Post by Jean-Paul Beaubier on Aug 31, 2007 13:04:17 GMT -5
Jean-Paul grumbled something unintelligible and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Péjoratif.” He cursed at his alarm clock, a pale wrist snaking out from the covers to slam onto the evil object that had woken him up, and turn it onto ‘snooze‘. It was the middle of the afternoon and normal people would not be asleep, but Jean-Paul raced bikes and he’d been up until sunrise last night, so he’d taken a nap and woken up in time to go out for an afternoon.
Jean-Paul Beaubier was new to town, he’d transferred with his adoptive father after he’d retired from the Canadian Olympic skiing team. Though Raymond was home just as often as when he’d been a professional skier, that is to say, he was never home. Jean-Paul was left to his own devices, which he did not mind at all. In fact, he preferred it, no need to explain why he was walking in the door at all hours with someone he’d met earlier that night, both of them reeking to high heaven of gasoline, sweat, and burnt rubber.
It took Jean-Paul forty-seven minutes to go from bed bug to GQ model, not included the time it took him to shower. He’d often been called a girl, only to reply that a girl would not take as long in the bathroom because they could not improve upon perfection. After a pause where he would be given brownie points to whatever of his females friends were sitting on his bed or couch waiting on him, he would add, “While I can.” Making them yell at him and once Ash actually left her spot on his bed to hit him on the back of the head.
Making sure he had his wallet (for the third time), that he looked perfect in this outfit (for the fifth time), that his hair was perfect (for the millionth time), and that he had his keys (for the billionth time) he locked his front door and opened his garage. He carefully put his head in his helmet (not wanting the dreaded helmet hair) and straddled his bike, a Suzuki Hayabusa GSXR1300, fastest motorcycle in the world, and took off down the road. Ready to find something to entertain himself with something new. After all it was only Saturday, there was pleanty of possibilities for something entertaining to happen.
Jean-Paul Beaubier was new to town, he’d transferred with his adoptive father after he’d retired from the Canadian Olympic skiing team. Though Raymond was home just as often as when he’d been a professional skier, that is to say, he was never home. Jean-Paul was left to his own devices, which he did not mind at all. In fact, he preferred it, no need to explain why he was walking in the door at all hours with someone he’d met earlier that night, both of them reeking to high heaven of gasoline, sweat, and burnt rubber.
It took Jean-Paul forty-seven minutes to go from bed bug to GQ model, not included the time it took him to shower. He’d often been called a girl, only to reply that a girl would not take as long in the bathroom because they could not improve upon perfection. After a pause where he would be given brownie points to whatever of his females friends were sitting on his bed or couch waiting on him, he would add, “While I can.” Making them yell at him and once Ash actually left her spot on his bed to hit him on the back of the head.
Making sure he had his wallet (for the third time), that he looked perfect in this outfit (for the fifth time), that his hair was perfect (for the millionth time), and that he had his keys (for the billionth time) he locked his front door and opened his garage. He carefully put his head in his helmet (not wanting the dreaded helmet hair) and straddled his bike, a Suzuki Hayabusa GSXR1300, fastest motorcycle in the world, and took off down the road. Ready to find something to entertain himself with something new. After all it was only Saturday, there was pleanty of possibilities for something entertaining to happen.
