Mojokitten
disclaimer: This story is fictional and for entertainment purposes only.
These things never happened. Gale and Randy have boyfriends and girlfriends
and personalities nothing like this, and I could care less. This is just for
fun. Don’t take it seriously. Drugs are not the answer. Always use a condom.
Apparently that really is the length of a blue whale’s penis.
summary: see every other g/r rps. :)
rating: nc-17, I guess, but the sex isn’t all that graphic. (sorry.)
***************
The first time Randy kissed him – actually kissed him – it was August
and Gale was sitting on the steps outside the studio, drinking water by the
gallon and sweating. The heat was heavy and solid and had been for weeks and
Gale was crawling through each day thinking about cool showers and cold beer.
Randy appeared and dropped down on the steps next to him, pushing up the sleeves
of his t-shirt and tilting his head towards the sun with his eyes closed. Gale
turned his head and studied him, leaning back on the steps, the concrete warm
against his elbows.
‘Hey Gale,’ said Randy, without opening his eyes.
‘Uh, hey,’ said Gale, and tapped a plastic bottle against Randy’s arm. ‘Water?’
Randy opened his eyes and took it. ‘Jesus, they must be spending a fortune on
this shit.’ He looked at the label. ‘It’s the expensive stuff as well. You think
they have to add a whole section onto the budget just to keep giving out bottled
water in August?’
Gale shrugged. He’d never thought about it, and didn’t really care, but that
was why he liked spending time with Randy. Randy had a thousand things he wanted
to talk about, and Gale could listen to him for hours, without ever having to
agree or talk back. He sometimes wondered why Randy bothered spending time with
him, when he put so little back into their conversations, but he did, so whatever.
Randy tipped the bottle to his lips and took a gulp. ‘I wonder how much people’s
water consumption goes up with every degree of heat?’ he said, frowning as if
the question actually worried him.
‘It’s hot,’ agreed Gale, and with conversational skills like these, he sometimes
wondered why anyone ever came within ten feet of him, but they did, so whatever.
‘It’s really hot,’ Randy said. ‘These are like, record temperatures. It hasn’t
been this hot since like 1995.’
‘No shit,’ said Gale, and they grinned at each other. Randy knew a lot of useless
statistics too, and knew Gale didn’t care, so he always told him. ‘And what’s
the average length of a blue whale’s penis?’
‘It’s eleven feet and you fucking know it,’ said Randy, and leant back next
to him, so his arm was touching Gale’s. ‘So what happened with that girl?’
‘What girl?’ Gale squinted at Randy, whose face looked blurry in the sunlight.
‘That girl from the thing.’
‘Oh. Nothing.’
‘No?’
‘Nah. She was boring.’
‘Oh.’
They were silent for a moment, and then Randy shoved his shoulder against Gale’s.
‘Sorry,’ he said, and Gale shrugged.
‘I don’t care,’ he said, and it was true. ‘What happened with that guy?’
‘The pizza guy or the guy from Friday?’
‘Either.’
‘Pizza guy started out okay -,’ he began.
‘You can, you know, paraphrase, if you want,’ said Gale, smirking.
Randy smirked back. ‘Nothing happened.’
‘Sorry,’ said Gale, and shoved Randy’s shoulder back.
‘You should be. It was your fault.’
Gale blinked. ‘Why?’
Randy laughed. ‘I’m joking,’ he said, so Gale shoved him again.
Randy shoved him back, and the leaned over and kissed him. His lips were damp,
and Gale could taste sweat and something sugary. Maybe Randy had been eating
ice cream. Gale’s mouth opened a little against Randy’s, and Randy’s tongue
pushed briefly against his. Then Randy stopped, let their lips press together
for another moment, and then pulled back. He looked at Gale, his eyes clear
and blue, the pupils contracted in the sunlight.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘It’s okay,’ said Gale, his voice sounding hollow in his ears. He swallowed.
His lips were warm.
‘I need to go check my lines,’ said Randy. He looked at Gale for a moment longer,
and then quickly, lightly, kissed his forehead. Then he got to his feet and
jogged down the steps, walking away in the direction of the trailer.
Gale watched him, noticing the way he shoved his hands in the back pocket of
his jeans and looked at his feet. He took another sip of water, and wondered
if the rim of the bottle tasted like Randy too, or that was his imagination.
They didn’t mention it again.
-
The second time was late September, in the bathroom of a bar in Toronto, with
broken glass on the floor and the corner of the sink pressing into Gale’s back.
Randy had followed him in, and stood behind him while he was taking a piss.
Gale watched him in the mirror, his skin tinged with green under bad lighting.
Gale had been drinking, but didn’t think he was drunk. Or maybe only a little
– he knew he’d been talking more than he usually did, and didn’t really know
about what.
‘Something you wanted?’ he said, eyeing Randy in the mirror as he zipped up.
‘I’m mad at you,’ said Randy.
Gale turned around. ‘Why?’
‘You really have no idea?’
‘I really have no idea,’ said Gale, and wondered if that should be the title
of his biography. Gale Harold: I Really Have No Idea – a life in words, by
– he didn’t know who he should get to write it -
He was thinking about his biography, and didn’t expect it when Randy shoved
his mouth against his, and Gale could feel teeth and tongue and hot breath,
and Randy pressed into him hard, forcing him to step back, till he was jammed
up against the sink. Gale shut his eyes, still half aware of the fluorescent
light flickering overhead, and felt Randy’s hips shoving against him. Randy
twisted his fingers up into Gale’s hair and pulled roughly until Gale made a
sound of pain in the back of his throat. Then Randy pulled away, stepped back,
shot Gale a look he couldn’t read, and walked out.
As he watched the door slam shut, Gale realised he was half hard and breathing
too quickly. He still had no idea why Randy was mad at him.
-
The third time was in Gale’s apartment, after Gale’s truck skidded on ice and
he hit a tree. It was November. They had to reschedule filming for a week, because
it left him with a dark purple bruise on his forehead that make-up couldn’t
cover, and a three-day headache. He sat at home, getting quietly stoned, feeling
shaky and jumping every time the phone rang.
Randy came to his apartment the day after the accident, and stood in the doorway
with wide eyes and a worried expression that was sort of adorable, except that
Gale’s brain was hammering too hard against his skull for him to appreciate
that sort of thing.
‘I just heard.’ Randy touched his arm. ‘You should have called me. You should
have called me yesterday.’
Gale said nothing, and slouched back to his couch, where he’d been planning
to spend the entire week. Randy followed and sat down next to him, throwing
cushions onto the floor to make room. Gale started rolling another joint on
the table.
‘What did they say at the hospital?’ said Randy, watching him.
‘I’ll be dead within the week.’
Randy half-grinned. ‘Seriously.’
‘Nothing. I’m fine. I just hit my head.’
Randy was quiet for a moment, and Gale felt his hand touch the nape of his neck,
and his fingers start rubbing gently. It felt good, and Gale hoped Randy would
stop talking and just keep doing that. He tried to concentrate on rolling.
‘Minor accidents on the road increase by like 35% in November,’ said Randy.
‘Mmhm,’ said Gale, licking along the edge of the paper.
‘How did it happen?’
Gale didn’t know. One minute, turning a corner. Next minute, tree. ‘There was
ice.’
‘Were you going too fast?’
‘No. God just hates me.’
‘You know, unusual levels of paranoia are one of the symptoms of excessive usage
of marijuana - ’
‘Oh my God, would you shut the fuck up?’ said Gale. ‘I have the mother of all
headaches. I can’t deal with the trivia right now.’
Randy looked unfazed, and twisted his fingers gently through Gale’s hair. ‘I’m
glad you’re okay,’ he said quietly.
Gale nodded, and leaned back into the sofa, lighting up and inhaling deeply.
‘Yeah. Me too.’
Randy took the joint out of his fingers, and took a drag. ‘Doesn’t this stuff
make your head hurt worse?’ he asked, smoke drifting from between his lips.
‘Nope.’ Gale grinned and took it back. ‘It makes everything hurt less.’
‘That’s good.’
They sat in comfortable silence. Randy tapped his foot against Gale’s.
‘So don’t I get a care package or something?’ Gale asked. ‘With cakes and stuff?’
‘Nuh-uh. Just me,’ said Randy. He turned his head so his face was inches away.
‘I freaked out when they told me. I thought you might really have been hurt.’
Gale looked at him. ‘I wasn’t.’
‘Good,’ said Randy, and then he kissed him again. It lasted longer this time,
and Randy tasted like smoke. Gale kissed him back, because, whatever, he was
high and he was hurt and it felt good to have Randy there. When Randy pulled
back, he didn’t apologise. He just looked at him intently, and then grabbed
the joint from Gale’s fingers just before the ash tipped off the end onto Gale’s
jeans.
They ordered pizza and Randy stayed all day, watching TV and getting stoned
with him until Gale feel asleep. Randy was gone when he woke up, and Gale surveyed
the mess of pizza boxes and ash on the coffee table, and wished he was still
there.
-
Three kisses in four months, and maybe that should have seemed weird to Gale,
but it didn’t. After all, kissing Randy wasn’t unusual. It was his job. They
kissed each other all the time. Maybe not when they weren’t in character, but
sometimes those lines could get a little blurred, and wasn’t it natural that
some of Justin might spill over into Randy? Some of Brian might spill into Gale?
Kissing Randy was familiar, it was – it was kind of nice, actually. Kind of
hot.
It occurred to Gale he wouldn’t mind if it happened more often. He wouldn’t
freak out, or anything. He would like it.
Maybe that was a little weird.
-
Randy nearly kissed him a fourth time, just before they stopped filming for
Christmas. But he didn’t.
The last scene they’d filmed, Brian and Justin had been fighting. Brian didn’t
give Justin enough respect, Justin was upset, Gale wasn’t sure he really gave
a shit anymore. He knew they’d be together in the end. But the fake argument
somehow dissolved into a real one once the cameras stopped rolling. Or the closest
thing to an argument that he and Randy ever had.
Randy was shouldering into his jacket, getting ready to leave, as Gale wandered
over.
‘So you’re heading home tonight?’ said Gale, already knowing the answer.
‘Yep.’ Randy grinned. ‘Will you miss me?’
‘Yeah,’ said Gale, not smiling. He still didn’t know what the fuck he was doing
for Christmas, and the two weeks off loomed empty in front of him.
‘You’re going home, right?’ said Randy, frowning.
‘Yeah, I – no. I dunno. I might just – stay here. Home’s a long way.’ He looked
over Randy’s shoulder, thinking about it.
Randy stared hard at him. ‘It’s Christmas, Gale.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, and thought no. Don’t go home. Stay here. We’ll hang out.
Randy moved his head and forced Gale to look at him. ‘You know I have to go
home, right? I have plans.’
Gale had forgotten that sometimes Randy could read his mind. ‘Yeah. I know.’
‘I don’t have to go tonight,’ said Randy, carefully. ‘I could get another plane
in a few days.’
Gale looked at him, not sure what he was saying.
‘Do you want me to?’ said Randy.
‘What?’
‘Jesus Christ, Gale -,’ said Randy, his voice raising. ‘You can’t just
stand there and look sad and tell me you’re not doing anything for Christmas
and expect me to - ’
He stopped and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. ‘I think we need to talk,’
said Randy, and Gale hated – hated – when people said those words, because
it never meant anything good, and talking was hard, and he didn’t know what
the fuck they needed to talk about anyway, except that maybe he did.
‘What about?’ said Gale, and hated himself.
Randy stared at him for long time, and then zipped up his jacket and looked
away. ‘Figure it out yourself,’ he said, and then stepped towards him, and for
three seconds Gale was certain he was going to kiss him again.
He didn’t. He walked out, leaving Gale standing uselessly in the middle of the
set, while cameramen skirted uncomfortably around him, pretending they hadn’t
heard the conversation.
-
He’d always had ideas about what he wanted. He’d had plans, schedules for his
life; this many years to meet the girl, this many years to get married. A few
more years to have children. He’d kept pushing the barriers back (married by
28, married by 30 – no, married by 35), every year rolling over him and barely
leaving an imprint. But this year had been different. Randy has kissed him three
times, and Gale had stopped him exactly zero times.
That seemed like it might mean something.
When he thought about it, it seemed like he’d always been attracted to Randy,
but had never thought of it as a problem; never thought of it as something he
could potentially act on. He was straight, after all. He had his plans.
But he was pushing up again 35, and his plans hadn’t worked out too well so
far. And maybe realising in a hot rush that he wanted Randy, all the time, with
him, next to him, and not in fucking New York – maybe that wasn’t something
he should ignore.
He’d started planning his life when he was ten. But this was the twenty-first
century - adulthood, a new age, modern romance, and nobody’s life turned out
like they expected it to. The wife in his plans had never had a face, but the
image in his head at night when he was lonely and hard had a face, and it was
Randy.
Maybe that was something he should think about.
-
Gale spent Christmas mostly on his own, in a light-headed fog of tinsel and
weed, rolling joint after joint till his fingers reeked of tobacco. He spent
nearly every day the same way. He dug out old tapes of the show and rewatched
them. He thought about Randy, thought about kissing Randy, and wondered
what the fuck it meant that he wanted to do it more. That he wanted to do other
things too. He jerked off a lot, and drank on his own. He picked up the phone
to call Randy a few times, but never did. He was bored, and restless, and felt
like a cliché, but he didn’t know which one.
When he knew Randy would be back from New York, he drove his truck to Randy’s
apartment block and sat outside it with both doors locked, shivering, his breath
clouding in front his face as he banged uselessly on his broken heater. He played
The Velvet Underground on the truck’s stereo, and felt lonely and artistic.
The night before filming started again, Randy came over. He hugged him, and
asked him how his Christmas was, and Gale lied. They watched TV, and didn’t
talk about anything important, and Gale felt Randy pressed up against his side
all night, and felt ideas start shifting into place in his head.
-
The next day, as he drove to work, Gale decided being lonely and conflicted
wasn’t artistic or interesting, and it was a shit way to spend Christmas. Squinting
into low January sunlight, he felt pretty clear in his mind about who he was
and where he wanted to be.
There were still problems to overcome. Telling his mother. Telling Randy.
But those issues didn’t seem too worrying once he’d overcome the basic problem
of what was going on in his head. It had been all the introspection that had
screwed him up. Gale hated introspection, and wasn’t any good at. He should
have asked Randy how to do it a little more artfully. Getting stoned every night
and rewinding videos of himself and his co-star simulating sex on television
wasn’t good introspection. It was actually a little weird.
But it didn’t matter, because he’d worked it all out. The problem had been finding
the right label: was he gay? Was he bi? Was he having some sort of premature
mid-life crisis? None of those convenient tags had fit right, and that had been
the problem. Fitting himself into the predefined models society offered had
always been the problem.
Well, fuck that. He was a straight man, who happened to be in love with another
man – just one - and maybe wanted to fuck his brains out. That was who he was,
and once he worked that out, he felt good. It didn’t have a catchy, politically
correct name, but that was the only problem. Maybe he could make one up.
He was Randysexual.
He was Randysexual and the world and his mother would just have to deal with
it. He probably wasn’t the only one, either. There were probably legions of
confused kids and conflicted men out there who were just waiting to figure out
that they were Randysexual. There should be a support group. Maybe a pride march.
All the other Randysexuals could just go fuck themselves, though, because now
Gale had worked it out, Randy was all his. Or he would be.
That was the plan, and Gale thought it was a good one.
-
He didn’t have any scenes with Randy in the morning, and by lunchtime he still
hadn’t seen him. He sat in his trailer, rehearsing conversations with Randy
in his head, trying to piece together the exact right way to tell him how he
felt, but when Randy came, all he managed to say was, ‘Why were you mad at me
that time in the bar?’
‘What?’ Randy stepped into the trailer and stood in front of Gale. ‘When?’
‘It was last year. You were mad at me, and then you kissed me. Why were you
mad at me?’
‘Oh.’ Randy folded his arms. ‘You spent the whole night talking to Hal about
all the thousands of girls you’ve fucked, like some sort of heterosexual pride
exhibition, and it pissed me off. And you should know why.’
Gale thought about telling him about the Randysexual pride marches.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
Randy looked slightly amused. ‘It’s okay.’
‘I understand why you were mad,’ said Gale, slowly. He still hadn’t worked out
how this conversation was going to play out. ‘I’d have been mad too.’
Randy nodded. ‘That’s why I don’t talk about all the girls I fuck in front of
you.’
Gale was confused until Randy grinned at him. Gale felt his heart thudding in
his chest, a rush of adrenaline through his blood making him feel light-headed.
He was going to tell Randy he’d fallen for him, and once he’d done it there’d
be no going back. It was jumping out of a fucking plane without a parachute.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘Listen.’
Randy waited.
Gale jumped.
-
Gale didn’t know what sex with Randy would be like.
He’d had ideas, though. Vague, indistinct impressions of what he wanted to do,
where he wanted Randy to go and to be. Nearly everything he thought he wanted
to do was learned from the show, where he’d gotten a hell of a good education
he never expected, and where he’d pretended to top Randy so many times he knew
the feel of Randy’s hips under his fingers, and knew the taste of the skin on
his shoulder blade, and the way he arched and the sounds he could make.
Or he thought he did, but it turned out Randy had a whole host of other sounds.
Hot words that fluttered on the edge of his lips, and a low sound in his throat
when he pushed up against Gale, into Gale, for the first time, one hand pressing
into Gale’s hair and holding him down. Randy was almost violent, like a teenager.
Randy was nothing like Justin.
He’d seen himself on screen, tangled up with other men, and thought he’d known
how good that would feel. He’d thought he’d known about rhythm and urgency and
spreading himself wide for someone else, but Randy put hands all over his body
and knew exactly what he wanted Gale to do, and Gale folded under Randy’s fingertips
and would have done anything because, Christ, yes, finally.
He’d had soft-focus images of how he’d thought Randy would look when he came,
how he might grab onto the sheets, close his eyes, arch up – and there were
things he’d almost seen, times he’d almost felt Randy’s hard-on press against
his leg.
But Randy was nothing like Justin, and he grabbed Gale’s neck instead, and it
ached in a way Gale hadn’t expected, but it was good. Hot and hard and pain
that melted into a black space where Gale could hardly think anything.
When Randy pulled out, leaving good pain and warmth, he lay his body against
Gale’s and pressed his lips on the back of his neck. Gale closed his eyes, floating,
and listened to Randy breathing and thought, fuck, yes, he knew exactly who
he was and where he wanted to be.
-
‘Are you okay?’ Randy asked afterwards, his voice soft.
‘Yeah,’ said Gale, and he really was.
‘I bet you’ve never had it like that before,’ said Randy. He was grinning against
Gale’s neck.
‘Fuck no. I’m a good heterosexual.’
‘You’re the worst heterosexual I’ve ever met.’
Gale laughed, and Randy sat up and looked at him, damp hair hanging in his eyes.
‘You know, statistically, the average straight male - ’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Gale, and kissed him.
end