Dancing Ch 01

Note: This is a love story with plot and no instant sex. This is the first of four chapters and they should be going up daily. If there is any resemblance to real people or actual events it's definitely unintentional!

* * * * * *

The hardest thing about being an actor is getting a break. Sometimes it's a lot more about luck than your ability and there are plenty of good people who don't get their chance to show their talent at the right time and in the right place. If you get that far, it may never come to much either. I knew the hard slog I had to get where I was, and that was a long way away from being a household name. However, I loved what I did and it didn't matter if I was never famous. It wasn't about fame or money for me.

Sometimes I wondered how much of the fame some gained was about their looks rather than their talent. Not that I was bitter about it, but I thought if maybe I was some willowy guy with a pretty face I'd be discovered. Not that I was ugly, but I wasn't so striking that my face wouldn't fade from the mind. I liked my dark brown eyes, and my body although it wasn't either slim or extremely built. I might have been able to show off the muscles I did have a little if I wasn't covered in hair.

I was 26 now, I'd had a few bit-parts on TV followed by a bit of stage work, and I was beginning to get a good reputation. My agent thought there were great things in my future, or at least great commission in his, which were the same thing really. He wasn't overly impressed at my latest choice of project though. He wanted the TV work because pay was better and it got me exposure that was effectively free publicity, but then it wasn't what I wanted. Sure I could have done several of the things he had found for me, but there was no challenge, no particular talent needed, and no credibility.

So I took a stage job, working on a new play by a well-known if slightly off the wall playwright. Done well, this play should be the one that put him firmly on the map. From my point of view, it was a good and fun mix of comedy and straight acting, demanding a lot from me and showing my acting skills to the public. It was bound to get good box office, if not the long sell-out runs that the West End enjoyed. If it went well we'd get an extended run somewhere a lot bigger. I learned my lines and the first few days of rehearsals were going well, and then I got told about the re-write...

* * * * * *

I stared at the director in disbelief.

"You have to be kidding me. I can't dance."

"The writer thinks the dream sequence is lacking something. The others dance, and it will work better if you do as well. It's supposed to be a weird dream, explaining what your character wants."

"He doesn't want to break something when he gets his legs tangled and falls over," I pleaded.

This was pretty much my worst nightmare, not a fantastic dream sequence. I wasn't graceful or delicate, and I had no rhythm at all. I acted, I sang, I wrote even, there was pretty much nothing in the theatre I couldn't do. If they put me in the lighting box I'd do a pretty good job of that, but there was no fucking way I could dance. I heard a couple of sniggers behind me, and it wasn't hard to believe that someone would be laughing at me.

"It will be fine. We'll get you some extra tuition. You've seen the routine, it isn't difficult."

I shut up then, not wanting to come across like some petulant child. I didn't have the power in the industry to say I wasn't going to do something and get it changed back. I was just going to have to do my best and hope that an uncoordinated lead actor was somehow going to work. I had seen the routine. It wasn't difficult for anyone else, those with dance training as well as acting, and the guys who were already doing it made it look really easy. Every one of them had been dancing since they were children.

So there I was, the next day, sat in an empty rehearsal room hideously early, wondering how the hell I was going to pull this off, and wishing that I had listened to my agent when he offered me the pointless character in a rubbish sitcom. At least I would have been paid by now, and I wouldn't have had to dance.

I was also wondering who had been lumbered with teaching me. I almost felt sorry for them, it was going to be one hell of a challenge. But last night, when I'd thought about it, I realised they didn't have a choreographer, it had all been done by one of the actors who was also a talented dancer. And then I had prayed that it would not be him...

God hadn't been listening. Matt walked through the door and I was sure my face fell even more than it was already at the thought of dancing. He didn't even look at me as he came in and set up a cd player. I looked at his back and willed him to disappear, or them to cancel the dance at the last minute, anything but having to spend time with a man who sat apart from all of us every moment he could and seemed to treat the rest of the world as though it wasn't worth his time.

When I had walked into our first rehearsal everyone had been friendly, but for one. He gave me a look up and down and his expression showed disdain. I didn't know then that he had wanted the lead, but it wasn't long before I learned that fact. However, it wasn't just me he didn't like, he seemed to have no time for anyone. Casual conversations never included him, he didn't deem us worthy it appeared. He sat alone and only interacted when he was actually working.

Whispers behind his back were that he hated me, hated all of us because he felt himself far superior, thought this whole thing was a waste of his time and talent. He always seemed aloof and that the only thing that mattered was himself. They said that he used to be a lot more friendly when he was totally unknown, but that his idea of friendly had been fucking most of his colleagues, male and female. How and when he had changed no-one seemed quite sure.

The thing was though, that despite his attitude people still swarmed round him, still tried to include him, and definitely still flirted with him. All that was because he was just beautiful. His eyes were bright blue, framed by long lashes and seemed to take in everything in just a glance, but they rarely looked up except when he was acting. His face was perfect, features balanced and slightly feminine but still strong and clearly all man, and gorgeous pink bowed lips that just begged to be kissed. His shoulder length blond hair kept falling into his face and he was always pushing or blowing it back so it was permanently slightly tousled as though he'd just got out of bed.

And everyone wanted to get him into one. The rumour that he bedded both men and women given half a chance meant that almost everyone tried, but all he did was dismiss them or ignore them. He never smiled, or kindly put them off, but still they tried. The worst part of it was that as much as he obviously hated me, I still thought about trying. It was only my self-respect and my low self-esteem when it came to relationships that stopped me.

Now I was trying hard not to look at his ass as he bent over to put the music on. He was fit and toned like a dancer should be, muscled in all the right places but nowhere was it too much. In short, he was perfection just so long as you didn't see his expression or hear him open his mouth. If they hadn't spoiled the picture I'd probably not have been able to control my urges.

He finally turned and I had a moment to look at the way his vest top hugged his six pack before he sat down, and then he spoke.

"Dance," he ordered. It didn't sound like a request, certainly.

"What?" I stupidly asked, just as the music started. He stopped it with the remote, and repeated his order, not even bothering to look at me.

"Dance."

"I can't."

Dumb thing to say, and it caused him to give me a look that showed nothing short of contempt.

"I know that. I need to see how bad you are so I can try and help."

He sounded pissed off, and his attitude annoyed me.

"You don't seem like the type who would want to help."

"They're paying me extra."

He completely dismissed me with that comment. He was in it for the money, which was no great surprise to me because he certainly wouldn't have been doing this out the goodness of his heart, if he even had one. The music came back on, and this time I didn't even wait for his order. I stumbled through the routine, losing my way several times, out of time with the music, and missing out anything that was remotely complicated. I ground to a halt as it finally ended, nearly losing my balance as a perfect finale.

I knew he'd been watching and that had made me even more nervous. He sat through the whole thing, so far as I could see, with those gorgeous lips in a tight line. As I tried to get my breath back I still heard his muttered comment of 'Jesus'. I took it that he was not impressed. I stayed standing to wait for my review, the silence seeming almost deafening.

"Can you even hear the music?" he eventually asked, with more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice. I know I glared at him in response, but he didn't even seem to notice. "You're not even in time, before we get into the fact you can't do half the moves."

"I said I couldn't dance," I replied defensively.

"I hoped you were joking. Apparently not. Now watch."

He stood and moved towards me, and despite myself and how much his attitude pissed me off, I still watched every move and my breath caught at the beauty of him just walking. Even that was done with a grace and style that I would never be able to muster. Then the music started up again and I stood watching in awe as he moved. His body turned and twisted, bent double at one point, moving perfectly to the beat and not missing a single step. He flowed through the movements, each arm and leg placed just right to make a balletic line.

I tried, I really did, but the sight of him doing those moves was as good as a private lapdance as far as my body was concerned. When he bent over in front of me, his ass pressing tight into his trousers, I nearly let out a moan. It had been far too long for me and he shouldn't be having this effect, but when he wasn't speaking and you could just appreciate the beauty, it was more than enough to have my cock twitching and starting to fill. I was relieved when the music ended and he stopped writhing. Thank god I really was a good actor, because when he turned to face me afterwards even the sight of his chest slightly heaving as he got his breath back didn't make me react visibly.

"That's what you need to do. Or as close as we can get in four weeks. Let's start at the beginning."

Two hours later I was mentally and physically exhausted. I couldn't even take any pleasure in his body moving any more, mine was in too much pain from the unexpected use of muscles I didn't know I had. I jogged and did weights to keep myself in shape, and it worked, but I wasn't used to this type of workout. He constantly got at me throughout, every mistake corrected and every move repeated so many times I couldn't count. And even at the end of it I wasn't hugely improved. I could stay standing, and I could attempt most of the moves. The key word was attempt.

* * * * * *

Four days later things were still only marginally better. I dreaded these lessons, him barking at me, rolling his eyes each time I fucked up, and at the end of every one just walking out without so much as a backward glance, muttering to himself in despair. He didn't speak to me except to tell me yet again to raise my arm, move in time, or relax. How the hell I was supposed to relax with him practically shouting at me I had no idea.

And if my dancing was only slightly better, other things were definitely worse. No matter how much I wanted to thump him during those sessions, I wanted to kiss him more. I fantasised about shutting him up, pressing my lips to his and making sure my tongue was so tangled with his he didn't have a choice. Even physically exhausted as I was at the end of each day, my thoughts as I lay in bed by myself drifted to visions of him dancing, losing clothes as he went so I could watch every movement as his skin glistened with sweat and he bent and twirled showing me his gorgeous body.

On Saturday we didn't have normal rehearsal, but he insisted I still get into work for a dance lesson. Yet again he watched me lumber through the routine, still not showing any grace or timing, and once again he corrected me with less and less patience, never looking at my face but noticing every mistake in footwork or where or how my hands were placed, every minute detail scrutinised and criticised. And I still hated him so much I wanted to fuck him and make him moan.

When my two hours of torture were over I breathed a sigh of relief. No more work today, I could just curl up and die somewhere and try not to think about him. Well that was my plan. For the first time, he actually spoke to me before leaving.

"You're coming out with me tonight."

Not a request, an order. I managed to gather enough energy to raise an eyebrow in surprise.

"Why? Where?"

"Trying a new tack. We're going clubbing so I can see how you dance with a few drinks in you. Perhaps that might relax you a little."

"I don't dance. Not even when I'm drunk."

"You will tonight. I'll pick you up at 8."

"As if this time with you wasn't bad enough, you want us to socialise?" I said, pretty much despairing at that point. I didn't want to go anywhere with him, although I wasn't quite sure whether that was because I hated him, or I was afraid that the other thoughts I had about him might come to the fore, particularly after a few drinks.

"It's not socialising. It's work," he replied, heading out the door. "Door policy is no jeans or trainers so dress up a bit."

"Bastard," I muttered under my breath as the door swung shut behind him. I looked down at my battered trainers and jeans with ripped holes in the knees and wished him some bodily harm. My brain supplied the idea of taking him hard without lube, and I groaned aloud a mix of despair and pleasure at the thought.

* * * * * *

I had never taken so long to get ready. How did you dress to go dancing with a man you hated and desired in almost equal measures? Not too slutty, it might look like I was after him even if I didn't say so. Fairly smart because he had insisted and I was bound to get into trouble if I didn't wear suitable clothes. I could almost picture the look of disgust before he came in and tore through my wardrobe to find something he would be prepared to be seen out with me wearing. I eventually found some trousers that were tight but not too much, and a nice v-neck top that was soft against my skin and again hugged but didn't look like I had painted it on. It showed a hint of my dark chest hair and my toned pecs, but wasn't too dressy. I even managed to find a pair of shoes.

When I opened the door to him he looked me up and down just like he had done the first time we met. His look was slightly less dismissive, I thought, up until he spoke. Funny how in my fantasies he never said a word. Moaned and cried, yes, but he never got to speak.

"You'll do."

I called him all kinds of names in my head, but had more sense than to bite back. I wasn't going to let him have the upper hand, and I would save any smart comments for when it would count. I was also busy, as he turned his back to me, noting how his clothes fitted him extremely well, highlighting all his best features. I'd love to bury my face and then my cock in between those tight buttocks.

He'd ordered a taxi, and I followed him into it silently. He'd set the tone of no smalltalk, so I wasn't that worried about talking to him if I didn't need to. I still didn't want to be here, and he knew it, so there was little point making polite conversation. He actually, for him, seemed quite happy though. Maybe going clubbing was something the man actually enjoyed. There was precious little that seemed to interest him other than getting onto the stage, but perhaps I was going to see him let loose a little. The thought intrigued me. Would he actually be friendly when drunk, or would it just be the same man only less steady on his feet? I couldn't picture him losing control. Well, I could, but those were just my sexual fantasies, and I didn't think in the real world he'd do anything out of the ordinary.

When the cab pulled up I saw the club and smiled inside. I bet he thought he could freak me out with this. Three rainbow flags flying, plus a couple of neon signs showing stylised male bodies intertwined. When I looked over at him he was wearing a smug grin. I didn't give him the satisfaction of a response. Clearly he had no idea I was gay and hoped I would react. All I was thinking was that if I had known I'd have dressed for pulling. I thought I saw a flicker of disappointment on his face when I got out the cab without a word or so much as flinching.

We got straight in, there was no queue at this time, although there were still plenty of guys inside, plus a few women, and the music was already thumping. I followed him to the bar, noting how even in this environment he maintained his detached demeanour. I guessed he was focussed on where he was going and not on anyone around him, so it was probably only me that saw the admiring glances sent his way. I wondered how he had ever bedded anyone if he ignored everyone around him, even me although we were there together.

He only spoke to me when we got to the bar so he could order me a drink. I noticed that he got me a double and himself only a single. He wanted to get me drunk, but not for anything good. If he seriously thought I would be any better of a dancer with a load of drink inside me he was in for an unpleasant surprise. If I couldn't co-ordinate sober, alcohol was not going to help. And relaxing around him was not something I wanted to do, even if it was possible. He had me on the edge of my nerves all the time, either in good ways or bad. Fuck it, I thought, and downed the drink, not caring that it was strong enough to burn my throat a little even with the mixer. Getting drunk might help me get through this.

He didn't even blink at the speed my drink disappeared, he just leaned over to the barman and ordered more, plus shots. I tipped my head back and let it slip down my throat, wishing the sweet schnapps he'd chosen was something entirely different pumping out of a hard cock. Perhaps I needed to get laid. He led me over to a table with a good view of the dancefloor and for the first time took in his surroundings, looking over the place but not intent on any one thing, certainly not one person. He didn't speak, just glanced at me when my drink started to get low even though I was taking this one slower, and slid out of his chair back to the bar before I could even suggest another round.

He came back with another drink for me plus another shot. I really didn't care now. He could deal with me being unable to walk and puking on him later. It would be only fair for all the shit he had put me through. I was going to do my very best to make his life a misery like he had been doing to me. I barely acknowledged him as he set the drinks down, but he broke his own silence.

"I'm going to dance. Stay here and I'll be back for you in a bit. You might want to start sipping those."

Fuck you, I thought, and took a gulp from the first glass. If I'd wanted to piss him off I should have done it sooner, because he had already turned his back on me and was off onto the floor.

I forgot to drink then, I just sat mesmerised as he moved, and I was far from the only one. He was under a spotlight, probably intentionally, but it highlighted his blond hair as it moved with his body. Unlike at work, his movement was less structured with fewer fancy tricks, but it was way more impressive despite that. He seemed to be completely one with the music, his graceful moves fitting the beat and the theme perfectly. And the theme of the songs was pure sex. He was like some kind of horny angel, his increasingly sexual movements seeming to work somehow with his innocent beauty. That wasn't quite right, with those clothes and those moves he couldn't be innocent, but the blonde hair and blue eyes with his slight femininity gave that impression anyway.