CLASSICpansexual
Experienced
- Joined
- Feb 24, 2007
- Posts
- 58
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Martini Adams was the product of a, ahem, drunken mother prone to one night stands and a nameless father who didn't last through the night. He was named for his mother's favorite drink, and upon his birth she had found it simply appalling that 'with extra olives' was not an acceptable middle name for an infant, or anyone for that matter. Martini was nineteen years of age, fourteen of which he had basically been an orphan (basically because there was no real way to tell if his father was alive or not). His mother certainly was, though, and had been since around the time he had started to produce durable memories. As a result of her death around this delicate time, Martini grew up without a single memory of the time spent with his mother, which, overall, was probably for the best. She had been cruel and vile, not fit to take care of herself, let alone a child.
Two years prior to the present Martini had been accepted into NYU, and therefore had promptly relocated to Manhattan. He chose to study film and photography, even though his foster parents disapproved of it. He had been placed with them five years after his mother's passing, and they had raised him as their own (though they had a good seven or eight of their own scampering about anyway). Martini, shunning the advice given to him by those older and wiser, excelled in both film and photography, receiving immense recognition on his short films and pictures in prestigious magazines and on well talked-about television shows.
Presently, Martini Adams was in Manhattan. It was autumn, and New York bore the season beautifully. Darkened foliage protested the azure skies as leaves tested gravity and leaped from their stations. While the trees balded, however, the grass of Central Park stayed a stark emerald, creating yet another contrast for the eyes to appreciate. Martini's own eyes – which mirrored the skies' brilliant hues – were doing more than admiring the sights of the park. He had gone through two autumns in the city, and he was already beginning to feel like an old pro. The nipping weather had no effect on him, as it had when he had first flown in from Las Vegas, Nevada. Now it merely distracted him as he tried to create his latest film.
The film was starring his lover, Nicolai, who, although pretended to not be shy of the camera, was actually doing a beautiful job of mucking everything up, or so Martini thought. As a whole, it was more Martini's fault than Nicolai's. Every time Martini paused so the other could answer his questions, he would grow impatient and testy should he receive silence in response, even if it was only Nicolai pausing to think over his answer. Aside from Martini's shortcomings, the two boys were really having quite an enjoyable afternoon.
They had known each other a year previous to the present, and had declared themselves a couple only a month after their original meeting. The two of them lived in a studio apartment a few blocks from the university. There was seldom food in the miniature refrigerator, and the wallpaper was committing suicide from the walls. They slept on a mattress located directly on the hardwood floor and kept their clothes in crates. It was a simple life, but Martini was satisfied with it in every meaning of the word.
Contrary to what one might think should they stumble upon the outing in the park, Martini Adams was actually a very soft, thoughtful person. He was simply mixing his two passions – film and his boyfriend – and, as it turned out, that was not one of the most intelligent things to do. Martini was seldom snappy, though he was being so now. He was seldom irritated, though he was being that now, too. Adding to his initial frustrations were people coming up to them with gasps of recognition and the inability to express his affection physically to his partner.
Martini finally turned the camera off with an exasperated sigh, removing his cigarette from pale peached, beautifully bowed lips to declare the day a failure. "It's all right, love. I'll just get Connor or Andrea to do the interview. I'm sorry I pushed you into this." He put out the cigarette on the bottom of his shoe and looked charmingly at the other male, "Forgive me?"
Martini Adams was the product of a, ahem, drunken mother prone to one night stands and a nameless father who didn't last through the night. He was named for his mother's favorite drink, and upon his birth she had found it simply appalling that 'with extra olives' was not an acceptable middle name for an infant, or anyone for that matter. Martini was nineteen years of age, fourteen of which he had basically been an orphan (basically because there was no real way to tell if his father was alive or not). His mother certainly was, though, and had been since around the time he had started to produce durable memories. As a result of her death around this delicate time, Martini grew up without a single memory of the time spent with his mother, which, overall, was probably for the best. She had been cruel and vile, not fit to take care of herself, let alone a child.
Two years prior to the present Martini had been accepted into NYU, and therefore had promptly relocated to Manhattan. He chose to study film and photography, even though his foster parents disapproved of it. He had been placed with them five years after his mother's passing, and they had raised him as their own (though they had a good seven or eight of their own scampering about anyway). Martini, shunning the advice given to him by those older and wiser, excelled in both film and photography, receiving immense recognition on his short films and pictures in prestigious magazines and on well talked-about television shows.
Presently, Martini Adams was in Manhattan. It was autumn, and New York bore the season beautifully. Darkened foliage protested the azure skies as leaves tested gravity and leaped from their stations. While the trees balded, however, the grass of Central Park stayed a stark emerald, creating yet another contrast for the eyes to appreciate. Martini's own eyes – which mirrored the skies' brilliant hues – were doing more than admiring the sights of the park. He had gone through two autumns in the city, and he was already beginning to feel like an old pro. The nipping weather had no effect on him, as it had when he had first flown in from Las Vegas, Nevada. Now it merely distracted him as he tried to create his latest film.
The film was starring his lover, Nicolai, who, although pretended to not be shy of the camera, was actually doing a beautiful job of mucking everything up, or so Martini thought. As a whole, it was more Martini's fault than Nicolai's. Every time Martini paused so the other could answer his questions, he would grow impatient and testy should he receive silence in response, even if it was only Nicolai pausing to think over his answer. Aside from Martini's shortcomings, the two boys were really having quite an enjoyable afternoon.
They had known each other a year previous to the present, and had declared themselves a couple only a month after their original meeting. The two of them lived in a studio apartment a few blocks from the university. There was seldom food in the miniature refrigerator, and the wallpaper was committing suicide from the walls. They slept on a mattress located directly on the hardwood floor and kept their clothes in crates. It was a simple life, but Martini was satisfied with it in every meaning of the word.
Contrary to what one might think should they stumble upon the outing in the park, Martini Adams was actually a very soft, thoughtful person. He was simply mixing his two passions – film and his boyfriend – and, as it turned out, that was not one of the most intelligent things to do. Martini was seldom snappy, though he was being so now. He was seldom irritated, though he was being that now, too. Adding to his initial frustrations were people coming up to them with gasps of recognition and the inability to express his affection physically to his partner.
Martini finally turned the camera off with an exasperated sigh, removing his cigarette from pale peached, beautifully bowed lips to declare the day a failure. "It's all right, love. I'll just get Connor or Andrea to do the interview. I'm sorry I pushed you into this." He put out the cigarette on the bottom of his shoe and looked charmingly at the other male, "Forgive me?"
