Page 2 of Roleplay at Randy's
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 myshoulder 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.’
