Christopher Fletcher eyed himself in the mirror. He wasn't sure if he liked the hair. This new gel was a little stiffer, and combined with the deep blue color, it edged him a bit closer to punk than he had in mind. Oh, well, at least his clothes weren't punk.
The pants might be black and leather, but they gleamed in the light and the cut hugged his ass sinfully well. The shirt was aqua blue silk, slightly shimmery, and gashed in the right places to flash a little skin. The boots were soft and low, for dancing in.
He fumbled on the edge of the sink for his contact lenses. Shit, don't drop those down the drain. Good prescription contacts in intense colors weren't cheap, and his funds were strictly limited. He fished one out on a fingertip and leaned close to place it in his left eye. A couple of blinks to seat it, and he inspected the result. Right eye muddy hazel grey, left eye bright turquoise to match the shirt. He put in the second lens, and there he was, looking back at Chris in the mirror. Robin, the Club Boy. It had been a while.
He tried out Club Boy's smile, wicked with more than a hint of come-hither. Full lips, and even white teeth in the gold of his tanned face; he touched the tip of his tongue to his lower lip. On second thought, he liked the hair. The upward sweep accentuated his cheekbones, and the dark blue was exotic. Done.
In the bedroom, he puttered, checking for money and condoms, easing his tight pockets over ID and a single pack of lube. He clipped his keys to a belt loop. There was really no point in hurrying. Jenny wasn't even home yet, let alone ready to go back out.
But he'd spent the entire day hunched over his keyboard, writing sentences destined to be revised six times and finally erased. He was well and truly blocked. He needed...he wasn't sure what he needed. But at the very least, to get out of this house and do something new. Or someone new.