Page 3 of Roleplay at Randy's
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 underthe 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. Idoenjoy 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’tdislikeit, 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 hoursand 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 breathea 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.”
