Diruktober Day 25: 100% Dirty (Spring)

     Diruktober is a DIR EN GREY themed inktober challenge by re_be_ka_f. I chose to use them as writing prompts to join in on the fun. 

100% Dirt Promotional Image 

Even though it wasn’t a particularly mainstream gig, I found myself giddy at how official and clean everything looked. I should have been prepared for the aesthetic of simply everything in the world of fashion. 

The director of it all came in while the few other models were finishing up with makeup and styling. He greeted the small crew preparing the set and seemed so present. The collective room must have been pretending not to notice, but as the man approached, hidden by his façade of fashion, the breath in my lungs went frigid and impossible to move. 

He apologetically shifted the coffee he held to one hand in order to extend the other out to greet me. He was one of those confusing people whose energy would put one with a stronger constitution at ease. Mine was not so strong, and as he looked over the work of the stylists that cloaked my own body, I shivered. 

He was tall and handsome in a princely way that felt unfair. God really had favorites. His smile revealed a few signs of wrinkles, but one wouldn’t be surprised to hear that he was anything in a decade or more of range in age. 

He lifted the hem of my skirt, not enough to reveal anything, but with skill and dedication to his craft while I held my breath to be in such close proximity to him. I was reduced to a middle-schooler, hoping and praying “pick me, pick me.” 

It felt just like the desperation in the few times I’d prayed in my life. 

Watching how the folds of the skirt dropped down when he freed them from his two-finger pluck, he beamed, praising the stylist that had worked on me as he departed to his own wardrobe. I found myself miraculously and suddenly pained by him leaving despite being a man I didn’t know in the slightest. 

Our shoots were mostly separate and I tried not to linger nor hang off of his words, tried not to stare. Even in a world where physical beauty was the most valuable thing, none of it was as captivating as him in all of his presence. The air of confidence in him was wondrous and obvious. 

It was only after the crew had said their praises for a finished shoot that he addressed everyone. 

“Of course,” he smiled, emblazoned in androgynous style, pearls around his neck drawing attention to the flexes in his warm-toned flesh as he spoke, 

“It’s wonderful to work with new and old faces alike. If you’re so inclined, there will be a small wrap party where I’d like to show my thanks, and I look forward to seeing you all.” 

With a deep bow, he dismissed himself. 

I was able to ease myself at the thought of a party in his presence in chatting among the three other models, a blonde woman named Edina seemed to make fast friends with me. I’d made a breakthrough after all in being able to consider them my peers, and we arrived at the party that evening as a caravan of only models. 

It was a dark restaurant on the 13th floor of a Ginza tower. The admirable designer was already present, enjoying dinner with his more luxurious of guests, peers that far extended beyond us. I could even recognize a handful of designers and musicians. 

My group of casual acquaintances found our place at a small table to the side of the action, praising a free meal and taking advantage of the flowing drinks in a nice restaurant. 

People came and went throughout, but as the night went on, it grew noisier, even as some found their resting places among the golden lights and camaraderie at their very table. My own two companions were fading, and I was almost able to forget completely about the fashion designer that struck both intimidation and admiration in me. 

That was, until I spotted him passing my table to the single bathroom beyond it. 

His outfit was different than it had been at the shoot, of course. Heeled boots and a heavy black kilt adorned a tailored dress shirt that prioritized his masculine figure above all else. 

I noticed because as he passed, his alcohol-reddened cheeks swelled in a grin and he reached a hand down to raise his skirt and drunkenly flash me. 

From all of his elegance and regality: drunken chaos.