Roleplay at Randy’s (Diner Days #12)

Chapter 1

MATTY

Years ago, I was in love with a man who gave me what I so desperately needed.

Acceptance.

Affirmation.

For the first time in my life, I had a safety net. A place to seek asylum from a world that threatened to tear me to pieces.

But first loves rarely ever last. Like any young love story, we fell apart.

Before meeting him, I’d built a new life for myself. One as far away from the last train wreck as I could manage.

Then, one day, deep blue eyes found mine, and I finally broke the surface of the sea of misery I’d been swimming in. An anchor to my time of transition. Becoming me without the input of people who didn’t care enough to understand.

Sitting across from Riley in that diner gave closure to a wound I’d patched with pillows and duct tape. There’s a bond stronger than blood, a love beyond a simple romantic connection.

We saw each other in a time no one else can ever touch, but we grew apart from our desire for one another.

Riley Easton moved on.

But me? Life has started and stalled, relationships fizzle before I can lay the groundwork.

I don’t miss Riley the way I should a former lover.

I miss connection beyond sex.

My body convulses, but there’s no relief. Dread and something icky like a sludge seeps into my veins, and I drop the vibrator like it’s a branding iron.

The whimper that leaves my throat is real, but not for the reasons I’m sure the strangers on the other side of the screen will think.

I used to love a good masturbation session, but all they do anymore is make me feel fucking sad.

I lay on the bed with an arm tossed over my face, breathing through the heaviness settling in my chest. Once the sudden hit of dysphoria wears off, I rise onto my knees and half-crawl half-drag myself to the end of the bed where my tripod sits.

With a lopsided smile, I wave and hit the little, red, stop recording button, faceplanting onto the sheet as all of my energy evaporates.

This is stupid. I should have just taken some pictures and called it a day.

But I haven’t uploaded a video in a while, and some of my subscribers have started voicing their discontent.

Not that videos are explicitly promised—it’s my own damn subscription site—but they always wrack me up a little extra cash in the virtual tip jar.

It would be better if I had someone in bed with me; I’ve had countless offers and requests, but I’m so fucking tired of casual sex.

This will do good enough. With a little bit of editing.

I don’t bother cleaning up or getting dressed, just throw a towel down on the chair at my desk and plop into it. At least editing is an easy, mind-numb activity.

Adjust lighting. Cut out awkward pauses.

“Oh god. Oh god. Riley. Fuck.”

Dammit.

It’s an easy audio clip to cut out. To replace it with a series of grunts and moans from other parts of the video.

But one of these days, I’m going to have to stop calling out my ex’s name when I touch myself.

It’s pathetic.

I haven’t had meaningful sex in three years. Of course I miss the way Riley’s hands felt on me.

Since then, the only real times I've gotten off with another person have been when I'm treated like a novelty.

A notch in someone’s queer experience bedpost.

It doesn’t matter, because I’m not getting laid anytime soon.

A glance at the clock on my computer shows that if I get dressed and leave now, I should be able to make it to Randy’s in time for Hannah’s break—and I could use the distraction.

With a shower out of the question, I wipe my crotch with a wet rag and throw on some extra spray deodorant to cover up the smell of sex. Hannah always seems to know when I’ve been filming, and she never fails to tease me about it.

My apartment on the south end isn’t all that far from the Diner—and it’s not like I can afford a car or insurance—so the walk is a great way to clear my head from all the over-branching thoughts and thick musk from inside.

Randy’s Diner is always bustling with people from all walks of life. If you like boring and predictable—a straight, cis person’s paradise—this is not the place for you.

Retro vibes without all of the retro narrow-minded thinking.

Colorful checkered floors, pink and blue booths, and some of the fruitiest people you’ll ever meet litter around the safe haven nestled in the south side of Boston.

That’s why it’s my favorite place to unwind after spending hours stuck in my own head.

My usual booth is unoccupied, and it takes less than five minutes for one of the servers to bring out my regular coffee order unprompted. To say the diner is like my second home would be an understatement.

Hot steam rises up and brushes against my lips, and as my eyes close to focus on the sensation, I swipe my fingers over the volume dial on my hearing aid until it’s all the way down.

I’m still aware of the bustling noise around me, but now it’s muffled and easier to tune out. I like the near quiet: the chatter of indistinguishable voices and disembodied echoes of the world happening around me.

It’s reminiscent of those ambience study videos I used to listen to in high school.

Two sharp taps on the edge of the table capture my attention, and I offer Hannah a smile as she leans on the open booth in front of me.

Her blond hair is tucked up into a bun, long sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and two paper pads sticking out of her apron pocket.

‘Quiet time?’ she asks with a few motions of her hands.

My smile dips, and I respond back with my typical smidge of hesitation—because even though Hannah has been teaching me signs over the last two years, most of mine are still pidgin English with messed up sentence structure.

‘Headache.’

Her smile is sympathetic, and she puts her hand on my shoulder with a light squeeze before signing with her other hand, ‘Did your landlord ever do anything about that black mold situation?’

Ah, no, no he did not—but Hannah doesn’t need to worry about that.

I shake my head, and she cocks hers, eyes swimming with concern. Before I can assure her that I’m just being moody and depressing as always, she plops down into the empty seat across from me and grabs my hand in hers.

‘Want me to get you an application?’

Hannah has been hinting that I should come work at the diner for months now. A stable way to save up the money to get out of my crappy apartment.

Every time I think about doing it, my head gets overwhelmed with thoughts of non-stop interaction, and the panic that’s always simmering beneath the surface starts licking at my nerves.

She reads my hesitation and brings both hands up to capture my attention.

‘You could stay with me.’

Back when I first moved to Boston, when I started out on the lowest tier at the production company’s dance team, Hannah had offered up the spare bedroom at her place.

We became quick friends, and she’s a perfectly fine roommate, but when her girlfriend moved in, I got the distinct feeling I’d quickly run out my welcome.

The last thing I want is to risk the one solid friendship I’ve gained since the move.

So, I don’t plan to put her in a position where their relationship might strain because of me.

‘I’m fine.’

She lets out an exasperated huff and kicks my leg under the table. ‘I hate that you have to sell sex for money just to live in that biohazard.’

‘At least it’s virtual sex.’ As soon as the words are out there, Hannah’s disapproving glare burns into me.

I slept with a couple of guys for cash in the beginning; it was easy because I was horny and touch-starved, but I quickly learned that kind of casual intimacy wasn’t for me. Mainly because there was no real intimacy at all, and it set my dysphoria off like a bitch.

It was Hannah who set me up on this subscription alternative that was more NSFW and queer friendly. That doesn’t mean she’s thrilled, but she’s happier for me now than when I was prostituting.

‘If you were doing it because you liked it, that’s one thing. But you don’t, do you?’

That’s the thing, though. I do enjoy it. Would I do it if I didn’t have to, if I had something else I were passionate about on the table? I don’t know. What I do know is that I don’t dislike it, but I’m far from in the mood to overanalyze.

I’m glad this is a conversation other people can’t overhear, because my ears are starting to burn. So much so that I pull the hearing aid out and lay it on the table, rubbing my thumb over the empty shell of my ear.

Hannah waves her fingers in my face, drawing my eyes to her and pointing at me and then to her lips. She’s only verbal on occasion, like with a handful of customers she’s comfortable with or ones who outright refuse the communication pad she keeps in her pocket.

When she speaks for me, I know whatever words she’s going to say are serious—important.

“Something has to change.”

And if that isn’t a jab straight into my already cracked and jagged heart, I don’t know what is.

Several hours and too many cups of coffee later, my eyes burn from staring at odd-job ads on my phone. Even if it’s mostly to appease my friend, I do want to find a way out of this rut I’m stuck in.

The end of Hannah’s shift comes much too quickly, and even though she has a mountain load of coursework to get to, she occupies the booth with me while we enjoy our collective silence.

The noises around me are diluted, like a blurred out painting. I can hear the broad strokes, but not the intricate details. Normally it’s easy enough to tune out, but as the full weight of the weariness starts to set in, peaks in the auditory chaos pierce through my head like a bullhorn.

A round of boisterous laughter sounds off to my right, and I jump in my seat when the table is jostled by a group of men passing by.

Lukewarm coffee splashes from the cup to my lap, and I quickly grab a stack of napkins and start blotting the dark stain on the bottom of my shirt.

Hannah’s eyes widen and shoot up, and she gives a friendly smile to the strangers while I shy away toward the inside of the booth.

“Oof. Sorry,” a deep yet airy voice says, and out of the corner of my eye I see someone plant their hands on the table. “A tad bit tipsy.”

I try to avoid looking in their direction, even with Hannah’s mischievous eyes urging me that way. The man laughs again, and a tingle of awareness starts at the base of my spine.

I’m just lonely and horny; don’t even think about it.

Staring down into the black abyss of my coffee, I breathe a sigh of relief when footsteps head off in another direction, but then someone taps my shoulder, and I look up to find dark eyes and a throat-restricting handsome face aiming an amused smile at me.

He raises his right hand and makes distinct, slow finger motions.

‘M-A-T-T-Y?’

I dart my gaze to Hannah, who nods eagerly. When mine and the mystery man’s eyes meet again, I nod, throat a little cotton dry from the hours of silence.

“I’m sorry,” he says, leaning a little closer, brushing against but not quite popping my personal bubble.

I furrow my brow, and he gestures to my lap. “For the spillage.”

Oh.

My cheeks heat when he reaches over with a fresh set of napkins and pats at the cooling stain. A mop of colorful hair—a mix of blond and teal—crowds the stranger’s eyes, dark irises catching on the light when he stands and balls up the rumpled napkins.

“I’m Elias.” He raises his hand again and holds up a finger, transitioning to another slow fingerspell. ‘E-L-I-A-S’.

It’s oddly endearing how earnestly and meticulously he forms the letters, and I almost wonder if I should give him a pass and let him know that I can hear him well enough as long as I can see his lips move.

When I reach down to grab my hearing aid so I can focus better, I’m met with a wet, tacky mess.

“Oh, shit,” Elias hisses under his breath, and I only hear it because his voice is right in my ears. “Did I fuck that up?”

A shiver erupts across my skin, a contradictory warm flush spreading over my cheeks and extending below the neck of my t-shirt.

My hearing aid might be old and in need of replacement, but I’m thankful Riley forced the more durable model on me.

“They’re waterproof,” I say, watching as a brief surprise flashes over his face before being replaced with relief. “I just need to go to the bathroom and rinse it off.”

He takes a step back from the table as I slide out of the booth, but we’re still chest to chest when I get to my feet.

I’m hit with the scent of cheap, dollar store body spray, and I’m so starved for affection and closeness that my head swims and my body teeters toward him.

Elias grasps both of my arms in an attempt to steady me, and I’ll be damned if that doesn’t make it worse.

“Don’t pass out on me.” His deep rumble rolls across my skin, and his fingers resting on my elbows keep me rooted in place.

I soak up the contact, memorize the feel of his hands as they slide down my arms slow and steady until they fall away completely.

Our eyes find each other, and the smile that lights up his face has my already pounding heart in a vice grip.

Dimples. Motherfucking dimples.

No. We aren’t about to have some whirlwind fairytale romance. We sure as hell aren’t about to have a random bathroom hookup—even though if my libido were in charge I’d beg him to touch me in all the places his warm stare sets on fire.

With every bit of self-restraint I can muster, I throw on a tight smile and step away, caging the desperation to be held again.

“Nice to meet you, Elias.” My voice is hoarse, quiet and cracked, but his name rolls off my tongue like an endearment.

His eyes widen, his smile softens, and I slip by him before my body or mouth have the opportunity to betray me again.

Though, once I’m in the bathroom, my skin breaks out into a series of prickles that turn my body into an open wound. One that’s been irrigated of all traces of love and companionship.

Replaced simply with an endless loneliness.