I wonder if it’s obvious to anyone. I sure as hell feel like I’m walking around wearing a sign that says, “I want to fuck Orlando Bloom.” Okay, maybe that’s a bit misleading. I mean, I do want to have sex with Orli, but that’s not all I want.
I’m not a big fan of falling in love. It’s happened to me a couple of times, and it always ends badly. But the worst part about it is that you have no control over who you fall for. If someone had told me that my sun was rising and setting with someone twenty years younger than me with a ridiculous haircut and a love of death-defying activities, I would have pointed them towards the nearest mental hospital. But here I sit, in love with Orli.
Look, I know I’m eccentric, idiosyncratic, quirky, whatever you want to call it, and I always fall for the same kind of eccentric, artistic person, usually with a healthy dose of brooding thrown in. Orli’s an artist in the craft of acting, but he’s certainly not brooding, he’s ebullient. He’s one of those rare people who is a true force of nature, and it’s impossible to be bored around him. As for eccentricity, he’s got more than a few quirks of his own. I love all of them.
He didn’t even have to say a word for me to be hooked on him, like he’s some drug that I want to mainline. At first I was sure it was purely aesthetic; after all, the boy is beautiful. But I’m not stupid enough to think that it’s nothing more than physical. If it was, the accent wouldn’t make my toes curl, and the laugh wouldn’t make my jeans feel tight.
I’ve told myself every reason why I shouldn’t be in love with him.
For starters, there’s the age issue – he’s closer in age to my son than
he is to me. For fuck’s sake, he could be my son. Speaking
of, I don’t think he’d want to date someone with a kid; when I was his
age, I know I would have balked at the idea. Not to mention we’re
co-stars, and I doubt Pete would be thrilled. And even if we were
to get together, when everything ends here, I’m in L.A. and he’s in England.
And the biggest reason? He shows no interest in me.
We’re friends, or as he says, mates. Sure, he’ll sling an arm around
my shoulder or hug me, but that’s who he is. He’s much more affectionate
with Elijah and Dom. He hangs out mainly with the hobbits, while
I spend a lot of time with Sean, who’s quickly become one of my closest
friends.
The problem is that my stubborn heart refuses to listen to these reasons, and is still convinced that being completely in love with Orlando is a great idea. My heart is Orli’s number one fan, followed closely by my cock, which absolutely loves him.
Another problem is that the wires in my brain appear to be crossed, because more and more I’m beginning to think that I should tell my pretty elf all of this. It’s not as if I have a masochistic streak in me, but anything’s better than how I feel right now.
*****
For once, I’m very happy that Legolas doesn’t have a lot of dialogue. This means that I can focus all of my attention on watching Viggo as he instructs Sean (okay, as Aragorn instructs Boromir) to give the ring back to Elijah/Frodo. The intensity in his eyes is unmistakable, and I try to keep my best serene-elf look, even though the camera isn’t on me. I like watching Viggo.
It’s become my favorite hobby, actually. Or maybe addiction. He doesn’t know it, but I now own Psycho and A Perfect Murder on video, and I’m thinking of asking my mum for Crimson Tide as a birthday present. Viggo in uniform. Say no more.
The first time I saw him, something just drew me in. Maybe it was those blue eyes that seem to have this ability to see into the depths of your soul. Or the soft brown hair that framed his face so perfectly. It could have been the cheekbones that redefine the word ‘chiseled.’ Whatever it was, I just knew that he was special.
So I hugged him. I love hugging people, I love physical contact. It’s not a sexual thing, it’s just that sharing happiness and energy is one of my favorite things to do. But this wasn’t an ordinary hug, because ordinary hugs don’t leave you feeling slightly dizzy.
Then I heard his voice. Who needs viagra when you’ve got that
voice? Sometimes my fantasies don’t concern any actual sex, just
Viggo talking dirty to me. And speaking of fantasies, I have a wide
variety of them. My teachers always said I had a good imagination.
Like imagining the concept that Viggo, brilliant, funny, caring
Viggo would want to be with a punk kid like me. We have fun together
and all that, but we’re from different generations, and don’t possess many
common interests. When we’re together, it’s always in a big group;
I can count on one hand the times I’ve been with Viggo alone in the month
that I’ve known him. That doesn’t count the trailer we share with
Beanie.
And I have no clue if he’s gay. Or bi. Or whatever. The thing is that I’ve never felt this way about a bloke before. I’m not confused about what I feel for Viggo, I know that I’m in love with him, and it didn’t take long for me to get that way. I also know that given the chance, I’d have sex with him in a nanosecond. Still, it was unsettling at first.
Also unsettling was learning that he has a son and ex-wife. Which means that he has to be at most bi, I guess. Then I learned his son is just ten years younger than me. I’m sure I must be a kid to him. So maybe it’s a bad idea to feel these things for him.
Except once in a while, he gives me that grin where you can see all of his teeth, and the skin around his eyes creases, and I know that being in love with Viggo is the best idea I’ve ever had. Even if never tell him that.
*****
We’re at a club in Wellington, myself, Orli, the hobbits, and Bean. I knock back another beer and try not to let my treacherous eyes linger on the lithe form gyrating on the dance floor. The boy is actually wearing leather pants, or maybe he’s just painted his legs black; they’re sinfully tight, and are making my pants feel the same way.
Trying to be subtle, I shift in my chair and turn my attention back to the animated debate Dom and Astin are having about whether or not Sam and Frodo have a thing between them. Young Mr. Monaghan is convinced that Samwise is bagging a Baggins, while Sean is insisting that there is such a thing as deep, platonic love between male friends.
Deep platonic love is not exactly what I feel for a certain elf right now. No, looking at him in those pants, topped off with a red silk shirt, I feel more like dragging him outside, pushing him up against a wall, and in one swift move . . .
Stop it, Viggo. You’re pathetic.
Though I reason that it’s not entirely my fault. I mean, Orli bears some responsibility for looking like sex on legs. If Satan had chosen to tempt Jesus with Orli in the desert, the world never would have been the same. So I’m blameless. It’s not as if there’s anything wrong with lusting after a gorgeous young man with a soft British accent and bad taste in shirts.
He’s all flirting and innuendo; I’m smart enough to know that he’s not the slut we tease him about being. ‘Whorli’ is what Lij has dubbed him, and I wonder if he laughs it off as well on the inside as he does on the outside. I’ve studied him like he’s a fucking textbook, and I’m pretty damned sure that the cheerfully brash exterior is sometimes just a defense mechanism.
I want to see what’s underneath the defense mechanisms. I want to see what’s underneath the flirting and innuendo. And I wouldn’t mind seeing what’s underneath the leather pants.
*****
The alarm clock goes flying across the room and crashes into the wall with a satisfying crunch. Yeah, I needed that. It’s about the closest thing to release I can get. Besides, it’s the bloody contraption’s own damned fault. It should have known better than to wake me when I’m dreaming about Vig.
Oh, what a dream. His mouth was on mine, devouring me, sucking out my entire fucking soul in one fell swoop. My hands were pinned above my head and I was thrusting my hips up, trying desperately to convey the message that clothes were an entirely unnecessary invention. And then, of course, the alarm went off.
Great. Another day of working side-by-side with the man who incinerates me with every gaze. Hopefully, he has no idea about this. Half of the people on set think I’m either a slut, a no-talent pretty boy, or both. Fuck ‘em. Sure, I’ve had some sexual escapades – I’m only human – but since meeting Vig, my closest companion has been my hand. And I know I have talent, because this film means too much to Pete for him to cast just another pretty face. But if Viggo thinks either one of these things, they might as well be true in my mind.
How did I fall so deeply, insanely in love and lust with this man? Okay, okay, stupid question. It’s just that sometimes I get caught off-guard by my feelings. I’m way past trying to convince myself that this is just a physical attraction.
A little voice in my head tries convincing me that I should tell someone how I feel about Viggo. I quickly drop a sixteen-ton weight on that voice’s head. Yeah, right. Could you even imagine if I told someone? Ian would be insufferable, dropping little double entendres every time he was with both of us. Lij would think I was shitting him. Beanie would think I was even crazier than he already thinks I am. Dom and Billy would just laugh.
I wonder what Viggo would do. The truth is that I have no idea. He not the kind of person who does the expected. I suppose the expected would be for him to give me a sympathetic smile and explain how he doesn’t see me that way. The other two options are for him to never speak to me again or for him to throw me down on the floor and get naked.
One in three. I’m not sure I like those odds.
*****
He’s smiling. Something Ian is saying is causing Orli to smile, and I’m falling all over again.
I want to see that smile every hour of every day. I want to wake up with my arms full of warm, naked Orlando. I need to. It’s like how Beanie needs football and Lij needs cloves. I need Orlando.
He’ll probably laugh when I tell him. He’ll call me a daft cunt, or something along those lines. So I won’t just come out and say it. I’ll find a way to work the possibility of something between us casually into a conversation, and if nothing comes of it, I’ll find a way to deal with that. But the uncertainty is fucking killing me, and I have to do something about it.
Here goes nothing.
