and give into that temptation; and she was right – I probably would have if things had gone that route. It was at that time that I realized I couldn’t bare the thought of her returning to America; I couldn’t bare the thought of her ever leaving me again. Selia had always enjoyed the fancy things, so I had an expensive dinner at her favorite restaurant and then walked her down to the park that we had first conversed the day we met. I was incredibly nervous, and had retched in the loo at the restaurant. I had rehearsed my words for weeks before proposing, and had saved up my money for the ring. When we got to the bench, we talked about small things, and I remember her asking me if I was feeling sick; she was wearing a beautiful blue dress that night. I took a deep breath, forgetting everything that I had memorized, and got down on one knee, holding her hands and told her what I was really feeling: that I loved her, didn’t ever want her to leave, and I wanted nothing more than to call her my wife. She got teary-eyed and said yes before I even finished the question: Selia Kaylee Moon, will you marry – Yes, yes! Even after our engagement, she didn’t move in with me; I remember the first thing she did after I proposed was call and squeal about it with her American friends. We had a rather large traditional wedding at her church in London – her parents and a few friends flew in from the US, and then a lot of her new acquaintances from modeling in Europe came, too. We had a one-week honeymoon in a small resort on the coast. Like I said before, I had never made love to any woman before; so our wedding night – if a bit awkward at first – was something special. Only after we were married did she pack her things and move in with me: Mr. and Mrs. Bevan K. Gray.
Selia had become more established in London; throughout our marriage together, we were invited to many parties and social events, and I bought an expensive tux for the first time in my life. My business grew significantly; she would promote my work to the magazine editors and fashion designers she worked with, and we were both saving our money for buying a home. After we were married for about seven months, she started talking about a baby; we had both decided that we wanted to have children, but I wanted to wait one more year to make sure I had a stable source of income before we started trying; unlike my own mother, I wanted to be fully prepared to provide for my own children, and not rely on other people to do it for me.
I was twenty-two when I graduated university; soon after that, Selia began to talk about wanting to move to America. She was homesick; she missed her friends and her family. I thought Americans were ridiculous – I remember making some remark about how silly it was that they had their steering wheels on the left side, and she got really angry. That was our only real fight; she started sleeping on the couch, but I wasn’t going to let her win, so I started not coming home at all, and instead blew up an air mattress in the back room of my studio. This lasted about a week; I came back to the apartment one night as she was packing her things. She told me that she needed a break, and was going to stay with parents for a bit; she had already bought a plane ticket back to the US state of California. That was probably the biggest mistake of my life – I let her go without saying anything. I didn’t sleep that entire night, cursing myself for being so daft. Like I had said when I proposed, I just couldn’t imagine a life without her. It took me five days to realize this, and I woke up in the middle of the night as soon as I realized how idiotic I was being. It was early in the morning for me; late in the evening for her. As soon as I got a hold of her, I apologized for everything and told her I loved her. If moving closer to her family was what she wanted, I said, then I was willing to move to America with her. I hadn’t heard her so excited in months; she had already been looking at houses, and – once our money was converted to American dollars – we would probably have enough to buy a small house down the street from her parents. She had to leave after that; her and a few friends were going out to dinner. The last thing I ever said to her was I love you, Selia; she told me she loved me too, and she would come back to London as soon as she could get a plane ticket. I told her I’d be waiting for her to come home; she hung up before I did.
The drink didn't keep me drunk long enough, and the smoke was only useful in making me cough. Like my mother, I too got a call. It wasn’t from the government, though; Selia’s mother was the one that called me. Her mother, sobbing and sobbing; she told me that when Selia had gone out with her friends, she had left the restaurant for a minute to grab something from her car, and hadn’t been seen since. I departed from the airport two hours later; and arrived in America very early that evening. That was the first time I had ever left England; I met her sister at the airport, and she drove me to her parent’s home. I was interviewed by the police: asked about our last phone conversation, where I thought she might have gone, and if she ever had any thoughts of suicide or suffered from depression. They had a search out, and I offered to help, but the police declined and said that only professionals could assist. I didn’t know what to do with myself; I was a worrying wreck and would leap to my feet and sprint to the phone whenever it rang. Three days later, they found her body.
She had been raped and killed; her body disposed of in a dumpster fifty miles from the restaurant. I hadn’t cried when my father died; I didn’t whimper when my aunt fought my mother over me in court; sad movies or sad stories don’t phase me, and I was only solemn and saddened when my aunt past away. But Selia’s death…losing my wife, I locked myself in the back room of her mother’s house and wept, truly wept. I stayed in there for hours, until my eyes were dry and itchy; Selia’s mother will tell you that she found me sitting with my knees pulled up to my chest in the corner of the room, on the floor. I don’t remember that much; only that the movies where the widower blubbers like a baby – the dramas that I would make fun of Selia for watching, because no real man would ever cry like that – finally made sense to me.
I returned to London after her funeral; I gave most of her possessions to her parents, and to her family. Her mother has her wedding dress; I have our wedding rings, that piece of paper with her phone number, her watch, an old tube of her pink lipstick, and a love letter I had written to her when we dating but was too scared to send all in a small box in my dresser drawer. Without Selia, I was lost; I didn’t know who to turn to, didn’t know what to do or where to go. My business decreased drastically; I spent a lot of time in bars, or at home, drinking. I started smoking, too, going through a pack of day. All faith in God that I had begun building was destroyed; it was a foul, foul game that the Lord was playing with my life. Selia would say that God loves everyone, sinners and saints alike – but I thought He was just cruel to me. Those dark days only got worse once they found guilty the man who had murdered my wife.
WARNING: this section discusses some mature content.
Mr. Simon Mort – that was his name, the name of the only person whose blood I wanted on my hands. He was easily found guilty, his trial held in America – there were fingerprints, and the thirty-year-old man had a history of disrespect and abuse to women. Being in the state of California, he wasn’t given the death sentence, but instead would serve a lifetime in jail. It was then that I became angry; I had never hated anyone so much in my life. I registered two shotguns and kept them in my apartment; I fantasized about finding this man in his jail cell and shooting him dead. He didn’t deserve to live; he deserved to die a slow, painful death and to rot forever in Hell. I hoped that he regretted his actions, and I hoped he would regret hurting my wife every day of his life. I contacted the jail that he was sentenced to and scheduled a visiting time; I told the police that Selia and I were Christians, and she would have wanted me to forgive the man for what he did – which, she probably would have, but I wasn’t nearly as devoted as she was. I traveled back to America and visited the state prison.
I met with him in a secure room; his hands were in handcuffs, and two policemen were just outside the door – they had told me to yell if I needed assistance. We sat and looked at each other from across the table; he had a smile – a smile – on his face. First, I introduced myself, and told him that I was the husband of the woman he tortured and murdered. He laughed; laughed. “What do you want, Mr. Gray? Clearly you are not here to forgive me, as you so convincingly lied to the American police – that’s a crime, too, you know.” He was English, too; a crooked smile across his lips.
“I want you to know that I hate you, and I will continue to hate you every day that you sit in your jail cell rotting, and I’ll hate you after you die, and I pray every day that God sends you to Hell.” I said. He wasn’t phased; he leaned calmly back in his chair, propping his feet up on the desk and placing his upheld hands behind his head. “That isn’t all you want to know, Mr. Gray.” Mort replied coolly. He leaned forward suddenly, his face inches from mine.
“You want to know why I did it; how I did it. Did you want to comfort yourself in knowing your name was the last that she screamed before she died? Because it was, so be comforted; no, she clearly was not having an affair – she was definitely in love with you.” I wanted to kill him; I wanted to kill him. He told me that they had actually been talking for some time; that she had known him from church; that he had been attending their church in a sort of “soul-search” and they had discussed philosophy together many times before she left for London. She was gone for years, of course, though she had said she’d only be gone for a few months; “I was jealous of you, Mr. Gray. I had developed some feelings for her, too; but I was too old and too out-of-place to ask out such a fit bird – not that that stopped me from fantasizing about her. That’s probably something we both have in common, don’t we?” He grinned. “Except those dreams are something that she willingly experienced with you, while with me I had to use a little bit of force…” He told me that he had “kept tabs” on her, and found out when she had returned to America – though then he learned that she was already married. “I have friends, Mr. Gray, a group of friends who would have done much, much worse to her had I let them get their dirty paws on her; you never would have seen her body at all – the left-overs, perhaps, if the police did a very careful search. You should thank me, really, that she died so peacefully.” He described to me the details of her death, a story that I will never, never repeat. Well, once he got to the part where she pleaded for him to let her go, I was done.
I leaped across the table and tackled him to the ground; I slammed his head against the tiled floor and punched both his eyes, and his nose. I pounded him against the floor and wished I had snuck in a knife, or some sort of weapon. It took both watch guards to pull me away, and even then I still struggled; Mort – with eyes blackened and his face ragged and bloody, his nose broken – simply laughed. I spent a day or two in jail for attacking the man – but it was worth it, and my only regret was that I didn’t have enough time to strangle him dead before the police stopped me.
Mort called out to me I was escorted away: “It was nice talking to you, Mr. Gray. When I get out – because, believe me, I will get out – I’ll be sure to pay you a visit like you have so nicely done for me.”
So a year past; that was the loneliest time of my life. I wasted my money on alcohol and cigarettes; I had a friend that dealt in drugs, and I tried that for a while, but toxins like that only succeeded in keeping me in the loo retching all the following day—and the high never lasted as long as my friend always promised. Looking back, I’m thankful that the few injections I had weren’t enough to get me addicted. After Selia past away, I couldn’t stay in the same house – I couldn’t sleep in that same empty bed. I moved, renting a new apartment closer to my studio, close enough for me to walk every day. Being outside walking helped me cope; getting fresh air forced all the thoughts out of head, and I could focus on silly things, like the color of the sky or the way that birds fly in perfect formation. Night is always the worst – I have nightmares, horrible nightmares. And if they weren’t nightmares, they are dreams of my memories with my wife – and somehow those always seemed worse off.
Like I told you before, I bought Neap right after Selia died. This is going to sound odd and a tad embarrassing, but having a cat around my house has helped with the grief. The Abyssinian is always excited to see me when I come home, and I take reassurance in the fact that I always have him to cheer me up when I come home at night. I spoil the old cat, and usually buy him some ice cream from a road-side stand on my walk back from work. Adopting Neapolitan made me realize that there were a lot of things that I had always loved but Selia didn’t, and that I didn’t do a lot of things because Selia didn’t want to. I was the one who took her places, bought her gifts, and always told her I loved her first. I had always loved Selia more than she had ever loved me.
So I'm healing, slowly.
( &etcetera )
[/b] She had never really cared for cats, but I loved them; they're incredibly smarter and more sophisticated than dogs or rabbits. It was about a month after her burial that I adopted the Abyssinian; and let me tell you, this breed is not cheap. I can't really figure it out, but I've always felt attracted to this certain breed; I tried to talk Selia into buying one, and she had always teased me that I was an Abyssinian in a past life. Anyway, I researched it on the internet and found that there was a family who had some pure-breeds up for adoption. I thought, what the hell? and I called them up and scheduled to drop by their home. It was about a hour's drive, and when I arrived they were really nice people. They had a few kittens, and then an old boy who had never been adopted because he pretty much spat at everyone who walked through the door. I was incredibly hungry and had swung by to get pudding, my favorite type of ice cream - Neapolitan - before heading over to the house; the family was shocked when the old badger waltzed up to me and rubbed against my legs. They said the cat had never ever taken a liking to anyone before, not even the family themselves; I knelt down and patted the old tom's head, and in turn he stood on his back paws and began to lick my ice cream. The kids laughed, and I found myself cracking a smile for the first time in a month.
Purchasing Neap:
I adopted Neapolitan and named the cat after the incident, and even let the old guy eat the rest of the ice cream on the way home. I took the photograph you see over there; when Blaire moved in, he was all over her, and now he seems to think he's more her cat than mine. He loves to sit on her textbooks, just to get her to pet him. He sleeps in the bed, right between us; if I ever try to get close to Blaire, he hisses at me. Needless to say I usually end up kicking the old boy out of the room and shutting the door. Blaire doesn't like locking poor, sweet Neap out, but its the only way we can have real privacy, and I refuse to have the old badger watching us and making comments with his eyes. Believe me; a person can say a whole lot more with their expressions than with their voices.[/justify][/ul]
Meeting Selia:
Her team dressed her hair and selected her outfit for the first shots; they provided a screen and asked her to undress, and she did; it always amazed me how models had no problem stripping off their clothes in a crowded room. However, she refused to wear the outfit provided: The skirt is too short, and the top is cut too low, Miss Moon explained. This surprised me; most models were absolutely comfortable with completely exposed photographs – nearly all that I had worked with had undressed in front of everyone, not behind a screen. Her manager began to argue, clearly frustrated since this seemed to have happened before. I spoke up: “If I may give a bit of perspective, Mr. Barnes; I’m no professional in fashion, but being a straight man myself, I find it much more attractive if a woman has more clothes on than not – short skirts and exposing tops don’t leave enough room for the imagination.” I’m fairly sure I blushed a bit as I said this, but Mr. Barnes (who, by the way he dressed, was not a straight man himself) considered my opinion, and agreed, and exchanged the clothing for a pencil skirt and a respectable top. She was an excellent model, and it didn’t take much editing to get the photographs as I envisioned; I was reviewing the photographs when she startled me by coming up behind and placing a hand on my shoulder. “Mr. Gray, I’d like to thank you for helping me out, earlier. It is hard, sometimes, wanting to model but working in a world that doesn’t respect God like it should,” She said simply. This girl was very different; I had not had a conversation about religion in years, and to bring it up in casual conversation? “No need to thank me, Miss Moon. Your photographs turned out brilliantly.” I pulled them up on the computer screen and let her flip through them. I distinctly remember the smell and feel of her, leaning so close to my back; locks of her long brown hair fell forward and brushed my neck: I took slow breaths and hoped she didn’t feel my heart beat quickening like it was. She gasped, her voice hovering over mine: “These are beautiful, Mr. Gray! Thank you!”
I wasn’t enjoying these formalities; “You can call me Bevan, if you would like,” I said as I turned in the chair to face her.
She looked down at me with a sly smile on her face, eyebrow cocked. “I noticed you didn’t make Mr. Barnes that same offer.”
I flushed; damn, she was right! “…Should I have?” I tried to play it cool. She thought for a moment; then laughed, shaking her head. “No, I don’t really think he deserves it. Bevan, you can call me Selia”.
Her laugh was cute; her accent was funny, too. Her pronunciation made my name sound foreign; she was foreign, and I wanted to learn more. I wasn’t prone on taking chances, but this woman was from another country, and I would never see her again if she turned me down, anyway. I stood up. “Miss Moon – I mean, Selia,” I cursed myself for already starting on a bad note. She was tall, as most models are, six-feet; she looked up at me. “Yes?”
“Well, your manager told me in our emails that you had never been to London before, and I would be honored if you would let me take you out for coffee; I can show you around the city, if you would like; I’ve lived here all my life.” I was nervous and afraid of rejection, so I added, “…Mr. Barnes is welcome to come along, as well.” So it would no longer be a date, but a simple kind gesture. She glanced back at her manager (who was criticizing the hair-dressers) and turned back to me. “…Do you mind if Mr. Barnes doesn’t come along? He’s a good manager, but not much for good company.”
I couldn’t have said Not at all! with more enthusiasm. Selia laughed at me again, and turned to collect her things. It was early afternoon, but neither of us had eaten yet, so our coffee date came over lunch. When the check came, I paid, but she asked the waitress for a spare piece of paper and pen. She scribbled something down and stuffed it into her purse; I suppressed my curiosity and didn’t question what she was doing. After, we walked around the city, essentially patrolling the borders of London. We paused at this small, quiet park and sat down on a bench, watching the pigeons: we talked about a variety of topics – how she became interested in modeling, how I became interested in photography – and somehow our conversation turned to religion. She told me that she had always been a devoted Christian, and had been baptized at age eleven; when she asked me about my views, I didn’t have much of an answer. Aunt Violetta raised me as a Christian, too, and we attended church every Sunday – but my heart had always been far from the worship. I explained this to her, and she surprised me again by asking me about my parents. By this time we had arrived in front of her hotel, and it was nearly 9:00 PM. She spared me of recalling the buried memories by changing the subject: “Bevan, this city is absolutely beautiful. Thank you for sharing it with me. I had a wonderful time.” She looked at me expectantly. I puzzled over it; did I do something wrong? “I had a great time, too, Selia.” I had lost my confidence from before; “…so, I suppose this is goodbye. I hope you do well at your go-see,” I extended my hand. She rolled her eyes and laughed, taking my hand and pulling me forward, kissing my cheek. “Goodnight, Bevan.” She let me go, walking away and turning back to wave one last time before disappearing into the hotel. I looked down at my hand; that slip of paper was inside. I unfolded it: it was her cell phone number, and her name, Selia Moon. I would call that number the next day, and many days afterwards, and she had kissed me with that same lipstick many times since.
I still have that slip of paper, locked in a small box in the first drawer of my dresser; if I tried to call that number now, all I would receive is silence.[/justify][/ul]
Attraction to Women:
Unlike most men, the size of her bristols are not a deciding factor for me. In fact, I have found myself attracted to women more on the smaller side. I'm turned off when a woman exposes everything in short skirts or bearing tops. A woman that has enough self-respect to keep her goods to herself keeps me guessing and keeps me interested longer. I would like to say I wouldn't sleep with a woman on the first few dates, but since I haven't even been on a date in months I can't be sure what I'll do. Since Selia's passing, I have only been set up on a few blind dates by my mates, who successfully managed to find the strangest, single mooses in all of Britain. The first two years, I felt guilty even thinking about another woman, let alone asking her out. Now, I suppose I am more open to the prospect, but I have involved myself so much in my work I'm not sure how I would meet another woman--unless another beautiful model finds herself attracted to her photographer, but I don't think a man could get that lucky twice in one lifetime.
I guess what it all boils down to is the fact that I like being in control of my life; I can remember a time that I felt completely lost, and I never want to experience that again. [/justify][/ul]
THE END.
THANKS FOR READING!
pictures from 8fimodels
THANKS FOR READING!
pictures from 8fimodels
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