CLAIMED . CHOU, PARIS

MALE

HOMOSEXUAL

SIXTEEN

JUNE 18, 1995

Taiwanese on his father's side and French-American on his mother's side.

English, some decent French, a smattering of Mandarin Chinese, and Instagram hashtags.

None.

0.70

Claimed

Spirit

N/A

08/21/13 by Dani

ARIA

none.

yes.

REN KOUHA FROM MAGI: THE LABYRINTH OF MAGIC

Considering he's only a high school Junior, Paris is trapped living in the small suburb of San Marino outside L.A. with his parents for at least another year or two. The family is, and has always been, solidly upper middle class, so the house itself is on the upper end of nice. With two storeys and a pool out back, it would actually make a great party house if, of course, Paris were allowed to host parties. San Marino wasn’t such a bad place to be when he was younger and all he’d really cared about was running around outside but, as he got older and friends and family began to move away, the place shrank into a fish bowl. Paris is chomping at the bit to leave. He can't wait to follow in the footsteps of big brother Quentin and middle sister Rhiannon and get out into the big city. In fact, he spends a significant amount of time driving in under the pretence of seeing his sister—not that he doesn’t crash at her place often enough to have permanently staked out her couch as his personal territory.


Drama club vice-president: Arguably Paris spends more time hanging around the theatre after hours with his friends, goofing off and working on upcoming performances, than he does anywhere else. It’s like a second home to him.

Blogger: When he was thirteen, like so many other barely-pubescents, Paris joined MySpace. Blogging about his pet addictions, fashion, K-pop, and K-drama, he also posted a frankly embarrassing amount of selfies. Even more baby-faced and androgynous at the time, he never specified his gender, finding the debates that cropped up around the subject hilarious as his following grew. At the time it was all for harmless shits and giggles, but he didn’t count on gaining quite so substantial of a following as he did. When the news finally broke that he was a guy, it unexpectedly only added to his notoriety within the community and he found himself with more site traffic than ever. He has since moved to Instagram and Tumblr, but still enjoys a decent viewership.

Model: Thanks to the online attention, Paris received a few offers to do modelling work in the area; most from photography students and amateur freelancers looking for help with their projects, but he’s never one to say no when opportunity comes knocking. Especially if a “yes” involves getting to shirk “real” work and wear cute clothes. One thing led to another, he ended up setting up a Model Mayhem account per the suggestion of a friend, and he now gets a decently regular flow of gigs. There’s no real money in it, especially considering his look isn't exactly catalogue, but it’s better than flipping burgers at McDonald’s.

From head to toe, everything about Paris screams look at me! Shockingly synthetic hair, snowy white skin, whimsical fashion, and boyish good looks certainly ensure a healthy degree of staring wherever he happens to find himself… and that’s exactly how he likes it. True, his natural colouring isn’t exactly awful, but black hair and brown eyes are just so non-descript. Why not dream a little bigger, darling? Colourful contacts were a little trick he picked up from his sister (his preference often changes by the hour, but the current favourite is a bright rabbit’s-eye pink). And the brilliant bubblegum dye? Well, it was his idea first and, who are we kidding, he pulls it off way better. Medium-length and aggressively layered, save for the two tumbling sections that frame his face, Paris’s hair is certainly a statement. If you ask he’ll tell you the whole thing’s natural just to see if you’ll believe it. Truth is, it took him years to grow it out that long and he clocks in hours upon hours every morning styling and conditioning the hell out of it. At this point it’s debatably more product than actual hair but damn if it isn’t soft and glossy as a kitten belly. Ah, ah-- look, don’t touch.

Paris has always been a slender wisp of a boy. He has the kind of metabolism most women would kill for and he abuses it shamelessly, packing away the pizza and the midnight Cinnabon like it’s going out of style. Never in public though; he’d rather you chalk up the flat tummy and hand-span thighs to diligence and rabbit food, because who doesn’t like a little ego boost? Nobody admires people who got to cheat the genetic lottery. He often struggles to keep from slipping underweight though, especially when he’s stressed, and it’s not a cute look. With those big almond eyes and broad cheekbones making him top-heavy compared to the rest of his body, he starts to resemble a bobble-head doll. Keeping everything looking proportional is a delicate dance.

Standing at a petite 5’1”, it would be a lie to say that Paris doesn’t sometimes wish for that little extra growth spurt. “Lithe” and “willowy” will be descriptors that remain forever out of his reach. He isn’t too disappointed though— he enjoys being able to pull off that sort of waifish androgyny currently favoured by the media. Short and thin is in, at least for the moment. And he’d rather be short forever than suffer through that awkward gangly stage he’s watched so many other boys his age fall to. How embarrassing.

Growing up in a household with a fashion-conscious sister, Paris was exposed from the get-go to all the little tips and tricks of looking good as well as the importance of keeping up appearances-- even when you’re feeling like shit. No matter his mood, Paris has his head held high and his brand-names on. He loves to have that extra theatrical little pop to his clothing, be that a flash of delicate studs and rings clinging to either ear, a pair of painted-on skinnies, a colourful eyeliner, or an outfit that’s just a little too effeminate or shows a little too much. Anything is fair game. The more flamboyant the better.

Loud, proud, and larger than life, Paris can be a bit of an acquired taste. Tell him to push the envelope and he’ll pull the top right off. Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile. That’s just the kind of person he is. He prides himself on always taking things that little bit farther than the next guy, whether that be in school, fashion, attitude, or anything else really. You either love him or you hate him.

Tagalongs and classmates would probably tell you that Paris is just fun to be around. Cocky, theatrical, and charming, he never goes anywhere without making a stir. If you want drama—look no farther. It seems to follow him around like a second shadow. Ironic, considering he’s vice-president of the actual Drama Club. Not that it ever seems to bother him. In fact, he delights in basking in all the attention. There’s no such thing as too much or too far, too toxic or too obscene if all eyes are on you, right?

That being said, Paris is a genuinely good friend if you take the time to get to know him. A bit eccentric, no doubt, and with a sharp, sarcastic sense of humour coupled with the compulsion to always speak his mind he might leave some of the gentler souls with the impression that he’s just another bitchy teen queen, but once he’s got your back he’s loyal and attentive to a fault. Give him a call at four o’clock in the morning and he’ll be over with hugs and a bucket of Baskin and Robins in thirty seconds flat.

Speaking of which, one thing people tend to notice right off the bat with Paris is that he has absolutely no concept of personal space. He’s very handsy and physically affectionate with friends and acquaintances alike… as well as everyone else. Don’t want your hair braided while you’re sitting in public? Not the hugging type? Hate his guts? Too bad; that ship has sailed. This, among other things, has a tendency to make him come across as perpetually flirtatious. He’s not entirely unaware of it either, but it gets him what he wants more often than not, so why change?


It can be hard to imagine at times that there’s any substance underneath all that flair, but Paris has always been a precocious child. In every sense of the word. Clever and savvy, his knack for playing the crowd isn’t limited to the stage. He has the groundwork for some real business sense, leadership skills, and if he could just ease off the gas, stop performing for a moment and really look at what he has to work with, he could probably achieve some great things. Hell, anything he put his mind to. Unfortunately, he doesn’t. Perhaps it has something to do with being a teenager, or maybe it’s simple vanity, but everything takes a back seat to his image. He’s a try-hard, an attention whore, and he knows it. What he doesn’t realize is that the effort he’s pouring into superficialities could actually be getting him somewhere substantial. Not just getting him noticed.

Finally, Paris is the youngest of three, which describes quite a lot. Big brother Quentin shouldered the role of first born son, middle sister Rhiannon was the only girl, and Paris… never quite felt like he had an important role to fill. He was the baby of the family, expectations were lax and attention plentiful. He could get away with things that his older siblings could only dream of with just a pout and a pleeeease, but in return he grew up under two very big shadows. It’s hard to be original, to be the best or most talented at something when you’re the third up to bat. By the time Paris ever got a shot at something, it felt like his siblings had already been there, kicked ass, and taken names. He isn’t resentful, not really. But that did instill a hunger in him to be noticed. As long as you’re looking at him, thinking about him, or talking about him, he couldn’t care less what you’re actually saying. It’s created a bit of a monster, really. No matter what, he’s got to be bigger, better, louder, hotter, more audacious, more ambitious, and more outrageous than anyone else in the room… and he’s going to make you love it.

By the time Paris Qingwei joined the Chou family, his mother was already joking that any more children and she’d have birthed the entire rainbow. She had given each child a middle name with a character for colour in it: red for Quentin, purple for Rhiannon, and green for Paris. Unfortunately, Paris never quite warmed to the colour he was given. What was so special about green? It was the colour of grass and leaves, of homogenous things in neat little rows, every blade just like the next and every leaf a mirror of its neighbour. Even before he could put into words why, he knew he didn’t like it. Bright, bold red would have been better. Or deep, royal purple. Why couldn’t he have a pretty name like Quentin or Rhi? Though Paris didn’t know it then, the same competitive awareness of others, restless discontent, and aching desire to stand out that he felt when he first learned the meaning of his name would become the forces that drove his life.

Childhood for Paris was relatively ordinary. His family was well off but not obscenely so, his parents loving and supportive, and although the Chou household has always had a tendency to get rather… lively, Paris thrived on the teasing and the banter. All throughout elementary school he was a high achiever, bringing home good grades and happily throwing boundless energy into extra-curriculars. Piano, soccer, dance—he tried it all. If he had the desire, his parents had the money. It wasn’t until middle school that things started to get a little rough for him.

Even as a very young teen, Paris was never one of those boys who could afford to hide in the closet. He fit too many gay stereotypes just being the way he was, and because of this he was often outed in new situations long before he was comfortable with it. Although Paris has never been ashamed of who he is or had any confusion regarding his sexuality, it always bothered him that parents would gossip and peers would snigger about him before he even knew what being gay actually meant. In protest, a large part of his time at Henry Huntington middle school was spent sullenly trying to cover up and hide from prying eyes. He cut his hair short and refused to wear anything but baggy T-shirts, sweaters, and jeans. He went cold-turkey on everything he liked that was even remotely feminine in the hopes that that might help… but it sucked.

He was miserable.

More importantly it was completely ineffective. All he ended up doing was spending more time loafing around on the internet because the self-imposed pressure of trying to be someone he wasn’t was stifling; skulking and hiding are just not in his nature. So he sought an escape. It was around this time, thirteen years old, that he created his blog. If you ask him he’d probably tell you it was the best decision of hislife. At the time it was simply an outlet for all the things he wouldn’t allow himself to do or talk about offline, but what it did was introduce him to a community of people he could connect to. All the same things he was trying (and failing) not to be offline, they found relatable, or entertaining, or enviable, or just generally positive. Paris soaked up the praise like a sponge. Even after some overzealous random managed to stalk down his Facebook page and confirm his real gender, as though the fact that he had a dick was was some sort of big scandal, Paris enjoyed kicking back and just watching the hits roll in.

What modicum of internet fame he’d achieved began to show up in Paris’ real life as well. He was happier, more confident, and began to shed the little shell of malcontent he’d built himself almost as quickly as he’d donned it. By the time he hit high school, Paris as he is today was already in full swing. He started growing his hair out long again, the T-shirts and sweaters were gleefully packed away, and the precocious fashion sense made a comeback with a vengeance. He was down at the office for violating school dress code almost as often as he was down there to sort out classes. Although he’ll tell you it was charisma pure and simple that kept him out of suspension, it was probably just the fact that he still managed to crank out good grades.

Freshman year, Paris joined the drama club at San Marino in an effort by his parents to get him away from the computer more. Needless to say, it worked. Here were people who didn’t seem to care if he acted like a stereotype, even when he wasn’t trying. To them, it didn’t make him any less complex or valid as a person. They didn’t see him as a caricature. After all, weren’t they all acting to some extent? Theatre became the equivalent of his online community in real life, and thanks to the friends he’s made there he’s actually become quite popular at school. Debatably the only downside is that it took what audacious extraversion already existed in him and put it on booster rockets. Evidently, Paris himself considers this a plus. He has amassed his audience now, both virtual and in the flesh, and he’s not going to give it up without a fight. The little boy named after grass and leaves and homogenous things is finally filling up his life with colour. He’s demanding to be noticed, and he’s not going to settle for being second best at anything.

Now, if Paris sometimes airs on the side of caricature, that’s fine by him. If it makes people underestimate him, all the better. He’s spent enough time worrying about the way that other people see him. Now, it’s their problem; he’s going to do what he likes.

The future for Paris is hazy. He still has just under two years of high school to slog through before he can high-tail it into the big city. Though he hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s going to do up there, what he does know is that he’s done with San Marino. Way beyond done. In all likelihood, once he’s free he’ll probably go into post-secondary. He’s the child of an academic family, after all. Though where he’ll go or for what, he isn’t sure. The dream is theatre at Juilliard, but he knows he probably won’t get in right off the bat. So, in the meantime he may take a few years of college, build up his modelling portfolio, make some money, and simply try to figure things out for himself—because that’s the thing, really. Paris knows who he is; he just has no idea what he wants. Compared to his siblings, who seem to have it all together, he feels like a bit of a hot mess. Ambitious, but directionless. Cocky and fragile. Who knows where he’ll end up a few years down the road?