So there he was at the party, all dressed up with nobody to bang. Justin knew he looked good, no, looked excellent in his brick-red suit. He’d had it custom-tailored, cut just right to hang off of his muscles and accent his physique. The fabric clung to his chiseled curves, not hiding but accentuating. A body this hard took hours and hours of maintenance, and he wanted to show it off as much as possible. His hundred-dollar haircut was snarled and messy, a stylish kind of do, what all the kids twenty years younger than Justin were wearing. Two handfuls of sticky gel had been applied to his scalp and ruffled with his fingers, and if it was all the rage to look like you’d just gotten out of bed, Justin had no problem. Modern Fashion was a beast so ugly that its face changed every five minutes, and the trick wasn’t in protesting how ugly the beast was, but actually keeping pace and matching it. Read the rest of this entry »