Fic: Pole Position (1 of ?)
Jun. 21st, 2006 04:13 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
obselizabeth.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
vigorliTitle: Pole Position
Author: obselizabeth
E-mail: obselizabeth@gmail.com
Live journal: www.livejournal.com/users/obselizabeth
Rating: Will be NC-17
Type: RPS
Pairing: ViggOrli (with a little Ian and Sean thrown in)
Warnings: it's slash, ladies :)
Disclaimer: wouldn't it be nice if we COULD see Orlando pole dancing?
Feedback: is the cream in my coffee
Summary: Viggo's a bored multi-gazillionaire...Orlando's a pole dancer
A/N: Thanks so much to my dear friend,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
namarie120, for begging me offering to beta this
Beta: The glamorousnamarie120
Twilight spread across the horizon, draping miniaturized buildings and cars in a mantle that spanned the full spectrum of color…plums, fuchsias, golds…all melding at the bottom towards their indigo goal of nighttime. The man, impeccably groomed, stared out over the city, unimpressed by the grandeur of the panorama before him, flicking an imaginary speck of lint from the perfect crease in his wool and cashmere suit pants. 'Ralph Lauren,' he mused, albeit mutely. Single breasted, 2 button, notch lapel, breast welt, lower flap pockets, center vent, double reverse pleated trouser with 1/4 top pockets…in charcoal. He'd attained a monetary level where he hired someone to shop for him.
Dim murkiness, due to the void of incandescent lighting, enveloped the man…his locks of straw and sunlight faultlessly coiffed. Glimmers of sapphire never left their unfocused abstraction out over the metropolis as he reached over slightly to retrieve a priceless cut glass pitcher of ice water to refill a sterling tumbler. Sumptuous opulence permeated every molecule inside his penthouse domain…even the leather of his chair made no sound as he settled back after returning the vessel of glass to its pad to catch every precious offering of condensation that slid down its angular façade.
He didn't watch the city though. Some deep, awful grief in him was touched suddenly, disastrously perhaps…set off by a sound, or the lack of it. Something happened…something long ago. He'd made a choice, and buried the truncated relationship within himself…digging a grave so deep into synapses and connectors of his brain that it might never be unearthed…covering with scars and too many long hours working to get where he was today. Blueness gave way to red and tears. He'd reduced himself to a non-feeling, hard-working machine.
Two fists banged down against the heavy, polished desk in front of him. "Dammit," the curse spat from his lips in a frustrated burst as he wiped the wetness from his cheeks.
A barely-audible rap against the thick, mahogany door softly interrupted his reverie.
"Come," he said simply. Yet even that word caressed the very air around him.
The door opened soundlessly, as his personal assistant entered…her heeled shoes quiet against the Oriental rug protecting the wood parquet flooring.
"Mr. Mortensen," she began, addressing him with respect as she had since she'd started working for him 13 years ago. "Security just informed me that Mr. McKellen's car has arrived. They'll direct him to your private elevator."
"Thank you, Miss Giraudeau," he replied coolly, glancing up to acknowledge her. Alexandra had proved to be his right arm at times, always making sure he was in the right places at the right times. He had no idea that tonight would exemplify another of those coincidences.
After laying a couple of files on the desk, Alexandra withdrew from the office noiselessly as she pulled the door closed behind her. Viggo smiled. It was not beyond his recognition that his efficient assistant placed the folders within his immediate grasp. He found everything within the files that he could have asked, including a sheet of personal information about his new, potential business partner. Running a forefinger down the bulleted list, he stopped short. Bullet number fifteen. 'Prefers young men as escorts.' His eyes never left the paper as his other hand reached over to push the call button for Miss Giraudeau to return.
"I wondered how long it would take you to find that *particular* bit of information," she laughed softly. As he tore his stunned fixation from the page in front of him, his eyes spoke an unverbalized question. "I've already reserved you a *secluded* table at an exclusive club not too far from here. They cater to the more elite, so it shouldn't be too uncomfortable for you."
She had no idea of Viggo's preferences, as he had never devoted any time to socialization. No photos on his desk. No requests for flowers sent or special birthdays to remember. Except for his mother. But nothing to give Alexandra any clues. She only knew he was there when she arrived in the morning, and usually there when she left at night. Realizing she had been standing there, wordlessly, for almost a minute, Alexandra cleared her throat. "They boast an excellent dinner menu, and even carry your favorite wine." Thankfully, a faint bell sounded, indicating his visitor had arrived. She excused herself and went to fetch the curious sounding Mr. McKellen.
Alexandra couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face as she approached the already-opening elevator doors. A tall yet slender older man *swept* into the reception area, with the flamboyance of Errol Flynn. Having spoken to the man a few times on the phone, she recognized his accent immediately. The tousled grey mop atop his head had a mind of its own. The beak of his prominent nose was as polished as if it was nothing more than mere cartilage itself. Not that he wasn't handsome, in his own way.
Bowing ostentatiously, Mr. McKellen gently took Alexandra's hand, and lifted it dramatically to his lips. "Miss Giraudeau, I presume," he said, drawing the words out spectacularly.
She giggled a bit, and only slightly suppressed a blush in her cheeks. "Mr. Mortensen is awaiting you, Mr. McKellen. Follow me. This way." Once they made their way into the still-dark office, she reached for the dimmer knob, illuminating the room only slightly. "Anything I can get you to drink, Mr. McKellen?"
As he stood and approached Ian, Viggo held out his hand in greeting. "I've got an excellent brandy, if you're interested."
Ian nodded to Alexandra. Viggo, too, dipped his head slightly indicating his desire for a snifter as well. Alexandra hastened to pour the liquor, and then turned to leave the two men to their discussions. Popping her head in the door just before she closed it behind her, Alexandra made one final comment. "Your dinner reservations are for 9:00. The show starts at 10. I'll have the limo waiting for you downstairs in 45 minutes." And with that, she shut the door behind her.
"Dinner? Show?" Ian asked, cocking a ragged eyebrow that begged to be trimmed.
"My all-too-prepared secretary has made us reservations for dinner and a *show* that she thinks you might find interesting. I've not been there myself, but she assures me the establishment comes with the finest recommendations…and discretion." Viggo didn't want to appear to belittle his colleague.
Taking a hefty nip of the potent, amber liquid, Ian smiled at Viggo. "You've piqued my interest, my dear boy…in both the business and pleasure propositions you've presented me."
Viggo pulled out the presentation, and began going over the facts of the proposed deal. Somewhere, however, in the back of his mind, the old memory wouldn't quit dancing.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Orlando liked this time of evening. The quiet time, when he could stretch, as he did before every performance, warming up muscles and mobilizing joints. The workout was habitual; having done it initially for strengthening and endurance…it was now efficient and familiar.
He only worked the later shows now, attaining the status of "best of the best". At first, it had been an interesting foray into exercise, combining muscular endurance and coordination as well as sensuality. Pole dancing was mostly a woman's business…performing for heterosexual businessmen who didn't get enough at home. Most of the men he knew who succeeded in the industry did so for women. Orlando found himself quickly bored with the screaming females waving their ones and fives in the air. No, he wanted something more…eloquent, more refined. And he found that performing for men. They didn't shriek and carry on like teenage girls. And they tipped a helluva lot more. But it wasn't the money Orlando alone that was after. It was the thought that just maybe…
No, he couldn't allow that sort of dreaming. He was a professional and could never permit himself to interact with any of his clientele.
Peeking out from back stage through the thick velvet drapes, Orlando stared out at the small number of men who had gathered for the early show. He wondered what brought them there. Homosexual preferences, certainly. But what else? What would drive the influential of the business world to watch his lithe body wrap around a 2" brass rod, executing athletic moves such as climbs, spins, and body inversions?
A gentle tap to his shoulder brought Orlando out of his daydream. It was Sean, the manager of the establishment known as 'The Kraze'. His accent was thick and syrupy, but he was a great boss and looked out for his employees. "I wanted to let ye know," Sean started, "that we've got an exceptional client booked for tonight. He and his guest will be seated in the side alcove table."
Orlando recognized that table, highly prized for its privacy, as one that only the highest level of client could afford…knowing their money would be well spent. He also knew it meant he would offer the gentlemen a private lap dance, if they were so inclined. Usually, Sean demanded a strictly 'hands off' policy from his patrons – but at times, when the dancer agreed, exceptions were made.
"I won't let you down, Sean," Orlando assured him.
"I know ye won't, laddie."
With that, Orlando turned, wanting to spend extra time readying himself for tonight's performance. Back in his dressing room, he found a freshly-opened bottle of wine and a glass awaiting him. Sean never worried that Orlando would ruin a show by becoming overly intoxicated. No, he knew that a glass (or two) would allow the beautiful young man to ease into the façade he portrayed on the dance floor. Smiling, Orlando picked up the bottle, Rioja Reserva, slowly pouring the warm, ruby liquid into the large, round vessel. He reveled in the aroma, both spicy and sweet. This was his favorite, and finding a bottle waiting on him was a gift from Sean. A gift for the clientele he drew night after night.
He turned, bringing the glass with him, licking a burgundy droplet from the corner of his full mouth. Then Orlando set out to dress for the evening. His costume wasn't necessarily *drag*. It was sensual. It was erotic. He'd found men's responses to this dress greater than if he'd shown up in tear-away pants. It gave him a persona to slip into. Tonight, he'd wear the black lace g-string…its front piece made of stretch lace that allowed the swell of his ample manhood to be clearly observed. He was glad he'd cleanly shaven the area earlier in the day.
Before donning the matching sheer black cropped top, Orlando reached for his jewelry box. Another swig of the Rioja and he'd decided on tonight's adornments. Pole dancers usually refrain from any jewelry…but Orlando knew what he *could* wear that wouldn't get in the way. A chain, just a foot long, encrusted with small yet sparkling rhinestones…on either end were small alligator clips that he secured onto his nipples. The instantaneous sting was deliciously familiar. He carefully pulled the sheer half t-shirt down over his trim yet well-toned chest, cautious not to disturb the clips. The shirt came down not quite over the fullness of his ribcage, which gave a lovely view of his taut stomach. He maneuvered a short, wrap-around skirt to cover his scantily-clad lower portion, and then slid his feet into high black patent leather pumps.
Refilling his glass, Orlando sat at the dressing table, applying thick kohl eyeliner with a precision to rival any makeup artist. A handful of mousse tousled through his hair ensured a non-sticky fluff to the longer coffee tresses atop his head. He didn't need cologne. Orlando possessed his own unique scent…a mix of musk and spice…a scent that became headier when he was truly aroused.
A final dusting of powder along the insides of his thighs, to ensure more of a grip and less chafing, and Orlando headed down the hallway, awaiting the music that would signify his entrance.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Their discussion had gone well…extremely well, both men thought to themselves. They'd both gain from the venture, and truly enjoyed each other's camaraderie. Unfortunately for Ian, Viggo wasn't his 'type'. Probably for the best, he thought to himself.
En route to the restaurant, they wound down their discussion in the comfort of an imposing black limousine. The mechanical monstrosity pulled silently in front of an exclusive-looking establishment. Certainly not one where you'd expect to find a haven for homosexual executives. Nonetheless, Viggo got out as the door was opened for him, and walked the few feet with Ian to the entrance.
Plush didn't begin to describe the sumptuousness awaiting them. How the maître d’ recognized them, Viggo didn't know. He was, however, glad for the quiet entrance, and lack of attention from any other guests. Once seated in the side alcove, Ian noticed a small card on the table.
"Welcome to The Kraze where we are currently enjoying the performance of the PoleKats, featuring Orlando, master of vertical dance."
Ian flipped the card in Viggo's direction. "However did you know, my boy?" he asked, laughter filling his voice. "I'm sure I'll enjoy this enough for both of us."
Just then, their waiter appeared. "A bottle of Bodegas Fernando Remirez de Ganuza 2001 Rioja Reserva," Viggo requested.
It was going to be an interesting evening, if Viggo could manage to quell the old demons he'd thought to be buried.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Author: obselizabeth
E-mail: obselizabeth@gmail.com
Live journal: www.livejournal.com/users/obselizabeth
Rating: Will be NC-17
Type: RPS
Pairing: ViggOrli (with a little Ian and Sean thrown in)
Warnings: it's slash, ladies :)
Disclaimer: wouldn't it be nice if we COULD see Orlando pole dancing?
Feedback: is the cream in my coffee
Summary: Viggo's a bored multi-gazillionaire...Orlando's a pole dancer
A/N: Thanks so much to my dear friend,
namarie120, for Beta: The glamorous
namarie120Twilight spread across the horizon, draping miniaturized buildings and cars in a mantle that spanned the full spectrum of color…plums, fuchsias, golds…all melding at the bottom towards their indigo goal of nighttime. The man, impeccably groomed, stared out over the city, unimpressed by the grandeur of the panorama before him, flicking an imaginary speck of lint from the perfect crease in his wool and cashmere suit pants. 'Ralph Lauren,' he mused, albeit mutely. Single breasted, 2 button, notch lapel, breast welt, lower flap pockets, center vent, double reverse pleated trouser with 1/4 top pockets…in charcoal. He'd attained a monetary level where he hired someone to shop for him.
Dim murkiness, due to the void of incandescent lighting, enveloped the man…his locks of straw and sunlight faultlessly coiffed. Glimmers of sapphire never left their unfocused abstraction out over the metropolis as he reached over slightly to retrieve a priceless cut glass pitcher of ice water to refill a sterling tumbler. Sumptuous opulence permeated every molecule inside his penthouse domain…even the leather of his chair made no sound as he settled back after returning the vessel of glass to its pad to catch every precious offering of condensation that slid down its angular façade.
He didn't watch the city though. Some deep, awful grief in him was touched suddenly, disastrously perhaps…set off by a sound, or the lack of it. Something happened…something long ago. He'd made a choice, and buried the truncated relationship within himself…digging a grave so deep into synapses and connectors of his brain that it might never be unearthed…covering with scars and too many long hours working to get where he was today. Blueness gave way to red and tears. He'd reduced himself to a non-feeling, hard-working machine.
Two fists banged down against the heavy, polished desk in front of him. "Dammit," the curse spat from his lips in a frustrated burst as he wiped the wetness from his cheeks.
A barely-audible rap against the thick, mahogany door softly interrupted his reverie.
"Come," he said simply. Yet even that word caressed the very air around him.
The door opened soundlessly, as his personal assistant entered…her heeled shoes quiet against the Oriental rug protecting the wood parquet flooring.
"Mr. Mortensen," she began, addressing him with respect as she had since she'd started working for him 13 years ago. "Security just informed me that Mr. McKellen's car has arrived. They'll direct him to your private elevator."
"Thank you, Miss Giraudeau," he replied coolly, glancing up to acknowledge her. Alexandra had proved to be his right arm at times, always making sure he was in the right places at the right times. He had no idea that tonight would exemplify another of those coincidences.
After laying a couple of files on the desk, Alexandra withdrew from the office noiselessly as she pulled the door closed behind her. Viggo smiled. It was not beyond his recognition that his efficient assistant placed the folders within his immediate grasp. He found everything within the files that he could have asked, including a sheet of personal information about his new, potential business partner. Running a forefinger down the bulleted list, he stopped short. Bullet number fifteen. 'Prefers young men as escorts.' His eyes never left the paper as his other hand reached over to push the call button for Miss Giraudeau to return.
"I wondered how long it would take you to find that *particular* bit of information," she laughed softly. As he tore his stunned fixation from the page in front of him, his eyes spoke an unverbalized question. "I've already reserved you a *secluded* table at an exclusive club not too far from here. They cater to the more elite, so it shouldn't be too uncomfortable for you."
She had no idea of Viggo's preferences, as he had never devoted any time to socialization. No photos on his desk. No requests for flowers sent or special birthdays to remember. Except for his mother. But nothing to give Alexandra any clues. She only knew he was there when she arrived in the morning, and usually there when she left at night. Realizing she had been standing there, wordlessly, for almost a minute, Alexandra cleared her throat. "They boast an excellent dinner menu, and even carry your favorite wine." Thankfully, a faint bell sounded, indicating his visitor had arrived. She excused herself and went to fetch the curious sounding Mr. McKellen.
Alexandra couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face as she approached the already-opening elevator doors. A tall yet slender older man *swept* into the reception area, with the flamboyance of Errol Flynn. Having spoken to the man a few times on the phone, she recognized his accent immediately. The tousled grey mop atop his head had a mind of its own. The beak of his prominent nose was as polished as if it was nothing more than mere cartilage itself. Not that he wasn't handsome, in his own way.
Bowing ostentatiously, Mr. McKellen gently took Alexandra's hand, and lifted it dramatically to his lips. "Miss Giraudeau, I presume," he said, drawing the words out spectacularly.
She giggled a bit, and only slightly suppressed a blush in her cheeks. "Mr. Mortensen is awaiting you, Mr. McKellen. Follow me. This way." Once they made their way into the still-dark office, she reached for the dimmer knob, illuminating the room only slightly. "Anything I can get you to drink, Mr. McKellen?"
As he stood and approached Ian, Viggo held out his hand in greeting. "I've got an excellent brandy, if you're interested."
Ian nodded to Alexandra. Viggo, too, dipped his head slightly indicating his desire for a snifter as well. Alexandra hastened to pour the liquor, and then turned to leave the two men to their discussions. Popping her head in the door just before she closed it behind her, Alexandra made one final comment. "Your dinner reservations are for 9:00. The show starts at 10. I'll have the limo waiting for you downstairs in 45 minutes." And with that, she shut the door behind her.
"Dinner? Show?" Ian asked, cocking a ragged eyebrow that begged to be trimmed.
"My all-too-prepared secretary has made us reservations for dinner and a *show* that she thinks you might find interesting. I've not been there myself, but she assures me the establishment comes with the finest recommendations…and discretion." Viggo didn't want to appear to belittle his colleague.
Taking a hefty nip of the potent, amber liquid, Ian smiled at Viggo. "You've piqued my interest, my dear boy…in both the business and pleasure propositions you've presented me."
Viggo pulled out the presentation, and began going over the facts of the proposed deal. Somewhere, however, in the back of his mind, the old memory wouldn't quit dancing.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Orlando liked this time of evening. The quiet time, when he could stretch, as he did before every performance, warming up muscles and mobilizing joints. The workout was habitual; having done it initially for strengthening and endurance…it was now efficient and familiar.
He only worked the later shows now, attaining the status of "best of the best". At first, it had been an interesting foray into exercise, combining muscular endurance and coordination as well as sensuality. Pole dancing was mostly a woman's business…performing for heterosexual businessmen who didn't get enough at home. Most of the men he knew who succeeded in the industry did so for women. Orlando found himself quickly bored with the screaming females waving their ones and fives in the air. No, he wanted something more…eloquent, more refined. And he found that performing for men. They didn't shriek and carry on like teenage girls. And they tipped a helluva lot more. But it wasn't the money Orlando alone that was after. It was the thought that just maybe…
No, he couldn't allow that sort of dreaming. He was a professional and could never permit himself to interact with any of his clientele.
Peeking out from back stage through the thick velvet drapes, Orlando stared out at the small number of men who had gathered for the early show. He wondered what brought them there. Homosexual preferences, certainly. But what else? What would drive the influential of the business world to watch his lithe body wrap around a 2" brass rod, executing athletic moves such as climbs, spins, and body inversions?
A gentle tap to his shoulder brought Orlando out of his daydream. It was Sean, the manager of the establishment known as 'The Kraze'. His accent was thick and syrupy, but he was a great boss and looked out for his employees. "I wanted to let ye know," Sean started, "that we've got an exceptional client booked for tonight. He and his guest will be seated in the side alcove table."
Orlando recognized that table, highly prized for its privacy, as one that only the highest level of client could afford…knowing their money would be well spent. He also knew it meant he would offer the gentlemen a private lap dance, if they were so inclined. Usually, Sean demanded a strictly 'hands off' policy from his patrons – but at times, when the dancer agreed, exceptions were made.
"I won't let you down, Sean," Orlando assured him.
"I know ye won't, laddie."
With that, Orlando turned, wanting to spend extra time readying himself for tonight's performance. Back in his dressing room, he found a freshly-opened bottle of wine and a glass awaiting him. Sean never worried that Orlando would ruin a show by becoming overly intoxicated. No, he knew that a glass (or two) would allow the beautiful young man to ease into the façade he portrayed on the dance floor. Smiling, Orlando picked up the bottle, Rioja Reserva, slowly pouring the warm, ruby liquid into the large, round vessel. He reveled in the aroma, both spicy and sweet. This was his favorite, and finding a bottle waiting on him was a gift from Sean. A gift for the clientele he drew night after night.
He turned, bringing the glass with him, licking a burgundy droplet from the corner of his full mouth. Then Orlando set out to dress for the evening. His costume wasn't necessarily *drag*. It was sensual. It was erotic. He'd found men's responses to this dress greater than if he'd shown up in tear-away pants. It gave him a persona to slip into. Tonight, he'd wear the black lace g-string…its front piece made of stretch lace that allowed the swell of his ample manhood to be clearly observed. He was glad he'd cleanly shaven the area earlier in the day.
Before donning the matching sheer black cropped top, Orlando reached for his jewelry box. Another swig of the Rioja and he'd decided on tonight's adornments. Pole dancers usually refrain from any jewelry…but Orlando knew what he *could* wear that wouldn't get in the way. A chain, just a foot long, encrusted with small yet sparkling rhinestones…on either end were small alligator clips that he secured onto his nipples. The instantaneous sting was deliciously familiar. He carefully pulled the sheer half t-shirt down over his trim yet well-toned chest, cautious not to disturb the clips. The shirt came down not quite over the fullness of his ribcage, which gave a lovely view of his taut stomach. He maneuvered a short, wrap-around skirt to cover his scantily-clad lower portion, and then slid his feet into high black patent leather pumps.
Refilling his glass, Orlando sat at the dressing table, applying thick kohl eyeliner with a precision to rival any makeup artist. A handful of mousse tousled through his hair ensured a non-sticky fluff to the longer coffee tresses atop his head. He didn't need cologne. Orlando possessed his own unique scent…a mix of musk and spice…a scent that became headier when he was truly aroused.
A final dusting of powder along the insides of his thighs, to ensure more of a grip and less chafing, and Orlando headed down the hallway, awaiting the music that would signify his entrance.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Their discussion had gone well…extremely well, both men thought to themselves. They'd both gain from the venture, and truly enjoyed each other's camaraderie. Unfortunately for Ian, Viggo wasn't his 'type'. Probably for the best, he thought to himself.
En route to the restaurant, they wound down their discussion in the comfort of an imposing black limousine. The mechanical monstrosity pulled silently in front of an exclusive-looking establishment. Certainly not one where you'd expect to find a haven for homosexual executives. Nonetheless, Viggo got out as the door was opened for him, and walked the few feet with Ian to the entrance.
Plush didn't begin to describe the sumptuousness awaiting them. How the maître d’ recognized them, Viggo didn't know. He was, however, glad for the quiet entrance, and lack of attention from any other guests. Once seated in the side alcove, Ian noticed a small card on the table.
"Welcome to The Kraze where we are currently enjoying the performance of the PoleKats, featuring Orlando, master of vertical dance."
Ian flipped the card in Viggo's direction. "However did you know, my boy?" he asked, laughter filling his voice. "I'm sure I'll enjoy this enough for both of us."
Just then, their waiter appeared. "A bottle of Bodegas Fernando Remirez de Ganuza 2001 Rioja Reserva," Viggo requested.
It was going to be an interesting evening, if Viggo could manage to quell the old demons he'd thought to be buried.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-06-21 09:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-21 09:51 pm (UTC)poledancing!Orli? yes, please!
no subject
Date: 2006-06-21 11:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-22 12:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-22 01:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-22 01:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-22 03:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-22 04:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-22 08:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-22 12:17 pm (UTC)I'm sure it's going to turn out to be an amazing read - a most excellent start anyway!!
no subject
Date: 2006-06-22 01:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-23 02:17 pm (UTC)Don't forget to post pictures of the pole dancing!
no subject
Date: 2006-06-23 02:28 pm (UTC)as for pictures....i'm WORKING on that....not many piccies of a male pole dancer :)
no subject
Date: 2006-06-23 03:23 pm (UTC)