Chapter 1: Dior

Just call me handsome, clean, expensive, rich, a perceived bad boy, hot on the market of eligible bachelor's. Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Prada, and all the other expensive shit rich people pay for loads of money to have to waste on sorts of brand names - yes, I'll admit I have them all as well. Mother says we must always maintain a distinct look, and that means spending money uselessly. There are other things I'd rather spend such money on, but I will never get into such matters with her. 

All I really want to do is be free and live my life the way I want each day in this life while only figuring out what I need to wear each day.  Today's fit is a lounge look. So I will go with Dior Men and have chosen for the day a black cashmere polo sweater, size medium, a pair of dark straight leg vintage jeans size thirty-four. I don't like my jeans tight. The final touches are my Dior B28 high-top sneakers topped off with Dior BOIS D'ARGENT cologne. I have chosen to wear my cheaper Dior attire because I have no grand plans, and I consider this fit my every day "can get dirty" wear. I have a bit of OCD when it comes to my outfits. I like to stick with one brand.

    I have a strict schedule ahead. My family always has a program set out for me for each day. The only way they assure me I will heed the path towards success. I am to attend John Hopkins and become one of the world's most outstanding surgeons after the summer is over. I have scheduled meditation sessions dedicated to hand therapy, massages, and still hand-holding dedicated to posture and strengthening. I will say it promises that my hands remain strong, and I appreciate this quality about me. A man needs strong hands. What is a man without a chiseled jawline, a shredded six-pack of abs, a cut v-line down to the good stuff, and strong hands? Throw in a sexy face with a bit of facial hair, and you've got a catch. So yes, I'd call myself one hell of a catch. Many say I look just like the French fashion model Adam Senn, only my eyes are as blue as the Caribbean ocean with a tinge of silver. 

   I focus more on my physical appearance more than anything. I know I am smart. My family pays hundreds of thousands of dollars a year to make sure I stay smart, and, in return, I get to do what I what. If I do anything less, I risk hurting my style of living, and I very much enjoy my style of living. My parents leave me alone and hand over the things I as for. Ever seen Gossip Girl? Chuck Bass has nothing on me. I don't need to try to please my father. My parents adore me. I work hard to please everyone and paint the perfect image in everyone's eyes. The truth, though, is no one knows the real me. Shit, I am not even sure I know who the real me is anymore. Donovan DuPont is standing here in my family mansion in acres and acres of terrace surrounded by billions of worldly things. An estate of emptiness. If I called out right now, screamed at the top of my lungs, no one would hear me. I have to ring a bell on a wall to signal a maid. My parents are rarely home. Always away. Both of parents come from old money. My father is the CEO of his own Technology Company, and my mother owns her own Real Estate Company selling billionaire mansions to celebrities. 

      My mother is a lavish woman. She loves all the finer things in life and is the decorator of this house. By decorator, I mean she hired someone to decorate and told them what to do. She has excellent taste; everything is Victorian styled. You'll find nothing fake in this home, not even the silverware. Even our housekeepers wear Gucci-made butler clothing, and they leave it behind when they leave for the day—speaking of housekeepers. I am supposed to have a new personal male attendant starting today. Usually, I would pass on such a thing. I hate anyone being in my personal space. But it's my senior year at George Washington University, and it is the finale, and I must attain the highest scores to assure my acceptance into John Hopkins than I have the summer and not much to do. So I caved and agreed I could use some extra help and company; my mother tells me she screened this one personally, and he passed all her checks. So far, I am not amused. I am one hand in my pocket. The other outstretched looking at vintage family heirloom watch passed down to me by my father. The only piece I am wearing now that is not Dior is my Patek Philippe Grand Complications Perpetual Calendar 40.2mm Rose Gold Watch, 5204R-001; you can't buy this in a store and by my clock he has five minutes until it is nine o'clock. In my book, if you're early, you're on time, and if you're on time, you're late. So he already has a negative mark in my book.

With two minutes to spare, a tall man just slightly shorter than myself and not a boy at all walks through my doorway (without knocking, I might add); a second negative second mark. He greets me, introduces himself as Aiden, and apologies for being late. Explains he could not gain entrance onto the estate. I stare at him, look him up and down quickly, eyebrow raised, and on the inside, I am blushing. I'll admit he catches me off guard, but I'll never show it. He was not what I was expecting. He is wearing a tight white button-up collar t-shirt with a skinny black tie. The t-shirt is sheer and a bit see-through, and I notice he has a tattoo on his chest. It looks like a black cross, maybe the letter "X," and he has black trousers that are tighter than I would have worn, but perhaps that's the style he is going for, very form-fitting in all the right places. He is sweating. The sweat was coming down the sides of his forehead towards his adam's apple, and I realized I needed to speak. He looks like Calvin Klein's model Cameron Dallas. I ask him why he is sweating, and his response is quick and witty. He explains that he ran here because he heard I was a man of timeliness. While he talks, I keep my composure, that of intimidation, but I can only stare at his mouth. His lips are beautiful and whole. They have sculpture to them like an artist make them when they design him in the heavens. His skin looks smooth to the touch, his body perfectly toned with veins that pop out in all the right places. I am not prepared for this, and why am I even noticing such things. My focus has always been on my future. Medicine. John Hopkins. The family legacy. I do not have time for fun, nor do I have time for lust! I clear my throat, and with one hand in my left pocket, I use my right to gesture Aiden out of the room to follow forward, and I quickly adjust my pants. 

      I tell Aiden he may refer to me as Donovan or Don, whichever he prefers. He quickly asks if he can call me Donnie, and my eyebrow raises soon, giving him the answer. I take him to the housekeeper's quarters and explain that the housekeepers wear Gucci while on the premises. Aiden's face lights up like a ten-year-old as he explains he has never worn Gucci anything in his life and that he will protect it with his life. I accidentally let out a chuckle at such an absurd remark, and he gawks that he made me laugh. I then explain that there are living quarters here that he is welcome to use, and there are cameras in all the rooms except the bathrooms. That there are no guests allowed on the premises at any time 

      I pause and look at him as we stand in one of the living quarters. He asks me if he can ask a question and I say of course. He then proceeds to take a step forward. My heart starts to beat quicker. I shouldn't be this nervous but I am. His question is a simple one and the questions: is if I always speak so properly or if I ever let my hair down and have fun. I do not respond for a few moments. It is not that I do not want to, it is that I am unable to. His smell has captured me. Taken all my senses to another level and for a moment all the hair on my body stands up. I can feel his warmth thrusting towards me and it is as if our bodies energies are dancing. The moment is short lived because I will not allow myself to be this guy. I turn away and quickly respond that, his question was in fact, two questions, and I walk away and tell him to follow me.