Post by Thomas Fitch on Jul 3, 2013 14:03:51 GMT -8
FITCH, THOMAS M.
THOMAS MICHAEL FITCH NINETEEN SOUTH AFRICAN/WHITE RED LIGHT DISTRICT WHORE HOMOSEXUAL PRE-VETERINARY MEDICINE L OVE IS CURSED BY MONOGAMY, HEIGHT: 5ft+9in WEIGHT: 160lbs. APPEARANCE:   D ECEPTION IS THE ONLY FELONY, LIKES:
DISLIKES:
HABITS:
FEARS:
OVERALL: To most people, Thomas seems like your usual charming young man with a bit of a cocky, over-confident side to him. He seems to enjoy making friends, chatting it up with people he just met, and flirting shamelessly with anyone, regardless of gender. But honestly, most of that is all just one big facade. Thomas rarely gives a shit about all these friends he makes- in fact, he's only ever had a few friends he's ever found he truly enjoyed genuinely being around, and in the end, they wound up stabbing him square in the back when he thought he could trust him, leaving him not so willing to make that mistake again. Thomas is known to be a cynic and distrustful of people he does not know well. Liars can rot in hell for all he cares. And chatting it up with people he just met? Well, it's best to make all the 'friends' you can. Some might end up being useful to you later on, and on occasion, you might find a diamond in a patch of dirty, dirty coal. Flirting is one thing he has never been able to deny- he loves to flirt. He loves to get a reaction out of someone, whether it be embarrassment or having someone flirt back, because that's always fun. It keeps things interesting, and sometimes, flirting leads to other things. Things much more fun than a simple exchange of suggestive words. A big thing to note about Thomas is that he hates dependency, whether it be someone else being clingy and dependent to him or the other way around. He doesn't like the idea of having to rely on someone to get what he needs- it makes him feel trapped and like a child, and he's not. He's not. He'll work for what he wants and won't take any charity from anyone, even if it's for his own damn good and he knows it. Thomas is hard-working, and smart. If there's something he truly wants, he'll take it no matter what he has to do to get it. Thomas tends to be a bit of sex hound (a bit might be underexaggerating), and he is not ashamed to admit it. He sleeps around quite a bit, and is a sucker for a cute boy that throws him a bit of attention. Easy might be a good way to describe him, but Thomas would disagree. Easy means that he would sleep with anyone, anywhere, but no- Thomas has his standards. Those standards being that they're willing to throw him a bit of cash for a night of good fun or at least be generally good-looking (never said he had high standards). He gets easily frustrated with people but is good at masking it, though there have been times where his anger hits his limit and that results in a fight with someone that has pushed his buttons a little too far. Generally he considers himself to be a nonviolent individual, preferring instead to work shit out through talking and shit like that, when honestly, he would rather not bother with most people on an emotional altogether, but those that he does bother with you gotta keep them close, right? W HAT'S A GOD TO A NONBELIEVER, HISTORY: SIXTEEN YEARS OLD The day your mom died was the day everything in your life went to shit. "Stability is important in a young kid's life." That was what the therapist preached over and over again. It was his mantra, and one you heard so many times over and over again that it made you want to vomit. He was so overtly positive that you could regain stability, that you could become normal again and everything would be just peachy and he tried to build up this false illusion that then you could go home and your mom would be there waiting and you could watch movies on mute and adlib what they were saying like you used to do. But no. Your mom had a four inch piece of glass sticking out the side of her head, and her face was gone, and her legs? Her legs, that she once danced upon as a world champion when she was younger? Ha. You wanted to scream in the therapist's face that things would never be alright again. Never, ever. And you weren't a young kid- you were sixteen fucking years old, and nothing would ever be okay again. You were sixteen and suddenly left alone in the world. You didn't have a mother and up to that point, you had never even met your dad. The day of her funeral was the first time you had ever met him, and boy were you surprised. You had always wondered where the last name 'Fitch' had come from, almost as much as you wondered where your dark eyes and your impressive height came from. Maximus Fitch, the famous rock star, was your father... and you instantly hated him. He was swimmin' in cash and he had left you and your mother starving and struggling in the poor house for the past sixteen years? He had been rich and famous since before you were even born, and the story went the second that your mother told him that she was pregnant, he ran off as fast as his two feet could carry him. And it took your mother's death to bring him to you, and never in your wildest imagination would you have ever imagined that a fucking ex-rock star would be your father. You were expecting a construction worker or a guy that worked at McDonald's flippin' burgers for a living or something. Not someone that had a hoard of platinum records in his trophy room. Whatever the case, he saved you from being put in the foster care system. You had no living relatives on your mother's side that lived in the United States, and the ones that were still alive you had never met. Not to mention that they were all back in South Africa, where you were born and raised up until you were twelve. You were stuck with him. SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD The first time you had sex, it was probably, hands-down, the greatest experience of your life. You were seventeen and it happened in the back of your dad's fancy fucking car you had taken out for a joyride and it was to this football player named Sam. He was like the quarterback of the football team too, or something like that. You never really paid much attention to the words that came out of his mouth, just the way that his soft lips felt against your naked skin. Just one go with Sam and that was all it took to make you want more, and more, and more. "You little whore." And holy shit, did you love being called that. Slut. Whore. Stupid bitch. You soaked up the stinging insults and when he tossed you aside like yesterday's newspaper, it took you awhile to remember again that you were actually none of those things. You were just Thomas Fitch, that one boy with the dead mummy and the ex-rockstar daddy. Nothing special. You had never done anything yourself to make a statement to the world about who you were, and that bothered you more than you ever actually cared to admit to yourself. That realization made you want to reinvent yourself, and you spent your senior year doing just that; however, perhaps 'reinventing' was not a good way to put it- you lost yourself your senior year. You let your hair grow out some (your mother had made you keep it short, telling you that you looked like a girl whenever it got too long) and started straightening it, you put effort into your clothes, you learned to smile and fake it and act like you were not completely destroyed on the inside, you started talking and being friendly with people again instead of glaring menacingly at them as you passed in the halls, you began to focus on your schoolwork like the smart little cookie that you were because you had set your eyes on a specific college and you weren't about ready to let your fuckface father buy your way in. You would work for it. You became popular, you got good grades. You started to drop your pants for every boy that asked for it, and you gladly became their little 'whore', or whatever the hell they wanted to call you. You were willing to pretend to be whatever they wanted as long as you got what you wanted- a distraction, in the form of a dirty, quick fuck. Before Christmas, you submitted your application to Landcaster University. A few months later, you were accepted. You pushed your father even further away, your anger and frustration with him finally boiling over after you two had gotten into a particularly bad argument one day that resulted in you breaking one of his prized guitars, which, in turn, got you unceremoniously kicked out of the house just a couple weeks before graduation. Which was fine by you. You had gotten accepted to the school you wanted, and graduation was so close you could taste it. Your father let you collect your stuff, gave you more than enough money to last you until you got a job and then some (whether he was just generous or completely out of touch with how much shit actually costs these days, you'll never know), and you got an apartment to last you through the summer before your first semester at Landcaster started, which you hoped to be the next chapter in your life. EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD Your first year at Landcaster started off without a hitch. You managed to qualify for a couple scholarships that would cover part of your first year, but it was not quite enough. Just enough for the first semester and a few classes the second, but you wanted a full roster. Jesus Christ, you had decided to study Veterinary Medicine (you have always loved animals with every fiber of your being), and you wanted to get as many classes done in one year that you could. Consider yourself an overachiever. But every job you took ended up not working out. You had a problem taking orders from people, and burger flipping? Seriously, that was not your area of expertise. You were fired from five jobs within a two month span and were about ready to turn around and go beg your father for money (an idea that made you want to throw up), when you found an ad in the paper. Within a couple days, you were officially a male stripper. I shit you not. You had a tough time believing it yourself. Never in your life did you think you'd be doing something as... humiliating as that, but it got you some money, though not enough. Soon you started to slowly begin to sink into the hole, and no matter what you did, no matter how many shifts you worked, you couldn't find a way to climb yourself out. That is, until one of your co-workers gave you the helpful tip that nobody makes a killing by simply taking their clothes off- if you want to make the big bucks, take the customers backstage for a little private dance. It did not take much contemplation on your behalf to go through with it- after all, it was not exactly like you were a prude when it came to sex, and getting paid to do something you love? It sounded like the best deal ever. Plus, you found you kinda liked how dirty and slutty it made you feel. After all, you were doing something illegal in the back room of your work place, and the sex soon became almost addicting. You brought back men (and the occasional woman, as the club had a wide variety of voyeurs, and you are not so repulsed by women as to turn down money for sex) that you usually wouldn't, and on a nightly basis whereas you used to only do it when you really needed the extra cash. Honestly, you just liked being a little whore. NINETEEN YEARS OLD Wake up, class, class, eat, class, class, work, party, fuck, sleep. Repeat. There's not much more to your life other than that. You don't have anything particularly unusual or interesting going on in your life. You wake up, go to your morning classes, eat your one meal of the day (and no, of course you aren't trying to starve yourself skinny like everyone keeps accusing you of), go to your evening classes, go to work, go to work, fuck around with whoever your lay of the night is, then hit the hay. And repeat. |
MADE BY AMLIN OF BTN AND GANGNAM-STYLE
