<span style="font-size: 18px"><a class="link link--internal" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=http%3A%2F%2Fblackdahliaroleplaying.com%2Findex.php%3Fthreads%2Ffrosts-fellows.583%2F%23post-7185&amp;hash=91f08379228af158f524dd17330fa4bd" href="http://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/index.php?threads/frosts-fellows.583/#post-7185">Spencer</a> was woken by the annoyance of insistent clawing, opening his eyes to see Agate's dark muzzle beneath the frame of his bedroom door, the mutt insisting he let her out to do her business. With a groan, he wished wholeheartedly that he'd never given in to the fad of adopting a shelter dog. Procrastinating the inevitable, he rolled onto his back, a thin sheet draped across his hips as he eyed the clock on the nightstand informing him that he'd slept well into the afternoon.  About to get up and acquiesce Agate's demands, Spencer was startled to suddenly find he was not alone in his bed as an arm moved to drape across him as well. He absorbed this new information, taking in the pale skin and head of sandy blonde nestled against him with a frown.<br/>
<br/>
Of course . . . He'd brought home a tourist from the bar. He recalled the glances, the flirtatious remarks and slipping out back with the claim he was going to take a smoke break. Spencer found cigarettes absolutely disgusting. He was quite fond of blonds, however. 'Not blond enough,' his mind quipped. Disappointed, Spencer extricated himself from his fling's embrace and moved, naked, into the hallway. After letting Agate outside, he returned to find the man he'd fucked smiling up at him from the bed. "Mornin'." Despite the cheery greeting, Spencer only offered a weak grimace in response.<br/>
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This was the awkward part, the part that made sex almost too much of an inconvenience. "I have to go to work soon." He began gathering the man's clothes for him. "So I'm going to shower. And you should be gone by the time I'm finished." It sounded harsh, he knew, as he tossed a shirt and pair of pants at the other, but he'd made his intentions clear the night before. "I said I don't do seconds," he reminded. With that, Spencer disappeared into the bathroom, leaving the man gaping at a closed door. The guilt didn't last long.<br/>
<br/>
And his eyes weren't blue enough, anyways.<br/>
<br/>
Spencer wasn't sure why he'd bothered to style his hair before leaving the house this morning. In fact, he was unsure why he ever bothered, considering Louisiana's heat and humidity. His grandfather had always said, "Cain't go thirsty in Lousianne. Alls yeh gotta do is breath." Spencer conceded that the old man's words were some of  the most accurate he'd ever heard as he inhaled the suffocating, heavy atmosphere. His hair agreed, as well, no longer kempt and groomed but standing atop his head doing whatever the hell it pleased. This was a battle he never won. If his hair couldn't look good, though, at least the rest of him could. With a silver stud glinting in each earlobe, a slate gray v-neck that showed off his trim waist and complimented the bright blue of his eyes, fitted jeans and five o' clock shadow, it was no wonder he made such good tips while slinging liquor at The Famous Door.<br/>
<br/>
Or perhaps that could be attributed to the outgoing and magnetic front he wore during his shift, always smiling and tossing out rapid-fire quips at the right times. He got a lot of phone numbers left folded into the bills slipped beneath empty shots and tumblers, though he was never quite sure what to do with them. Most ended up in the trash. Few, a very small few, he slipped into his pocket. Spencer had very specific tastes. It wasn't that he was picky or thought himself a paragon of the New Orleans homosexual community. Far from it. The specific traits he looked for in partners had been ingrained into him years ago. Unable to have what he truly wanted, he subsisted on the next best thing.<br/>
<br/>
Stepping off the street car that had carried him into town, the remaining walk to the bar was easy enough, his daily routine. Although some days he left early, took different routes in pursuit of new photography subjects, and today happened to be one of those. Slipping past a vegetable stand, Spencer fished out the Pentax from his camera bag. Most photographers wouldn't give it a second glance, these days, digital now being preferred over film. Spencer didn't care that others might find it odd or old-fashioned. He enjoyed developing the film himself, experimenting with different exposures and techniques.<br/>
<br/>
He chanced a few shots on some stray cats as they strolled about the areas of New Orleans that  most tourists never saw, or rather the areas that New Orleans would rather they didn't see. While Spencer could definitely appreciate street art when it was well-done, the lewd and unashamed graphite slapped onto the darker sides of restaurants and souvenir shops were of a hastily-scrawled nature. He moved on, snapping a few shots of a young couple feeding each other ice cream on a bench as they waited for the bus. Spencer never worried about being reprimanded for his stealthy approach at stealing the visages of others, not caring if his subjects might not want to be seen or have their faces tacked along the walls of his home and slipped into portfolios. In this city, cameras were commonplace and people would be hard pressed to prove he was anything other than a curious tourist snapping photos of historic architecture and the like. Clearly, though, Spencer had no love for architecture. His passion lay in capturing the lives and relationships of people. Humans and moments were fleeting. The architecture would  likely still be there after he was long gone.<br/>
<br/>
The bus came and went, taking his subjects with it. Perhaps this route had been a poor choice on his part, a waste of his valuable time that he could have spent shooting elsewhere. His camera only held so many, unlike digital photography. When Spencer  lined up a shot, it was because it held promise. Newer cameras allowed anyone to take a million photos and sift through the garbage in order to find the one rare gem in  a hundred. To Spencer, each snap had to be a gem or else it would be wasted, something he'd never get back.<br/>
<br/>
Spotting a small, interested crowd on the corner ahead, Spencer decided to investigate, hoping whatever had drawn such attention might be worthy of his time and camera. As he approached, a voice danced into his ears, melodious and sweet as it sent tingles down his spine, unearthing carefree memories of simpler times.<br/>
</span><br/><i><span style="font-size: 18px">Golden blond locks and sun-kissed skin, a slight frame, long fingers made for music . . . and a voice stolen from an angel. Or maybe he was an angel, a deity sent to enchant men with music and song. He'd played for Spencer, a show just for him, imprinting within his mind that nothing, no one else, could ever be so perfect.</span></i><br/><span style="font-size: 18px"><br/>
That voice. His heart was racing, palms itching to shove the crowd aside just to catch a glimpse. He wanted to see, needed to see.</span><br/><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="26" data-username="@Ninjanerd" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/26/">@Ninjanerd</a>