Men In Short Skirts 2

Men In Short Skirts

Part 2 - Bloody Great Wings

Posted: May 2005
Title: Men In Short Skirts
Author: Haleth, with Miranda Bell

*****

Karl took up his final pose for the camera. He was happy now. He'd perfected the 'macho in a skirt' look. It had only taken a bit of warming up, a little inspiration... and the arrival of Eric.

The man was a bloody mountain. As soon as Karl realised that people would be looking at Eric's picture at the same time they were looking at his, he decided he'd better get it right. Nothing like a little friendly competition to bring out the 'manly' in a bloke.

The photographer was squealing with glee. Professionality went right out the window when this woman was confronted with overt masculinity. She was making noises.

Karl smirked. It was hard not to be smug about it. He hoped Eric wouldn't have too tough a time measuring up to his standards.

Eric walked into the studio.

Karl just about dropped his bow.

Bloody obscene they were, the muscles on that man. Built like a brick shithouse, and his legs went on for days.

Karl didn't make a regular habit of ogling men's legs, but if he were to do so, he would definitely start with Eric's legs.

And then he would work his way up.

The skirt wasn't quite as short as Karl's, but it was short enough to show a good length of thigh. And the bottom of the chest piece just barely grazed the top of the skirt. Eric would only have to reach up to scratch his head and there would be a line of naked belly.

Karl didn't make a habit of ogling men's tummies either. Hadn't for years. It was completely unnerving. He hadn't been attracted to another man like this since... since he'd tried to make it as an actor in Australia, right before heading back home with his tail between his legs.

Well, he went home with his cock between his legs, limp from both overuse and a little bit of heartbreak and weariness of the whole fucking scene.

Swore off men after that, he did.

Eric reached up and fiddled with the silver bead things Celia'd put in his hair.

Oh, yeah, there it was - there was the tummy. Dark, soft-looking hair, smooth skin under that, not as ripped as it had been in Black Hawk Down, perhaps, but still looking very nice.

Of course Karl had seen Black Hawk Down. And he'd been shocked when he realised that the ridiculously lean and fit and American special forces operator was none other than Chopper. He'd known about Chopper because everybody knew about Chopper. Eric's transition from comedy to drama was stunning. Such a feat had never been accomplished so thoroughly, or so spectacularly, by any other actor Karl had ever heard of.

The transition from the American super soldier to Hector was even more impressive, as far as Karl was concerned. Chopper and Hoot were two sides of the same coin - macho, tough, determined, taking pain and hardship and forging ahead. Taking abuse, dishing it out, detached from it by their respective psychoses. Hector did the same amount of killing, but he did it for a cause, for a reason. He wasn't just a warrior, he wasn't just about violence and strength and triumphing over enemies. He was a family guy.

Karl was a family guy. He could understand that sort of thing. There's more to life than just being heroic. Hector cared about tradition and honour and commitment.

But all Karl really cared about were the muscles. Fucking huge and displayed perfectly in the little top and skirt. Not that the top and skirt were all that little, but they looked little on Eric.

Orlando's costume must have looked like a set of doll clothes next to Hector's.

Karl stepped down from the stage and accepted the large cup with the Dress/Success logo on it that Harvey held out for him. Cold lemon squash. Exactly what he needed to re-hydrate and calm down, get some perspective.

He'd been macho and smouldering and hot, and he knew it.

Eric looked like he knew it too. He mounted the stage tentatively and squinted a bit at the lights.

The photographer looked over at Karl. "You're making him nervous."

"Me? Why would I make him nervous?" Karl asked.

"I'm not nervous." Eric protested.

* * *

But Eric was nervous, because the only man he'd ever really been attracted to was standing in front of him, with his bared chest and tight leather trousers and a skirt, with a smug look on his face that showed he knew, he completely knew, that he was the only man Eric had ever been attracted to. The bastard.

Eric had, over the years, had the good fortune to come into contact with many exceptional, incredible men. Comedians and actors and racers and just regular blokes he'd met in garages or on the track or wherever. He liked people in general, and had developed friendships with all manner of men, and had never been attracted to them in a sexual way. Not even to Orlando.

No one believed him on that point. No one actually believed he could have worked with Orlando so closely without something happening. But Orlando looked at him as a big brother, and Eric simply wasn't attracted to men.

Eric wasn't attracted to men, that is, except for Karl.

Why Karl? Why not Brad or Josh or Ewan or Sean or any other man he'd worked with? Or any other man he'd not worked with? No, it had to be Karl, and Karl had to be standing there, Cupid himself, but with dark hair, which suited Karl so much better than the blond ever had, with his hand on his hip, over the curve of his hip, and that smirk on his face, knowing that Eric was fighting to stay upright now that all the blood was rushing to his groin.

He struck a suitably proud, masculine Hector pose and tried to ignore his aching cock. Don't be such a drongo, he told himself. It was stupid to get randy over a crush - a TV/movie star crush - like some fourteen-year old girl seeing Orlando and making that awful squealing noise.

The man behind the role is not the same as the role. Eric wasn't really Hector, and Karl wasn't Cupid or Éomer; he was a bloke, just like Eric, who had the good fortune to have a great job. And to look fucking fantastic while he did it - way better than Eric ever could.

* * *

Karl was momentarily rooted to the spot.

How stupid of him to ever think he could outdo Eric. Eric was manly and gorgeous and perfect in all the ways Karl would never be, because Eric was fucking Hector and he knew it.

Karl watched. He watched Eric be Hector, and he watched burly arms look menacing and legs-for-days move into a fighting stance and pecs shift under the heavy armour and dark eyes flash anger and pride and goodness, honest-to-god goodness, at the camera. Karl watched and felt the leather tighten across his crotch.

Never never never was he going to fall for another man. They were nothing but trouble. They had egos that got in the way and you had to constantly worry about exposure and bad publicity, and they demanded too much of you emotionally without giving anything back. He liked to think he'd been a better lover to women since he'd had his experiences with men. One man, actually. One man who'd turned him away from men forever.

But that had been a relationship. Karl had been young and inexperienced, and his lover was older, more experienced, and more than a little manipulative. It had turned out badly, for Karl. He had been too young, too in love. In lust. Love or lust, it didn't matter. People take advantage of you if you're too taken by them.

But this wasn't like a relationship. This was sheer physical attraction. Sex appeal. Hero worship. Mighty Hector. Massive Bana. Fucking hot, up on the stage, showing his body proudly, and there was plenty to be proud of, too. Karl stood and watched him pose, watched him inhabit the character and the costume effortlessly.

He didn't want Eric. He wanted the image Eric projected. That was it. It had nothing to do with the flesh and blood man. It was the look, the style, the charisma Eric was paid to project.

Then the photographer asked if Karl, since he was still in costume, wouldn't mind stepping up on the stage for a few shots. Not for the auction, but for publicity. The two of them, together, in a few photos to promote Dress/Success. Could they move a little closer, shuffle to the left, under the logo.

They could, and they did, and Karl felt the sweat trickle down his back, between the hastily glued wings. Any more sweat and he feared the glue would loosen and the bloody things would fall right off. Eric seemed to slouch a bit, maybe unwilling to look too much bigger than Karl, something Karl sometimes did around shorter people, so they wouldn't feel inadequate.

Well, he wasn't inadequate, goddamn it. No bloody actor, Eric fucking Bana or no Eric fucking Bana, was going to make him feel inadequate. Karl made a point of standing as tall as he could, as tall as Cupid was, and then Eric stood tall as well.

If it didn't turn out to be a good picture it would be the photographer's fault and no one else's, because Karl and Eric looked fucking fantastic, and they both knew it.

A phone rang shrilly in the next room, and Harvey scuttled off to deal with it.

"Fantastic!" the photographer cooed. "Bloody fantastic! You two are dynamite together, bloody terrific!"

* * *

By the time Eric stepped down from the stage, he felt as if he'd run a marathon. His heart was pounding in his chest, he was soaked with sweat, his breath was ragged. Another minute under those lights, next to that man, and he was going to kark it.

Karl didn't look much better. Bloody lights were too hot, there was no ventilation, and from the way Karl was squirming, the wings must have been killing him.

Harvey was jumping around the photographer, excited to the point of delirium. The photographer looked up at Eric and Karl with a mix of regret and triumph.

"I'm terribly sorry, lads, but we got a call from Baz. It seems Nicole is interested in posing in the red gown from Moulin Rouge. We've got to go meet the chairwoman of the board at Baz's place to set up the shoot."

"They went to school together," Harvey added as he packed up the equipment.

Who? Nicole and the photographer? Baz and the chairwoman of the board? Nicole and the chairwoman of the board?

And just how many years did the bloody chairwoman of the board go to this uni?

No time to ask. The photographer and her assistant had all the equipment packed up and were half out the door. "Would you mind terribly locking up?"

"What about Celia?" Eric asked.

"Oh, she's gone off to her other job. Dreadful inconvenience, I know, but that's the nature of the business. Just make sure the lock's turned before you close the door behind you, please. We'll be gone at least a few hours, and I'd hate to leave the place untended."

"No worries," Eric said, dumbfounded.

The door slammed behind Harvey with a bang.

"Well, what do you know about that? Off to hobnob with the A-list, just like that," Karl grumbled.

Eric shrugged. "Kind of reminds you what list you're on, eh mate?"

Was Karl blushing? NO, he was flushed from the heat of the lights.

"Me, maybe. I'd say you're up at the top of the list," Karl mumbled.

"Me? No, mate. You're much better known."

"I'm here wearing a costume from a silly TV show. You're the one in the blockbuster movie."

"Lord of the Rings was the biggest blockbuster ever, man. Don't knock yourself."

It was Karl's turn to shrug. "Maybe. But you know we're both probably better known for having been in movies with Orlando..."

Eric laughed nervously. "Yeah, that always seems to come up, doesn't it?"

They stood in silent awkwardness for a moment. Eric could handle this. Just your average after-work convo, couple of blokes being friendly. Couple of blokes in short skirts, one of them in leather with his nipples glittering like jewels and with a pair of bloody great...

The door swung open again to reveal the breathless Harvey. "Oh, Mr. Bana, do you think you could possibly help Mr. Urban with the, um... the wings?"

Eric cleared his throat. Fuck. Help Mr. Urban with his wings. His Cupid wings. He nodded.

"Cheers!" And Harvey was gone again.

Eric turned to Karl. Cleared his throat again. "You need some help with those wings?" Eric asked.

Karl wriggled his shoulders. Fuck, what that did to his pecs! Eric tried hard to not drool.

"Sure, if you don't mind," Karl said.

So Eric found himself in the tiny dressing room, with Karl Urban seated on a stool in front of him, while Eric tugged on the pair of cheap feathered wings stuck to his broad back.

Karl winced.

"Sorry, mate, they've loosened a bit at the edges but these things are glued on pretty good in the centre. Hang on, I'll pull this way, right? And you flex your lats a bit... see, it's coming loose now, just flex a bit more."

Was that sweat in Eric's eyes or was his vision, in general, blurring?

* * *

Eric's hand was massive on Karl's back, bracing him, holding his torso steady while Eric pulled the first wing off. The rip of the detaching glue was perversely satisfying. Eric brushed away at the bits of latex and glue, both hands on Karl's back now, kneading his muscles as he wiped the skin.

Karl couldn't wait to get back to his hotel. He would take a long, hot shower, wash away all the glue and make-up and oil, and then he would lie on his bed and have a massively satisfying wank, thinking about those hands elsewhere on his body.

The second wing was attached more securely. Eric had to wriggle it back and forth to loosen the glue.

"How the bloody hell was I supposed to get these things off by myself?"

"Dunno," Eric said. He grunted a bit as he forced the wing up off Karl's skin. "Would have stood out like a shag on a rock if you'd gone back to your hotel like this, eh?" He ripped the wing off suddenly, with a crackling noise, and Karl had to stifle a gasp.

Eric held the detached wing in his hand. The end of it dangled, broken. "Oops. Well, I'm sure they don't need them for anything else, right?" He looked hopeful.

Karl mumbled something about how he was never going to wear them again and tried to get up.

"Steady on, mate. Got to get this muck off you, don't we?"

Karl sat back down and closed his eyes. Fuck. Eric's hands were all over his back, picking off bits of glue. He stayed sitting while Eric went to get a flannels and towels, then Eric was washing Karl's back, carefully, covering every inch of it. Strong hands, big hands.

Fuck the hotel. He would get Eric to leave first, and then he would wank right here in the dressing room.

"Be done any tic of the clock," Eric muttered as he peeled off the last, stubborn bits of glue. Eric was drying Karl's back with the towel. "Look at this, they've got the bloody logo on the towel," Eric said.

Karl looked over his shoulder and saw the logo, embroidered on the white terry cloth skimming over his delts, propelled by Eric's hand.

Eric was still in his costume, and the top had ridden up, exposing a the line of bare belly. Why would a warrior have armour that exposed him so?

Troy was hotter than Middle Earth, Karl reasoned. That's why Éomer had never had to deal with that sort of wardrobe deficiency. He was grateful for the inclement weather of Middle Earth. Because if people looked at his little sliver of belly the way he was looking at Eric's little sliver of belly, he would feel naked.

"Logo on the coffee mug," Karl observed. Anything to get his mind off Eric's bare belly.

"Bloody hell, they've got logos on everything."

"That chairwoman must love promotions." Small talk. This was easy.

"The chairwoman is promotions, mate. She owns the biggest advertising company in the country. She owns the factories that make all this crap."

That explained it. The mugs and cups. The towels. The condoms.

Condoms?

Condoms!!

*****

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If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to: Haleth and Miranda Bell