Revue (2 page)

After finding the ladies room, splashing water on my flaming cheeks, and staring at my reflection in the hope that what I’d just witnessed was a mind trick, I realised I was wasting time. It wasn’t a mind trick; Josh Adams had just screwed a skanky groupie backstage then offered to do the same to me.

Disgusting.

To be honest, it really shouldn’t have surprised me, as the Wild Nights research—also known as social media snooping—that I’d conducted, had given me a vague grasp of the guys’ public personas. According to Twitter, Facebook and Instagram, Josh was an active party animal and thrived on the attention of the women he seduced during the show. He even had a trademark whisper: hushed words of promised sex into the ear of the woman he wished to fuck. Talk about degrading and an instant label that said T Minus Thirty Minutes Until I Become A Notch On Josh Adams’ Belt Of Meaningless Fucks.

Whatever.

That was
his
thing, and each to their own, I guess.

After leaving the ladies room, I managed to track down the Wild Nights’ manager, Patsy: a buxom, shorthaired lesbian with a mouth as bold as the sun. Yet despite her in-your-face, say-it-like-it-is personality, she was also lovely and armed me with every detail needed for the nationwide tour set to begin the coming Wednesday.

Tonight’s performance by the revue was a practice session, a chance for the guys to test their abilities on stage in front of competition winners and charity recipients. And, in Josh’s case, apparently it was also a chance to test their abilities ‘off stage’ as well.
“Want to ride my cock like this bitch just did?”
Ugh.
The guy, despite his impeccable arse, was an outright prick.

“Corinne, did you want to take some test pictures now, while you’re here? The guys have one or two more performances before they’re done for the night,” Patsy asked, dragging me away from my thoughts.

I lifted my gaze and made eye contact with her. “Yes.” I smiled. “If you don’t mind.”

“No sweat, hon.” She clapped her hands excitedly before rubbing them together. “Excellent! Okay, you’ll need this for tonight.” She handed me a lanyard that read, ‘Crew’. “It’s temporary. I’ll have your official access pass ready by next week.”

Smiling, I accepted the neckpiece, slipped it over my head then headed out of the office, making my way toward the large room where the guys were currently performing.
Okay, Cori, you can do this. You can take photos of naked dancing men. Easy!
I gave myself an affirmative nod.
I mean, really, how hard can it be?

Turning the corner, I’d just finished mentally revving myself up when I instinctively stumbled to the side to avoid crashing into one of said naked guys, as he bounded down the backstage stairs with a white towel wrapped around his waist.

“Shit!” he said, grabbing my shoulders to stop me from falling.

I latched onto his arms, steadying myself. “Whoa!”

“Sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was go—“ His words cut short when the towel wrapped around his waist unravelled and slipped down his thighs. I watched it drop before he quickly snatched it back up again, my eyes copping a peek of his impressive package during the process.

Nice.

Very nice!

“No, no, it’s all good,” I said, trying not to smile and tilting my head up, diverting my stare to the white and green exit sign glowing just above us. “I’ll need to learn not to get in your way.”

Stripper Dude One—because I wasn’t quite sure if he was Wild Nights twin Brad or Noah—reached forward and flipped my lanyard tag. His eyes then flicked to my camera in acknowledgment, which was hanging from a strap around my neck. “You must be the tour photographer.”

“Yep, that would be me.” I nodded slowly, my friendly sarcasm emphasised by my over enthusiastic smile.

Stripper Dude One chuckled then sized me up, performing a quick once-over with his wandering gaze. “Excellent!”

I scoffed and shook my head, unable to hide my smile. “Really?”

“Yeah, really! The name’s Brad,” he said, offering his hand to shake.  “Or Surfer, as I’m called.”

Brad was tanned with dirty blond, medium length hair. His eyes displayed a blue hue of mischief, and from what I could see he wasn’t a hell of a lot taller than I was, my guess being roughly six foot one. He was incredibly hot, no doubt about it—the epitome of Aussie Surfer Sex God.

Placing my hand in his, I took note of the black tribal tattoo circling his left bicep—a bicep that would near put Popeye’s to shame. “Corinne,” I said, shaking his hand, “or Cori, as I’m called.”

A boyishly seductive grin spread across his face as he lifted my hand to his lips. “Pleased to meet you, Cori.”

Smooth. The guy was smooth.

I gently pulled free of his grip and patted his cheek in a playful manner. “Pleased to meet you too, but don’t get any ideas.”

“What?” he asked, cracking up laughing and slowly stepping backward, his hands raised in surrender. “What ideas?”

“Just … ideas,” I reiterated, smiling as I turned on my heel and headed toward the screaming chaos that was a room full of horny, drunk women.

As I was about to enter that world of crazy, he called out, “Hey, Cori!”

I stopped and pivoted. “Yeah?”

“Just so you know, I’m starting to get many ideas. Good ideas.
Really
good ideas.” He saluted me and disappeared around a corner, leaving me wide-mouthed.
Holy hell! How am I going to put up with these ridiculously good-looking male tarts for the next three months?

The answer was simple: I was screwed. Seriously fucking screwed!

***

The noise. Women … everywhere. Screaming, wolf whistles, the chinking of glasses—it was all hurting my ears.

Setting myself up front and left of stage, I held my camera to my eye, the near naked men performing visible when I manually adjusted the focus on my lens.
Why hello there, dancing testosterone.
I could honestly say that what filled my viewfinder made me smile—it wasn’t all that bad.

After Tom had had his accident and the reality that I would have to take his place on the tour dawned on me, I couldn’t have been more opposed to the idea. Near-naked, testosterone-fuelled men on stage just weren’t my photographic muses of choice. I was a scenic photographer—landscapes, colours, textures … places of beauty. Not sweaty, over-sexed, dancing and thrusting men.
Still … I’m sure I’ll live.

Snapping a couple of shots and playing around with composition, angles and depth of field, I zoomed in on each of the guys’ faces as they occupied a line of chairs across the stage.

Five shirtless, sexy, promiscuous specimens of man, each with their own set of panty-melting muscles owned the room. Brad, Matt, Lucas, Noah and Josh were Wild Nights Revue. Brad was the twin I’d met backstage, his cheekiness amplified by his radiant smile as he thrust his hips toward the back of the chair. Then again, perhaps that was Noah.
Shit!
It was too hard to tell
.

I zoomed in on those hips for a better view, grinning satisfactorily before zooming back out again.
Oh well, does it matter who it is?
For now, I didn’t think so.

Spanning to my right, I focussed on Matt: tall—probably the tallest in the group—dark brown, closely-shaved-to-his-head hair, chocolate-coloured eyes and flawless, unmarked skin. He seemed to be the oldest and group leader.

Spanning yet again, I settled on Lucas, the newest member of the ensemble. His presence on stage wasn’t dominant. Yet, he still drew the eye with his dimpled cheeks, light brown clean-cut hair and bluish-grey eyes.
Wow! He’s a cutie!

While adjusting my focus, the guys all changed positions—kind of like musical chairs—and I soon found myself surveying Noah, Brad’s identical twin. At least I think it was Noah. He, too, was tanned, dirty blond and sporting a very similar style tattoo to his brother.

Taking the camera away from my eye, I moved closer to the stage, positioning myself near the steps. I squatted and made myself as comfortable as possible, given the position I was in—obtaining the best angle wasn’t always kind to the body.

I peered through the viewfinder once more, focussing on Josh: short brown hair, brown eyes and the hint of ink across his chest, left shoulder and bicep, creeping out from the edges of his T-shirt. He also had the nicest set of pearly-whites I’d ever seen. Physically, he was a fucking god.

Undisputable.

Near perfection.

Arrogance rolled from him in waves. He owned the stage, owned the props and, taking a quick scan of the rows of screaming women behind me, he appeared to own most of them as well.

“Take it off, Joshy!” one of them yelled.

Her command caught his attention, so he raised a teasing eyebrow and tore the front of his T-shirt, ripping it entirely from his chest.

My eyes popped.

My jaw dropped.

Every woman screamed.

The heightened decibels filling the room appeared to fuel his ego, because he pounded his chest like a gorilla and roared. I guess he was a gorilla, in a sense: big, strong, masculine, and asserting his dominance without a care in the world.

Personally, I found it way over the top and mildly annoying, yet I pressed down on the shutter button, snapping a few shots in succession and capturing his brazen display
.
Truth be told, he howled sex appeal. His hands were large and commanding, sliding down chiselled abs and stopping to cup his cock. And his gyrating hips were strong and alluring, deliberate in their teasing drive toward the audience.
Nice!
The man could dance, and I mean
really
dance.

The problem with Josh though, was that he knew he had the moves, knew his level of hotness, and knew how to play on it, using it to his full advantage. Sure, that could sometimes come across as sexy and confident, which it did. But it could also be conceited and ugly … which it was.
Ugh!

Pulling the camera away from my face and checking the last sequence of shots I’d taken, I noticed a look of distaste on the face of Matt in one of them, when he’d been standing next to Josh during the gorilla-shirt-ripping fiasco. I raised a curious eyebrow, inwardly smiling. You see, that was one of the things I loved about photography—capturing moments that told a story, a story you may have missed had it not been frozen in time. And that particular moment told a story of malcontent.

Interesting.

Wolf whistles of encouragement sounded, prompting me to look up and see that the guys had all lowered the zips on their pants while swaying their hips in a taunting manner.

Suddenly, in a flurry of movement and overexcited cheers from the crowd, all five pairs of pants were wrenched from between legs and removed completely, the torn material sailing through the air and landing toward the back of the stage.

I watched them fall gracefully, but soon diverted my gaze to the five bare arses wiggling before me.

My eyes popped, again.

My jaw dropped, again.

Wow! Just wow!

Judging from my stunned reaction, I wouldn’t blame anyone for thinking this was the first time I’d seen a male revue show, because it wasn’t. I’d seen one at my cousin’s hen’s night, that one paling in comparison to these amazingly fit men and their amazingly fit rear-ends.
Where is your professionalism, Cori?
It flew the fuck off, that’s what my professionalism did. It said,
“Ms Corinne Lee, while I stick around, your job will be boring as bat shit. So, for your sake, I’m making myself scarce.”
I happily bade it bon voyage until I remembered how important this job was for the success of our business. The publicity alone was a great addition to our portfolio. Fuck!
Ugh, Professionalism, get your butt back here.

Summoning as much competence as I could, given the naked man-flesh satisfactorily raping my eyes, I sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, continuing to take pictures as the guys exited the stage before me, towels wrapped around their waists.

“Hey you! No fucking cameras!” Josh yelled in my face, his blurred image through my viewfinder startling me due to his close proximity.