Direction by LauraM And Kathy

The last fuckin' HIM video, my first one ever, was a bitch to shoot. But it was on my turf, with my handpicked crew, and the lovely Juliet. I was in control. But here -- Prague. Well, it wasn't my dumbass idea to use this location. Yeah, it's pretty and all. Spires and gothic shit like that, but so far, nothing's really gone our way. The wedding we didn't know was happening at our location on the first day, problems with equipment, people not always getting along . . . well, that part isn't so different. Personalities sometimes don't mesh. At least Ville and I do . . . mesh that is. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be doing any of this. He's worth the hassle, very worth it.

I'm looking up at him now. He's on the balcony, singing along with the backing track. The crane lifts the camera up. Ville smiles.

"Don't fuckin' smile!" I yell. I have to yell because some dick forgot to bring the bullhorn.

Ville grins and shrugs a shoulder at me. He isn't singing anymore. We'll have to do it again. I motion for them to re-start the track. The camera's still rolling.

"Ville, stop smiling!" I'm not kidding. I stamp my foot like any good director. "You're sexier when you don't smile!"

Someone near me snickers. Fuck 'em. Why should I care what anyone thinks? Ville shoots me the finger; he's not smiling now. He steps back, moving into position again as the track re-starts. He slides forward. That's the only way I can describe how he moves, s-sliding. That black shirt he's wearing makes him look really thin. Snake-like. Sexy. And this take is perfect.

Before long, it's time to move all our crap inside and film some interiors. I have my notes with me -- first it'll be Ville without his shirt on the bed; Ville walking around the bed, then Ville walking down the stairs. For now, the rest of the band isn't needed. The fuckers, they're probably getting drunk somewhere in Prague. Which is where I wish I was . . . with Ville. Having to direct him like this, in front of people -- even though I say I don't care what other people might think. That it doesn't bother me. Sometimes it does. As goddamn crazy as it sounds sometimes I do get embarrassed. Like when he's looking toward me, toward the camera with those eyes of his. Those lips. I can feel the heat rush to my face, and the blood to my dick, because he's just so fuckin' beautiful. Way more beautiful than the girl we chose from the modeling agency to play his "love interest." Hell, she's like a candle to his bonfire. Who says skateboarding punks aren't poetic? I grin to myself while Ville sits down on the bed.

"What are you smiling at, Bam?" he asks. His voice is so deep that sometimes I don't understand him. This time, I do, especially since he's speaking carefully, stressing the words "you" and "smiling." I wonder if he's really pissed about earlier. The balcony. But when I look over at him, he doesn't look pissed. He has that look -- that playful look that means we won't get much work done if we start gabbing and joking like kids. Never mind the fact that I'd love to jump him and pin him to the bed, grind against him so he can feel how hot he makes me. Of course that's not gonna happen, not in front of the camera crew anyway. Maybe later though. Yeah, later. That's what I live for, when I'm with him. What we can do alone together . . . later. Even though it's never gone very far, I still enjoy what we do when we're alone.

So for now I settle for some teasing. "Take your shirt off," I tell him, straight-faced.

"What?"

"Your shirt," I repeat, "take--it--off."

"Why?" The tone of his voice, the lift of an eyebrow, gives it away. He's up for the teasing.

I shake the script notes at him. "Because it says here that you lie on the bed without a shirt and grab your cock."

"Does it? Really?" He rolls the "r". It's like he's rolling his tongue around the head of my dick (which he hasn't yet). I'm totally getting a hardon. It doesn't help when he starts to slowly unbutton his black shirt, and I get a peek at the tattoo around his nipple. The crew's whistling now, egging him on, while he eases the shirt off his shoulders, slips his arms out. His sleeve tattoo . . . the one I'm too chicken shit to have done on myself . . . I admire it. What a thing of beauty. What a vision. All of him. Of course he hasn't taken his jeans off. That would be murder. Even so, he leans back on the bed, supports himself on one arm and grabs his crotch. I bite my lip. Jesus!

Our still photographer asks him to lie back on the bed. Ville does. The guy shoots a couple of pics. One for my photo collection for sure! Then it's back to business, unfortunately. I crouch so that the bulge in my jeans is less noticeable, to the crew at least. I motion for the track to start -- the song's speeded up for the sake of slow motion in post-production. Ville always looks so hot in slow motion. Of course he looks a bit like a dork now trying to keep his mouth in sync with the lyrics. Honestly though, there's not much that can make Ville even the least bit unattractive. Damn, he could be falling down drunk and still have enough presence, or whatever you call it, to be irresistible. I'm not like him, much as I want to be, even as much as I try to be. I just don't have what he does.

I'm reminded of that now, as he stares my way, into the camera just beside me. Singing. Fast, yeah, but still sexy. I have to remind him again not to smile. As much as that brooding Finnish rock star image follows him around, he smiles more than anyone would think. I'd like to think it's because of me, because I'm the one behind the camera. I'd like to believe that anyway.

Once we're done with the shirtless-bed scene, as I call it, the equipment gets packed up for a move to the basement. Where it's dark. And we have to spend several boring minutes trying to get the lighting just right. We use a stand-in for Ville, who's gone outside for a smoke. When everything's finally set up, I go outside to find him. He's leaning against a tree. Cigarette between his lips. Long coat fluttering around him in the wind. Yeah, Prague is goddamn cold right now. I'd take LA any day over this gloom. But hell, home is . . . right?

"Ready?" Fuck, there he goes again with that accent.

"It's time for you to stand in for the stand-in," I say, gently easing the cigarette from his lips and taking a puff. It's a move that makes me feel close to him. What's the word? Intimate.

I want more.

"Hey, that look's no good," I tell him, motioning to his bundled up self. "You gotta show some skin."

He rolls his eyes. "And what exactly do you suggest? Should I walk down the basement stairs without pants?"

The thought makes me smile. The long black shirt fluttering against long white legs. Mmmmm. But no. I hand back the cigarette, which he drops and stomps out. "How about this?" I reach for him, unbutton three buttons on his shirt so that his heartagram belly tattoo is showing, just a little over the hem of his jeans. My fingers skim over the ink.

He leans forward, whispers something in my ear . . . in Finnish. I hear it so much now that I recognize, but don't understand it. Then he speaks in English. "Do you want to touch me?" He doesn't even wait for an answer. He unbuttons his jeans, pulls down the zipper . . . all flesh. My hand takes a dive. I ache to touch him. Stroke him. Look at his face, his beautiful face, when he moans and closes his eyes. I kiss his slightly parted lips as I pump his dick. Jesus, don't I wish every break were like this. Just the two of us, alone. Getting each other off.

But it isn't always. And people are waiting, the clock is ticking, and money is wasting; the goddamn video isn't going to make itself. Seppo might not hire me back if I don't get my act together. Shit! I force myself to stop before I've really started. "We should . . ." I nod my head back toward the estate.

"Yeah," he agrees, clearly frustrated, "time is money and such . . ." He arranges himself back in his jeans. And starts to button his shirt again.

I bat his hands away. I drop to one knee in front of him and fix his shirt again. Gotta see that tattoo in the vid. Without thinking, I lean forward and kiss his exposed belly. I look up at him. His hand is in my hair, his face all I see. Fuck, he really is worth all this hassle. Damn the wedding, the shitty equipment, the lighting . . . just to be here with him, like this. And later . . . yeah, later it'll be even better.

******************************************

I didn't think we'd ever be done. For a while it seemed I had finally wandered into hell and hell was an endless video shoot. But we are done, and I can hear them now, their faraway voices.

"Let's get out of here. I need a beer."

"Me too. Where's Ville?"

"Don't know. Probably just taking a piss or something."

"Aww Jesus, I want to leave," someone whines.

Then his voice, Bam's. "I'll find him. You guys go on. Take the van and just leave me the car."

I hear the shuffling as they all trudge out of the house, doors slamming and then his voice again. "Ville!!" It comes closer, than fades, as he goes through the house looking for me. Good. Let him come find me.

"Fuck you Ville! Where the hell are you?" I hear him say, annoyance in his voice.

Yeah. Fuck me. He's getting closer. I lean back, waiting.

When he walks into the room he stops short and his jaw drops. I like that. Like that I have managed to shut him up if nothing else. Like that I'm calling the shots now. All day long people have been telling me what to do. He's been telling me what to do. I don't take direction well. It's not in my nature.

"Is this what you had in mind before?" I say, sliding my hand into my jeans as he enters. "You said you wanted me to grab my cock. Right?" I know I make a lovely picture, shirtless, sprawled out on the bed, those rumpled red satin sheets underneath me. And he already knows I'm not wearing anything under my jeans.

"What the fuck?"

"Come here, Bammy-boy. You want to make sure I have this right?"

He still just stands there, confused. The kind of fooling around we've done up until now, the drunken groping, kissing, often for the benefit of the cameras, has always been a joke. More or less. But when he touched me before I wanted more. Maybe I just want what he denied me, because he had denied me, because he'd put a stop to it before I had gotten what I wanted. I don't take denial well either. Or maybe it was something else? Maybe I just wanted to make sure he did want me and not the gig. Over the past few years I'd gotten pretty used to people who didn't give a fuck about me, who only cared about what I could do for them, or how much money I could make for them. Or how important it would make them feel to be my friend. I wanted to think that Bam wasn't another one of those. Was I just satisfying my own itch or putting him to the test?

"Maybe you should show me how to do it then? Why don't you lay down here and show me? C'mon."

I get off the bed and walk over to him, slowly, circling him when I get there, looking him over. I know the effect I have. I know I turn him on. I'm just not sure why. "Lose the shirt," I tell him. And he does, revealing a new tattoo, one I didn't know about. He's always going on about being too scared to get one on his arm and yet he now has an intricate one covering one side of his torso, with a heartagram right in the middle. Not like him not to tell me. "And the shoes." Again, he does what I tell him to do. I can see why he likes directing, why he so clearly gets off on it. Well, he's had his chance all day, and I've been chafing all day under his direction. Let him chafe for a bit now.

"Lie down on the bed. Now, what exactly did you want to see me doing?" He's still a little wide-eyed as he moves toward the bed. And then he grins. This is a game, this must be a game, he's thinking. Like the game he started playing with me before. Like the games he keeps playing with me. And he's ready to play again.

"I wanted to see you doing this," he says as he lies down, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans and slipping a hand in, moving it around in a very familiar motion.

"Was that really in the script?" I ask, all innocence, rolling my "r" again for his benefit. I can tell he likes my accent.

"Yeah, I changed it."

"Without asking me?"

"I can do that. I'm the director," he replies. He's still feeling himself and clearly making himself feel quite good.

"Not anymore, Bammy-boy." I look at his hand down his pants and I flash back to his hand down my pants this afternoon. "Is that all you wanted me to do?"

"You didn't say 'action,'" he reminds me. "Every good director knows when to say 'action'"

I drape myself over his body, being careful not to actually touch him, and whisper into his ear. "Action."

As soon as I say the word his hips buck up, hitting mine, and his hand begins working harder, faster. I can feel its movement between us, working his own cock but also grazing mine. Just watching him is enough to get me hard. His lips are parted, his breathing gets heavier, his eyes are half shut though he's still watching me watch him. Feeling him writhe underneath me has me reaching for my own zipper. Again.

"I don't think the camera will catch that. I think you need to take your pants off," I say close to his ear again, and without waiting I pull them down and off of him. His hand doesn't miss a beat. I guess that skater's coordination comes in handy in other areas as well.

I kneel between his legs, watching him work his cock. I know he's getting off on me watching him. I'm getting off on the fact that he's getting off on me watching him. How fucked is that? I wonder if it's our dicks or our egos that have the bigger hard-ons at the moment. I reach down to cup his balls and his head shoots up. His eyes lock on mine, and he smiles. "Oh, you have a part in this one too, huh?" I'm annoyed suddenly about how this seems like just another part of the video. For once I'd like to be sure that something is real, but I suspect that this is not the time or the place to start looking for what's real.

"Shut up," I tell him as I palm his balls some more, letting my index finger work against his hole, nudging inside just the slightest bit. He throws his head back and arches and a minute later he is shooting all over his belly and I'm watching, fascinated by the sight of cum dripping over his tattoo, my tattoo. Weird.

When his dick stops throbbing and he opens his eyes I grab his shoulders and flip us over so that I'm underneath him.

"Shot not done yet?" he asks.

"No," I growl back. "Suck me."

Somewhere between the "suck" and the "me" it goes from being a command to a request. And one I'm not so sure he'll fulfill. My jeans are already open but I push them down now, really baring my body to him for the first time. He had walked away from me this afternoon, putting the job before me. Will he walk away? Or will he do what I so want him to do?

Oh god yes. As if on cue, his mouth slides over my dick, laying to rest any fears that I may have had. But it becomes clear he hasn't done this much. Too much teeth, not enough tongue. And he gags!! Has he ever??? But then his tongue replaces his teeth and it swirls around the head of my dick, his lips locked tightly and he sucks and slurps, not quite getting the hang of it but not getting it too wrong either. Not that technique is all that important right now. It's not going to take much to bring me off at this point. I lift my head and see him working and that's all I really need. I begin to come in his mouth. But he's gagging again. He lets go as I finish coming onto my own belly. Now both our tattoos are covered in cum.

He flops on the bed beside me, facing away, embarrassed, I think, by what he's just done. Or not done. I'm not so sure what just happened myself. And even less sure that I want to know. I turn on my side and trace his new tattoo with one finger.

"Why didn't you tell me about this one?" I ask, trying to get past this "moment". But he's staying quiet. "I thought you were going to get the sleeve."

"Yeah well, my heart's already on my sleeve."

I shoot him a look just as his cell phone rings. He gets up to find his pants and fumbles through his pockets trying to find the damn thing. While he does that I stand up to zip my pants and find my shirt. They want to know where the hell we are. Good question, I think as I light up a cigarette.

Very good question.

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