1. SPENCER HAYES

SPENCER HAYES'S POV

"Ahhh..."

"Ahhh... You feel too good, Spencer."

"Ahhh... Fuck... I am coming..."

With this he came.

I took a sigh.

Ahhhhhhhh ... He was too bad.

Like, how could you be so bad in bed?

I think my luck is not with me.

Past few days I have been encountering cheap men like him.

Suddenly I hear someone snoring beside me.

Whatttt!? No, like, what!??

You had the great fashion designer THE SPENCER HAYES in your bed, and you are sleeping like a horse.

I felt disturbed by the fact that this man is unhinged; not only did he displease me with his small dick and bad performance, but he also dared to go to sleep just after one round.

It's not like I'll go another round with him. I also have standards.

Adjusting to the fact that I slept with a douchebag I encountered at my regular gay bar.

He is subtly good-looking. So, I thought to give it a try. Turns out I had another bad experience.

I got up from the bed and went to the shower.

Yes, I am gay, and there is nothing to be ashamed of.

But being gay in this country is a little difficult, you know.

No one actually genuinely approaches you. It's just the old married hag.

Who wants to get inside your pants?

As the water falls onto my body. I felt a comfort.

I love night showers; they help me escape my demons, who are always lurking behind my back.

Always ready to take with them.

Inside the darkness.

I hate the darkness; it comes with the flooding memories that I never wish to remember.

I start dressing into my short navy blue pants and sleeveless white cardigan.

I reach out to my sling bag and take out some money from it.

Although he doesn't deserve a bit of it.

3/10 rating

Bad performance.

But still, I am a really good person. Of fucking course.

I need to maintain the decency.

Either with this body, I should be getting paid to even have a look at it. But that will put some unwanted labels upon me. Do I prefer that!? Abso-fucking-lutely not.

Duh.

Labels are not my thing.

Already receiving backlash for being gay! Can't afford any more.

.

.

.

As I step on the gas, my car surges forward, devouring the distance. The dawn's warm light creeps over the horizon, casting a golden glow on the city. I roll down the windows, and the wind whips through my hair, carrying the sweet scent of blooming flowers. I feel alive, free from the constraints of the world.

Sometimes this city seems so lovely, so quiet, so beautiful.

New York is the light of my life. I have travelled to many countries, but this city will always have my heart.

Maybe because I glow in this city the most.

I wasn't born here, though. I was born in London.

I was not an orphan from birth; it's just that my parents removed me from their lives after they caught me kissing a boy.

"Memories are like alcohol; the older, the better. It is harder; it hits."

I turn up the volume on my stereo, letting the pulsating music match the rhythm of my heartbeat. The wind tousles my hair, and I can't help but smile. I feel like I'm flying, the music and the wind propelling me forward.

This wind, the music, helps me forget everything, especially the unacceptance, the feeling of being left out, and the loneliness.

Sometimes I just hate to be at my place.

The city's skyscrapers loom ahead, and my penthouse apartment beckons. I accelerate, the engine purring smoothly as I speed towards my destination. The music, the wind, and the dawn's light blend together in perfect harmony, invigorating my senses.

Suddenly I heard my phone ringing; I checked, and it was Annika.

Annika Romanov, my best friend. A World-Famous Supermodel. Russian.

She is one of the few people who actually impressed me with her skills; otherwise, I wouldn't be tolerating her nonchalant personality.

Don't want to say it, but she is kind of a bitch. Exactly my copy. Love her to death.

As I pull into the penthouse parking lot, I feel a sense of satisfaction wash over me. I kill the engine, and the music fades away, leaving only the sound of the wind rustling through my hair. I take a deep breath, feeling the cool morning air fill my lungs.

I took the call.

"Hello Ann!" I said.

"Guess where I am!" She said in her cool tone.

Should I act surprised!?

"Where!? In the Martin Edward concert. But according to my knowledge, he doesn't have any concerts going on these days!" I said.

My best friend is a huge fangirl of Martin Edward, or what she likes to call him, Mouse.

I don't know why she calls him that. I asked her once, and she replied, and I quote, "You don't need to know it, darling. It's just a game. A Tom and Jerry one."  Whatever it is, it's none of my business, but I certainly pity Martin for having a psycho girl as his no. 1 fangirl.

Poor him.

"In Martin's house, on his bed," she said. My eyes widened in shock, maybe because I know this can be true too. She has some sort of stalker tendencies.

"Nice one, Ann."  I tried to play it cool.

Ding.

I received a picture of her wearing a red lacy bralette with Martin Edward's big wallpaper behind and his iconic guitar behind.

I have seen this one in his I*******m live.

This can't be true. This bitch is crazy. She has gone to his house.

"Where is he!? What if he caught you?"

"Shhh... Darling. Martin is in Switzerland, shooting for his new music video."

"Whom did you blackmail this time to have his schedule!? And how did you even go inside his apartment?"

"It's a secret, dear!"

"Secret my ass!"

"Hahaha, okay, now cut the call; I need to enjoy my future bedroom."

With that, she cuts the call.

God! What should I do with her and her stalker tendencies?

Wonder where she gets it from!