Thank God I was wearing old sweats and a T-shirt that I could throw away without thinking about it, because I knew I would have to. I caught him quickly, and holding my breath (I can go almost a full minute), wrapped my arms around him. Jesus, the man is heavy. His press kit has him weighing in at 185 pounds, but I know since he's been home he's easily gained fifteen more. His mother is way too good a cook not to, which is why I don't visit, even though he begs.

I gagged at the stench. Jack Daniels- no coke, no rocks, just straight-the-fuck-up, was the dominant smell on him, coming from his breath and every pore. He tried to give me a kiss which I avoided like the plague, because well, ew. I hoped I had some Scope somewhere. He could do it in shots, since he seems so fond of that particular way of drinking. But the odor that reminded me what I hate most about people who overindulge was the urine. It was a handsome tux- at the beginning of the previous afternoon. He wears them well, but he's hard on them. This one would have to be burned, but if I had to do it, I would drive out to oh, say, Antarctica, so no one would be subjected to that punishing, acrid fetor of scorched pee. The man needed to be run through the washer. I found myself imagining what he would look like in one of the maxi-load machines at the laundromat, and giggled at the thought of him looking at me pitifully through the window while he spun around and around, sloshing back and forth in the suds.

"What's so funny?" He slurred in my face and God help me, I almost needed my hair held back in case I joined him at the upchuck club. 

"Nothing, sweetie, just let's get you out of this tux and in a nice hot shower, okay?" He was still trying to attach his mouth to mine, but thanks to my sober reflexes and the fact that he could hardly see where he was aiming, he only managed to snuffle into my hair. Great. I would have to take a shower with the big Aussie lug. Mark and I were going to have a long talk when he came back for Russell. Where the fuck he'd gone off to was anyone's guess. Bastard.

"You're so pretty," Russell breathed into my ear, half-hugging, half-holding on to me to keep from falling. 

"Yeah. I know. I'm awful cute at closing time," I retorted, trying to position him around so I could drape one of his thick arms over my shoulder and drag him to the bathroom.

It's not near as easy as it looked in G.I. Jane, but I managed to get him into the small confines of the bathroom. When he'd offered to set me up in a place, I'd taken the smallest apartment I could find so it would be easier on his considerable pocketbook and then mine, when he gets tired of me and I end up having to pay for it myself. The cost of living is really freaking high in Sydney. As a result the bathroom is tiny, especially for big guys like Russell who need lots of room to fit their personalities.

I sat him on the toilet lid, told him to stay (like I would any other big, dumb St. Bernard), and went to the kitchen, searching for rubber gloves and a trash bag. That ruined tux had to go. The stench was permeating my miniscule living quarters, and I needed more sleep eventually. When I returned he was leaning over the stool, retching helplessly into the bowl. Nothing was coming out, thank God, but I knew the dry heaves couldn't feel good. He was going to be in some pain on top of the alcohol poisoning that he had given himself. I almost felt sorry for him. I shook my head sadly and let him finish, just spoke in low tones to him, not saying anything of real consequence, and ran my fingers through his silky, hawk-colored hair. I've only done that sort of drunk to myself one time, but I can remember it rather vividly. That's why I only did it once.

When it was over, he sat back against the frosted glass of the shower stall and closed his eyes, moaning pitifully. God, it's hard to be angry with him. "You going to live?" I asked, but I made the query soft as though he were a kid experimenting with booze for the first time and new to its effects. The last thing I felt like dealing with that night was a pissed-off Russell. He was starting to nod off, close to unconsciousness, and if that happened I would never get him in that shower.

"Russell! Wake up!" I demanded, standing over him and tugging at his hands. I got him back to the stool and started the water. Hot. Hot, hot, hot. The way I like it. The way he needed it. A cold shower would make him sick.

I began the business of getting the tux off him and he tried to help me, but mostly he just lay his head against my stomach, nuzzling and whispering how much he loved me for taking care of him. Then the floodgates opened and he was sobbing. I was just numb from having to stay reserved and get him cleaned up and in a warm, quiet bed where he could sleep off his greatness. I patted his head and got his shoes off, then helped him get into the shower, making sure he didn't slip and hurt himself. That would be all either of us needed. Not that I didn't think a nasty fall at a lover's home could be covered up and kept quiet from the tabloids, but these things have a way of getting out and blown way the hell out of proportion. At this point, he doesn't seem to want anyone to know about me so I was careful to keep an eye on him while I discarded my own clothing and stashed it in the garbage sack with his outfit for the AFI ceremony. Then I stepped into the warm stream of water with him.

I turned him to get him rinsed down so I could wash him up. No way could he do it alone. He was swaying and I grabbed the shampoo first, working it into his hair, a dream of mine since I first saw him in The Quick and the Dead with that glorious, longish outlaw hair. It's getting that length again, so that just adds fire to the fantasy. I bent his head back toward the jets and rinsed out the soap, then repeated for good measure, watching the suds slide down his neck and over his wide, sloping shoulders and his thick chest. He was loving the splash of water about his head and the pulsing fingers of the spray were massaging him, helping him sober, if only a little.

Next I picked up the bar of soap and the net sponge, building a hell of a lather to clean him and rid him of the filth of his own idiocy. As the sponge roamed his back in circles, I studied him with a practiced eye. He has absolutely the most beautiful back I have ever seen, and I have seen many. My hands have traversed all sorts, but none like his; the muscles are thick and strong without looking over-built, like weight lifters. That is true of most of him. He is naturally muscle-bound and seems sculpted by Michelangelo himself, even when a bit pudgy. I worked the suds into him from the width of his shoulders to the tapering of his waist, or at least, where it normally narrows when he is keeping himself in shape.

I had never had the opportunity to shower with him before and wished like hell he wasn't in his current state, because I wanted to do things to that body. He has a perfect ass on top of long, muscled thighs, and I just wanted to knead every bit of sensuality into those gluteals I could muster, but I doubted he would notice just then. Instead I wrapped one arm around his waist and tenderly rubbed them with the sponge while he closed his eyes and started humming. At least he was still awake, I noted ruefully. He sings better drunk. Opens his voice more and loses his inhibitions.

I knelt to wash his long legs, marveling for at least the hundredth time how beautifully made they are, strong and sturdy and in excellent proportion to the rest of him. I love the hair on them. Not too thick, not too sparse, just right. I watched the water make little rivers down through it, matting it in clumps and pulling it in weird directions.

I was starting to get butterflies in my stomach while examining him and I dreaded the idea of moving to the front, certain that I would find it even more appealing and intoxicating (if you'll pardon the pun). I knew if I continued to think in the vein my mind was in I would end up very disappointed, because there was hardly a chance that Russell could make love in his condition. He was blissfully unaware of anything going on in my head and was singing something that sounded vaguely like Folsom Prison Blues. I wondered if he saw 2500 screaming fans in front of him. I had to leave his legs and station myself in front of him however. The smell was slowly washing down the drain but he still needed more attention, and most of that on his front side. I no longer wanted to kill him, but this was going to be the death of me.

His smile for me was the grateful grin of the very inebriated when they know they have done something stupid, but it's sort of okay anyway? He picked up strands of my wet and matted hair, fumbling with an attempt to braid them and giggled over the humor in it that only he found. He crushed me to him in a bear hug and whether it was the odor of the night's celebration or the squeezing of my ribcage cutting off my ability to breathe, I couldn't tell you. I pushed his groping hands away, a bit roughly I admit, and tried not to look at his face or do anything but concentrate on getting him out of the shower in a condition I could tolerate him in.

Was it a losing battle? You have to ask? If I weren't so good at self-delusion, I wouldn't have let Russell talk me into this weird-ass relationship in the first place. But the idea I could actually stand in front of the naked, wet, fallow fantasy of some five million other women and not be affected regardless of whether he was smashed or not was ludicrous. Because those eyes that tell the stories of his soul caught and held me, drowning me inside his tortured heart. He has a way of looking at you and making you think you are the only woman that will ever matter to him again. Like being held captive in a rapturous prison.

I brushed his dripping hair out of his face and traced the strong jaw and cleft chin covered in soft beard, resting my fingertips on his tiny, sweet mouth. I frowned a bit and tried to remember that he was so drunk he hardly knew what was going on but he noticed, which amazed me.

"You mad at me, love?" he worried.

"No, you big oaf. Just tired. I'm pissed off at Mark though." No, I wasn't angry with Russell. Just sad. The man is my muse, the person who makes me want to create and be. Or rather, fans the flames of my creativity with inspiration. Something less than a god, something more than human. Except when he does this shit to himself. He deserves to celebrate his exceptional talent and the fruits of his hard labor, but it's hard to watch him torture himself for his brilliance. Like it shouldn't have happened to him.

He seemed satisfied that he wasn't going to lose me at that particular time and was passive while I went back to scrubbing him. I had half a mind to try and wake his desire, just to see if I could while I administered to him, but couldn't bring myself to do the things I was thinking of doing. Were he sober I'd have started at his thick neck just behind his ear, nibbling, kissing, licking, letting the whiskers that grow wild and generally unattended there tickle my face and mouth before I move south. I have always wanted to leave my mark on him by way of a hickey, but I am a bit more in control than that and he really gets adamant that I don't. Cameras and all. Probably another woman as well. However, that same courtesy doesn't seem to apply to him, because I am still sporting one just above my collarbone from the last time he was here.

If this had been another moment, I'd have gently pulled at the thin line of hair travelling from just below the hollow of his throat to his belly with my teeth, stopping to suck at his tiny, chocolate drop nipples. Then I would attack his muscled stomach, burying my face in the carpet of downy man fur covering it, making raspberry noises on it. I did that once, and he thought it hilarious. I told him too, that if he gained any more weight I was going to start rubbing his tummy for luck- my own personal Buddha. He didn't think that was funny. He's weird like that. While I let my imagination run wild, I damned near scoured the skin off him. I was careful with his privates, but he moaned happily that they were getting attention.

I was on my knees, washing his feet and thinking how true the old wives' tale about the size of a man's feet compared to his genitals was of Russell. Imagine my surprise when I glanced up to see eight inches of hard-on staring me in the eye. "Jesus Christ, Crowe!"

"Whiskey dick!" He explained proudly, grinning lasciviously. 

I tried not to show him that I did find it rather humorous, but I think I was unsuccessful. "Oh my god," I shook my head to hide my smile. In my mind I was high-fiving myself.

He was still gazing down at me with those adoring, puppy eyes, but the blaze of lust was fast kindling. "Ya know, you're already down there, you could suck it." His hand was reaching unsteadily for my head. Strike while the iron is hot, I always say, but the water wasn't going to stay that way and he really needed to be toweled off and put to bed.

"How about we go to bed and discuss it? If you still want it by the time we get there, then I'll do it. How's that sound?"

He groaned, a bit irritated but compliant. "Okay, baby." That slow smile gets me every time. I quickly lathered my own body down to get rid of the lingering effects of being pressed up against him before. Then I wrapped my arms around him, breathing in clean man scent. My favorite. Heady and sexy. Just like him. Even plastered.

The man is all hands. Like a fucking octopus. Even snapping him with the towel didn't deter him from wanting to play grab-ass, although a trip buffered by my catch did. Momentarily. I led him by the hand to my room and he plopped down on the bed, his still-erect cock bobbing merrily. I jumped on the mattress next to him and was greeted by a snore. Shit. I knew it was too good to be true. Oh well. I pulled the covers up around him and watched my muse sleep until I finally nodded off myself. He was damn well going to make it up to me later.