Miss Notorious Attention ***.

Blaine regarded the nude slim hourglass physique reflective in the mirror with subtle approval, slowly pivoting to examine the somehow dainty line that defined the reflective's spine. The skin was stressed perfection, marble cold and pale, and faultless. Blaine, in secretive vain, admired the reflective's sloping feminine curves that seemed to carry a fluid-like motion throughout the entire body.

A black corset with a somber lace floral pattern dug into Blaine's ribs, the stays as snug as possible, with an accenting red-and-black plaid blouse underneath. A modest skirt whispering as it brushed against Blaine's ankles, desperately clinging close, concealing a clandestine rejection. Black fishnets created a grid pattern across the thighs.

Blaine's balanced, faultless face was masked beneath a masquerade of makeup; Maybelline and L'Oreal were Blaine's denial, and perfection was Blaine's downfall. Large doleful emerald eyes peeked from behind a fringe of eyelashes, each defined and reaching out towards the mirror like spindly spider's legs, glossy and impossibly obsidian black. Blush and glitter was sparingly swept across Blaine's cheeks, and full lips were glazed crimson red. They seemed to glow in the bleary light. Ash-blonde hair seemed to resemble harsh marble as well, draped greedily across broad shoulders, bangs brushed aside.

***

Posture was everything. Shoulders relaxed, back straight, head high, feet straight. The hallway of the unfamiliar school seemed immense and derelict and a lone figure in a black and red ensemble tread it alone. A single-strapped book bag was draped across a shoulder. Shoulders relaxed, back straight. Despite the bowing weight of textbooks and binders, the figure managed it's posture as best as it could, aimed to intimidate by the sureness in it's step. The sharp and exact military click-clack of the figure's blood red stilettos echoed in the hallway and betrayed their ardent advance to room 503, the dreaded Health classroom, and also Blaine's first period.

Confidence, confidence. You've got a new reputation to build. Blaine would do it right this time. Blaine would be loved, Blaine would be popular, I'm going to fucking intimidate, so help me God. Heart beginning to pounded, Blaine rapped a meek fist against the windowpane of the classroom door, chewed nails painted that obsidian black, bracelets noisy as they clashed against the glass. Confidence.

All he needed was confidence.

Blaine dug his toes into those impossible stilettos as he waited for someone to allow him inside the Health classroom. Clench, unclench. There was no response. Again, Blaine struck his bony knuckles against the windowpane. He knocked as loud as he dared to.

Blaine began to lick his lips in anticipation, but thought better of it. Don't lick them; it'll ruin your lipstick. He proceeded to brush out the wrinkles in his skirt and sweep away the extra hairs that had fallen on his corset and inside his blouse. Straighten the collar. Stop biting on your nails. Someone was approaching the door. Blaine watched as the handle turned, and he was accepted inside. Right. Here goes nothing.

Posture, posture. Posture and confidence. He realized that at the moment, he was lacking both. He straightened up and tried for faked poise. It would do.

Tendrils of Blaine's Pink Ice fragrance seemed to evaporate into the room as he stepped inside, stilettos resuming their severe click-clack. They seemed to chase away the din of the twenty-seven students dismissing their classwork as they chatted aimlessly. The stiletto's wearer was beginning to draw attention to himself -or herself, as they thought- sopping up the activity like a sponge. Heads turned. Eyebrows rose.

Blaine was, indeed, a remarkable sight.

His slightly parted red lips and steep stilettos were unintentionally alluring. Two opened buttons from his blouse revealed a cleavage that seemed to be drawn out of thin air, nestled behind his corset. The black, lacy corset itself almost seemed to be beckoning the male students' eyes to graze along the triumphantly formed mountain range of Blaine Wolfe's curves.

His dazzling emerald green eyes exposed a demure helplessness as his confidence evaporated, and their breathtaking intensity seemed to amplify from the eyelashes defined from the LashBlast he applied this morning. The eyelashes were long and dainty, curved every so carefully, and were slightly dusted with glitter. Every single detail that could be found on Blaine's body was meticulously faultless, and lusciously appealing to the eye.

Before the Health teacher could demand to know why the young "lady" was out of class, Blaine shoved a crumpled note into her hands and proceeded to stare intently at his painted red toenails.

So much for faked poise.

There was a contradicting feeling towards the attention he was receiving; although he was pleased to be regarded with interest by the students, he ironically was scopophobic- he was afraid of being stared at or seen.

Staring put his nerves on end.

But oh, how he lived for it, how he aspired for it.

Give me malice, give me envy, give me your attention. Give it all to him.

Blaine's lip curled in a sardonic smirk. He wasn't just an attention whore, he defined attention whore.

The teacher finished scrutinizing the note, satisfied, but at the same time, somehow uncertain. She addressed the students. "Class...We have a new student," and amiably placed a bony hand with long, oval-shaped nails on his shoulder. He raised his head with that demure shyness and waved slightly. Some smiled and waved back.

Blaine nervously twirled the dog tags on his chain that had been previously hidden beneath his blouse; he'd been wearing the dog tags ever since the ninth grade, back when straight-legged jeans and old vans were a regular for him, back when lipstick was only for girls.

He could still feel the weight of the teacher's hand on his shoulder. "I'm Ms. Fuller," she said, smiling as if she was waiting for Blaine to smile back. He tried. "Introduce yourself to your classmates," she insisted. He could tell that she didn't quite know what to do with him.

He sighed. Right. Don't mess this up. Eyes and ears were waiting with undivided, sweet attention.

We're still so young, desperate for attention,
I aim to be your eyes

Here it goes. "Hi, I'm Blaine Wolfe, I'm seventeen, I like sushi, I'm from Detroit, I'm a huge nerd, I know four languages, I listen to Fiona Apple and Anthrax, I can't swim, I'm asthmatic, clinically ADD, I hate football, I have four dogs and a pregnant cat..." The babbling continued. "And," he said in a rush, "I'maguyandIcrossdress."

A triangle of tongue appeared as he licked his lips. Fuck the lipstick.

You should have seen their fucking faces!

Smooth going, Blaine. His returned to being absorbed with his toes, wondering with mild amusement if he should add that he often talked to himself. Multiple-personality, much? Very much.

He dared to take another fleeting glance at his classmates. It was the guys, mostly whose eyes had dilated nearly to the size of dinner plates. After all, they were the ones who'd been undressing him with their eyes seconds after he stepped in the threshold. The general reaction among these ocular-molesters was the 'I-just-swallowed-spoiled-milk' expression of surprised disgust. The girls, however, looked on with a newfound interest. After all, what girl could possibly hate a boy who just wanted to be a girl as well?

Ms Fuller finally retracted her hand. He took it as an admission, and sure enough, the health teacher said, "Go ahead and sit down, Mr. Wolfe," with a kind of relish in certainty. "Class is almost over, anyway." Blaine retreated to the farthest corner of the classroom where students were sparse. Twenty-seven pairs of eyes followed.

Cramming in his earphones, he blasted Dying Fetus and Panic! At The Disco, his eardrums vibrating, as if he didn't want to hear their eyes or listen to his composure melting away like snowflakes.

Swear to shake it up if you swear to listen. And things were definitely fucking shaking.