Fussing with his hair endlessly, stuck between a casual bun and a braid as he checked over himself in the mirror, Les considered the exhilaration of meeting a new client. Each new meeting was like a fresh hit of adrenaline, endlessly comparable to the substances of his youth, simultaneously invigorating and sedating. He was a man that thrived off of others, lived to pirouette in some unending social ballet, to flaunt his grace and ardor.<br/><br/>As he ran the back of his hand along his cheek to feel an imperceptible stubble, followed his chin to a sloping point, he considered how right he had always been for this job, how natural being a callboy was for him. If only he had considered it years ago, knew it was even an option. This was far more lucrative than drugs, generally less dangerous depending on clientele, and these days, legal in most locales. He could have escaped plenty of trouble had he known the world that was waiting for him; wouldn't be stuck with a boatload of repressed anxieties and a metal left hand.<br/><br/>Once the contract was signed, Les found no reason to fret over the contents of his meetings. His clients had their needs, and his role was to fulfill them to the best of his ability. A client was in need of a dinner companion? Sure, Les loved a free meal. A massage? He had years of casual practice, backed by a few professional courses. Sex? It was an inevitability in his profession, and he came prepared for all types of physical exploration. He had been in the business long enough to have seen and done it all, or so he liked to tell himself; been on the giving and receiving ends of all kinds of pleasure and depravity, engaged with every kind of person conceivable-- as long as they had the cash, of course.<br/><br/>His own restrictions were clearly laid-out, and if someone were to broach those areas, their meeting was over and the money was still his, so what was the deal in caring what exactly a meeting entailed? It was Les' job to be prepared for anything, whether or not the specifics of his meetings were detailed beforehand, or if their encounter would be spontaneous and fleeting. He was always most intrigued by the ambiguity of meeting new clients, often too shy and nervous to admit their needs and desires. They were his favorite, fun new playthings for him as much as they were customers paying for satisfaction. They lived in a world marred by endless gratification, assuming one had the funds-- who was Les to judge, to restrict? Unless the client was into that, of course.<br/><br/>When he finally settled on an updo, the blonde ends of his hair wrapped into a loose knot in the back of his head, Les pulled himself away from the mirror, considering what this evening's company would hold. He knew that he was a felid, a temporary occupant of the sprawling, bustling city. Les liked to glance over their public records every time he took on a new client, even if they were unlikely to be reoccurring, and he found that the few cat-men he had been fortunate enough to keep company had a strange smattering of information, a mix of antiquated documentation and medical records. He knew generally the history of strife and struggle between man and felid-- there had been injustice, then revolution, and now some sort of tenuous treaty-- but he had never been involved in politics when he was younger, too busy being hungry and poverty-stricken to care about the world outside. Even now, as he walked the mere blocks to his client's designated meeting place, checking over his shoulder as though he wasn't in one of the most innocuous parts of downtown, he struggled to recall the exact details of the uprising, the cold war between man and feline, despite the massive number of politicians and war profiteers he kept company. Most of them didn't like to discuss their work, anyway, and Les was often too disinterested to pay attention when they did.<br/><br/>But what kind of company would this new client seek? Something physical? Social? If he got more catboy clients, would they pay him just for a scratch behind the ears or at the base of their tail? Were the past few months indicative of a growing clientele? What was up with their fingernails? He could have sworn that the trailing welts left on his skin from his last feline client lasted for a week. Was there something he was overlooking in his contract?<br/><br/>Marching with purpose toward the apartment building, one he had become unwittingly familiar with in his recent engagements with foreign emissaries, Les pushed aside his queries. Though he could still count the number of cat-people he had worked with on two hands, he had to remind himself they were just normal people, perhaps with a touch more political baggage and endlessly fascinating anatomy. As he pushed through the doors, calling an elevator with hands both flesh and metal shoved into the pockets of his denim jacket, he set his mind into work mode, fluttering his eyes as he wiped away his thoughts. All that mattered was this time and space, this meeting; everything was inconsequential except his ability to please his client, to satisfy their needs.<br/><br/>Jiang was his name, he double-checked, glancing at the watch on his fleshy wrist. Depending on the meeting place, Les occasionally requested pictures, both for safety and convenience's sake. Since this was a private residence he hadn't asked, instead opting to entertain himself on the lift ride up imagining what kind of person he could be meeting. He loved to speculate about new clients, create a landscape to pluck and prune at as he acclimated himself with them. He liked to toy, to press buttons, to find the sweet spot between the flattering and the lecherous.<br/><br/>Before he knew it he was planted in front of the apartment door, pressing the button set beside the number to signal his arrival. Les straightened himself as he waited, pulling his feet together and widening his shoulders, lifting his chin and pulling his hands out of his pockets. Even as he corrected his posture, stood to his full height, he was still an incredibly small man, dwarfed by most both in build and stature. He leaned onto one foot, tapped his fingers against a knee and rested his metal hand on his hip while he waited, detecting a whiff of coffee from the other side of the door. It was time to set aside his predictions and live moment-to-moment.