Grand Staircase
He was an advertisement. He had dark hair cut loosely around his face, and a bottomless black gaze that begged. It wasn't a subtle request, that look. It was a demand, that said, conversely, use me. Anything for a sign. Anything at all.
He wore a pair of worn blue jeans and no shoes, and a tight wifebeater on top that drew out the fine lines of his muscles. Come buy. His prices were low to the ground - just a word, just a smile, just a passing touch from fingertips. When the asking was so low, how could such ripe, beautiful gifts be refused? He had a face without scarring, eyes that saw clearly, and a perfectly good mouth. If there was something a little off about him - skin too pale, close to deathly, eyes too dark, wanting too strongly, too thin, fed too little and too thinly, seeking richer fill - could he be blamed? Could it scare a potential away? Hardly.
He drifted through the party, baring his wares, and waited for someone seeking what he offered, who had in hand or in sight or in feeling the payment he sought. His eyes darted quickly, and he bit his lip. He mounted the stairs, calloused feet denoting a long walk he had taken many times, waiting for an approach that never came, seeking a face in the crowd that didn't exist. He slid his fingertips along the stone banister, and sought through the press of people for the crook of a hand, for the tongue on a lip, for the parting of the waves of incredible, never ending wanting. He sought to satisfy.