Date: Thu, 19 Feb 2004 11:39:29 +0000
From: Maddy <madi_mcfarland@hotmail.com>
Subject: Orli, Chapter One

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.

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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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I am an author and live on feedback. It's like Dairylea to me. Tell me what
you think! I'm also not averse to including storylines you might want to
see. Bribes are welcome.

madi_mcfarland@hotmail.com