<div class="floatleft">(https://cdn.escapismmagazine.com/gallery/5924340ad910f.jpeg)</div><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;"><strong>Name:</strong> Gregory Andrews (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=290637.msg14272208#msg14272208)<br/><strong>Location:</strong>  Wandering around<br/><strong>Time:</strong>  A little after six<br/><strong>Wearing:</strong>  Suit (http://nextluxury.com/wp-content/uploads/manly-guys-navy-blue-suit-fashionable-suits.jpg)<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>  Open<br/><strong>Notes:</strong><br/></span><hr/><br/>The yearly Masquerade was something which always made Gregory excited for on some level.  After some time, it became programmed in his mind, a holiday that he could not help but to look forward to in his day to day affairs.  A retreat from the monotonous, from the demanding and cruel madam that was his life and career.  Often, whilst taking in the demands of this person and that person, staring at the a deadline, or trying to sculpt the impossible and impractical, he would remind himself that it was only a matter of time, that each second brought him closer and closer to the general fuckery that he enjoyed.<br/><br/>But, to be honest, there was always a different sort of fuckery he always enjoyed more.<br/><br/>Was it rude?  Perhaps.  But then again, he supposed you would need a mask to wear some of those supposed, so-called outfits out of the house and in public.  It was a joy, a pleasure, to take in the fashionably questionable choices that some people made in such a relaxed and intimate place.<br/><br/>To some, he felt the urge to ask whose work they wore.  To others, he had to resist the desire to throw a curtain over them in the hopes of covering the tragedies that clung to their bodies.  Gregory had to wonder if some of these people had any taste, or any restraint, or any brains at all.  It was but a wonder that he had yet to see someone strut past him in full latex regalia, as if about to lead the charge against some semen monsters from outer space.  Seed demons beware!<br/><br/>But in the end, all he could do was to keep his critiques and remarks to himself and the glass of gin in his hand.  It was not as if he were some loosely lipped airhead, spouting whatever thought came whistling through the empty cavern of his head.  Gregory had class.  He had the decency to say it if asked, or when the topic was out of the room.<br/><br/>Regardless.  He was simply happy to be there sipping his gin as he wandered the house, rather than drowning in fabric in his studio a world away.