Disclaimer: I do not know Orlando Bloom or any other celebrities who may or may not appear in this story. It's a work of fiction, that I made up. Although, my birthday is the same day as Orlando's. I don't know how that affects anything, but I just like to tell people. I have no idea of Orlando's sexuality, but this story is not implying anything about it. Again, I say, FICTION.
This story isn't going to be all sexy, all the time. It'll probably get steamy, but you'll have to give it a while. It's like soup. It needs to simmer before it can boil. However, any eroticness you do read, is going to be homosexual man-on-man action, so if you're under 21, 18 or however the hell old you have to be where you are, go and have a sandwich. If the thought of guys doing 'stuff' offends you, you might want to go and have a snack also.
Well, I think that's about it. Oh, no, hang about. If you steal my story I will be very angry. E-Mail me before you post it anywhere else, or ooh, I'll be cross.
ORLI
Chapter One
'Oh, crap.'
This was not an unusual way for me to wake up; however, it was made slightly worse by the fact that there was legitimate crappage going on. There was some weird rock music that sounded vaguely familiar coming from the kitchen of my actually-pretty-fabulous London apartment, my bed felt WAY more rumpled than it had a right to be, and my neck kind of itched. My alarm clock also read 11:50, which meant that either I'd ignored the alarm entirely or someone had switched it off. Had it been me? I couldn't even remember the night before.
Until I stumbled into the bathroom and realised that, actually, if I never remembered last night again that would be just great. I stared at the very clear lovebite that took up most of the right side of my neck, and sighed, feeling the need for a bit of repetitionage.
'Oh, crappety crappage.'
12 HOURS EARLIER
I liked being drunk. Lalalala. Drunk in public. Unk inc drublip. No, hang on, that's not right. Dunk rin bubbling. No, that's not even using the right letters. Anyway. Drunk. Teehee.
I bopped away to the song - something Britney-esque, but with the alcohol in me it was all pretty much a background blur anyway - as I waved at the barman, giving him my bestest and most nicest smile as he stopped. I opened my mouth.
'Double vodka and Diet Coke, mate.'
Now. I was very very drunk, this was very very true, but I didn't think I was drunk enough to speak without actually forming words in my mouth. This was very weird. I started playing with my lips, trying to make them make noise. A hand reached past me and gave the barman a five, and after a few seconds some coins were passed back. I watched all this with mild interest while I worked my lips. OK, now my hands were moving without me telling them. Oooh, oooh, I was having a DIY! No, a DVT. No, that's not it, ooh, ooh, OBE, I was out - of - my - body -
'You want me to help you with that?'
I spun round, because this voice was very definitely not coming from my mouth. Standing behind me was a gorgeous man with dirty blond hair messed up in a I'm-So-Casual-It-Took-Me-Three-Hours do, a tight T-Shirt and some jeans that had rips that had my mind wondering what would happen if I gave them a little little tug.
'Oh, crap,' I said.
'You know, most people would say, "Thanks for the drink, Barry, you saved me a couple of quid," not swear at me,' he said, grinning.
'Yes, well,' I said, concentrating super hard to make the words go in the right order. 'I am not most people and also drunk, so I don't think you should be telling me what to - is that a new watch?' Oh God, I am so random when I'm drunked.
'Yeah, my ex bought it for me last week.'
'No I didn't.'
'You're not the only boyfriend I've ever had, Matty. There have been others.'
'I know,' I giggled. 'Several of them while we were still dating, if I remember aright! Now give me my alcolohic beveragage and we can go our separate ways.'
'I'm not giving you something you can't even say.'
'It's my drink!'
'Yeah, I bought it.'
'Oh, that's cheating.'
'How long have you been drinking for, Matty?'
'Since I was 16,' I smiled proudly.
'Tonight, you twat.'
'Oh! Uh . . . Since about, I don't know, five or six? We were playing this really cool drinking game where you have to say a name -'
'OK, you're going home. Do you still live in that apartment daddy bought you?'
'Well, escyooosez moi, but I do not call him "daddy", just because I have a bit of money to the family name, thank you very much Mr Stuffy Pants, I'm leaving,' I said, and walked into him. 'Ow.'
'OK, come on. Let's get you back.'
THE PRESENT
'Oh, CRAP,' I groused as I fingered the oh-so-attractive gouge in my neck that Barry called a lovebite. Oh, now I remembered why we'd finished. Apart from his repeated cheating and generally being horrible, he was a bad lover as well. Ooch, my poor neck.
I quickly checked myself over in the mirror. Hmm. I actually didn't look that bad, considering how the night had gone, and my innate ability to avoid a hangover (thank you, genes) had kicked in, so I wasn't vomiting. Still, you could never be too sure so I went in for a more thorough check.
Dark black hair that looks a little blue in the right light (because it's dyed - I can't even remember my hair's natural colour anymore), short and choppy at the front with possibility of styleage on the top, longer at the sides and back, messed up from going to sleep last night without removing product. I could wash that out, it was fine. My eyes - dark blue - weren't at all bloodshot, which is nice since I didn't like that whole 'veiny-eye' thing. My complexion looked OK - kind of pale, I guess, but I come from a pale family. I was once described as 'porcelain', which, once I figured out the guy hadn't said 'porcine', was a good thing. I wasn't packed with muscle, but I had a nice trim waist and clear definition in my abs, and the purple bar that pierced my belly button was still in place. Excellent.
The bathroom door swung open, and Barry came strolling in, a big grin on his face. Realising I was naked, I made this attractive noise: 'Eep,' grabbed my hand towel and covered my area with it.
'Morning, gorgeous,' said Barry with a smarmy smile I would've smacked off his face if I wasn't so intent on keeping my dick covered. Also, I'd just realised it wasn't the hand towel, it was the flannel, which gave me the added issues of a) it was really small and b) it was really cold. Barry leaned forward, clearly intending to plant his horrible horrible lips on mine, and I took a step back.
'Oh, go away.'
'Well, that's not the most romantic morning-after I've ever had.'
'It's not supposed to be romantic!' I growled. 'It's supposed to convey the message of: fuck off, you lecherous advantage-taking bastard!'
'Advantage? When did I take advantage?'
'Well, Barry, you found me last night in, I admit, something of a state - which, by the way, don't make those eyes at me, it was Friday and I start performing in a play, in London, no less, in just under three weeks and I think I'm allowed to let my hair down' - my run-on sentences really piss me off sometimes. I mean, fine, they're great with the packing in of information, but at this point I'd forgotten what my original point was and had to take a quick sidetrack - 'and it was RUDE of you to just bring me home and shag me!'
'You weren't complaining last night,' Barry grinned, narrowly avoiding imminent slappage once again.
'I was drunk last night! You could have rammed a wet kipper up there and I probably wouldn't have complained!' Barry grimaced, and this I understood, since I myself was reeling mentally from the ickiness of that particular phrase.
'Come on,' Barry said. 'You know you liked it a little.' When I glared at him, he hurriedly continued, 'Anyway, you don't want to waste the chance for me and you to get back together. We've got something special -'
'What?! What special thing have we got, Barry? Oh, hang on, I forgot, I'm Interim Guy #3, aren't I? If you're having an issue working out that big complicated word, by the way, it means I'm the guy you shag when you're not getting anything else -'
'I know what interim means.'
'- and I deserve so much better than you, Barry! Someone with an exciting name, and way more respect, and, you know, sexual talent!'
'But -'
'GET OUT!' I practically roared, which was fun, because I don't normally roar. Barry clearly wasn't expecting it; he went very pale and fled, calling 'I'll call you later, OK?' over his shoulder as he went.
I hopped in the shower, leaving the door slightly open to avoid any misting up - I didn't want a scary-moment-like-in-the-Psycho-movie/Justin's-Cry-Me-A-River-shower-stalking-scene - and when I'd cleaned myself up and didn't smell anymore, I got out and stepped into my favourite pair of boxers.
I sat at the kitchen table. I didn't bother getting any food, because based on the way my day had gone already, I knew exactly what was coming next.
The phone rang.
God, my life is such a clich‚.
I picked up the receiver. 'Hello?'
'WHERE THE BLOODY HELL IN BLAZES HAVE YOU BEEN?' Ah, Clea. The lovely, lovely, director/writer of our little play. Such a talent for combining cusses.
'I've been in bed, Clea, and it's been quite traumatic so can we please lower the volume?'
'Oh, OK, if diddums has had a bad night - I'LL BLOODY SHOUT IF I BLOODY WANT TO! I'VE PRACTICALLY TAKEN UP SMOKING AGAIN THE STRESS YOU'VE BEEN CAUSING ME!'
'Clea, you never stopped smoking.'
'THAT ISN'T THE POINT! THE CELEBRITY GUEST IS ARRIVING IN THREE HOURS AND I WANT THE WHOLE CAST THERE TO GREET HIM! UNDERSTOOD?'
I promised Clea I'd be at the theatre by three and put the phone down. Now I remembered, we were getting some celebrity in to play one of the parts. Clea had been very excited about it - apparently it was some big movie star going to be doing it for a couple of months. I guessed he wanted to spend some time 'returning to his roots' among us thesps who hadn't made it yet. Probably be Tony Blackburn or someone. I sighed, and went to get some clothes.
I got out of the taxi, paid the driver and headed into the theatre. I looked at my watch - 3:20. Well, I said I'd be there by three and I'm normally half an hour late, so I was pretty proud of myself.
I hurried in, smiling at a couple of stagehands I knew, and barged my way through to the main stage area, where Clea had said to meet. There's a sort of mini-corridor between the foyer of the building and the stage area so I saw them through the next door, their backs to me, before they saw me. The guy standing in the middle who I didn't recognise - either the celebrity or my memory was getting worse - had longish, brown, kind of wavyish curlyish hair that came down to just past his ears. He was wearing a tight black jacket that proved he wasn't too bad in the old tone department, at least in the back. My eyes slid down to his pert, denim-covered ass, and nice long legs encased in some flares that I would have loved. I made a mental note to get the number of his stylist/ask where he got them from.
I noticed as I pushed the door open that Nina, one of my female co-stars, was flushing bright red. Good grief, this guy must be hot if he had Nina all a blush.
'Matty! There you are!' cried Clea gaily, with a thinly-veiled undertone of 'I'm going to fucking fire you, you fucking late bastard.' At her words, the guy turned around, a smile on his lips.
The shock echoed through my brain, rolled around in my eyes, thundered down into my stomach and churned that all up, bounced around my legs for a minute and jarred into my feet, which took a second to try and regain some control, gave up the ghost and covered their eyes as they did some kind of drunken Irish jig and sent me careening into the seats. As I fell very-nearly face-forward (thank you, elbows) onto the seats, the face that had made my body literally fold over registered with my brain and I got a big, honking name in my head.
Shit.
My celebrity co-star was Orlando Bloom.
To Be Continued.
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