Unadulterated Loathing

One of the reasons Randy and Simon's relationship worked so well, Randy decided, was that neither of them were up each other's asses, so to speak, about their respective careers. Occasionally, Simon would TiVO a couple of episodes of the show and comment on a plot-point, and sometimes Randy would drop hints about an upcoming feature he wouldn't mind seeing in the next edition of whatever magazine Simon is masterminding at the time (he still found the interview with J.T. Leroy for the "fans" issue of "Colors" particularly inspired), but that was the extent of it.

Simon did not sit around in Randy's apartment in Toronto, waiting for him to finish filming at 2:30 AM and smelling like coconut oil and Gale, and Randy did not whine about Simon having to take off for random business trips for the weekend during the five months or so a year that he lives in New York. It was mutually beneficial, and the sex is nice enough, and Simon wasn't allergic to cats like his last boyfriend was. It wasn't terribly complex or passionate, but it was stable and Randy really appreciated that.

Randy also recognized that the terms of their relationship - only seeing each other full-on for half a year, and the fact that Randy's face (and ass) were best known to the world for being rubbed up against his hunky male co-star on the Gayest Show on Television - were at their shakiest when his job, in particular, was taken into account. He knew they'd worked through jealousy issues, thinly-veiled accusations over the telephone, and that it wasn't a total lie when Simon noted with journalistic precision that Randy had a slight crush on Gale. He couldn't completely ignore the feelings of numbness that shot through him sometimes when Simon was busy rubbing elbows with a bunch of big-wig magazine gurus in NYC while he was beating off rabid "Queer as Folk" fangirls up in Toronto. He knew that the occasional mini-vacations Simon took for him weren't hardly enough to compensate for all the times one of them couldn't be there for the other.

But more often than not, Randy felt that "Queer as Folk" had been a positive experience. It had certainly jump-started his career, and having spent roughly eighteen hours a day for some twenty-five weeks a year with his co-stars (most of them naked or close to it, for that matter), he knew they'd keep up at least a light correspondence well after the show had been reduced to syndicated re-runs. They'd become friends through all of it, and even the actors with bit parts, like Sherry or Makyla or even Fab, had found themselves welcomed into their gay, surrogate little TV family with open arms.

And then along came Rosie O'Donnell.

Randy had never watched Rosie's talk show, or shopped at K-Mart, and when his older brother had taken him to see the live-action version of "The Flintstones" when it was in theatres, he'd found her to be a terribly annoying Betty Rubble. He'd been more apathetic about her than anything, though, right up until Simon mentioned an article he'd written about how much of a fat, mean dyke she was over dinner one evening during the summer of the season four hiatus. Even then, he'd laughed and smirked, but hadn't thought a whole lot about it.

The buzz for season five had been at an all-time frenzy, given that it was definitely going to be the last season of the show. Everyone wanted to get their hands on information about the final thirteen episodes, apparently; Hal and Bobby regularly surfed the Internet, and had reported back that an alarming amount of information had already been leaked, even. So the announcement that Rosie would be guest-starring as Loretta, a closeted lesbian with an abusive, homophobic husband who falls in love with Debbie, came relatively quickly after Randy had unpacked his bags. He'd passed the morsel of information on to Simon over the phone.

"I've been checking her blog regularly," Simon told him, and Randy pretended he knew what a blog was. "She hasn't mentioned anything about it yet. You think she would - it's the most interesting thing she's done career-wise since coming out." He proceeded to detail the horrific pseudo-haiku entries that comprised Rosie's online journal, and Randy relaxed and popped a frozen dinner into the cheapo microwave he'd bought himself back during season one filming. He'd sat on his worn, slightly secondhand couch in front of the small TV set up in his studio apartment, and pretended that Aggie and Ella were curled up by his side and rubbing themselves all over his feet.

A couple of weeks later was when the Queen of Mean herself bustled into town, loud-mouthed and, well, dyke-y as Simon had described her. Randy didn't go out of his way to avoid her - not at first, anyway - but he didn't hurry to shake her hand, either. And in fact, he would have been perfectly content to let their relationship stay that way, had she not seeked him out with a loud - everything she did was loud - squeal. "Oh!" she screeched, flapping her arms wildly. She had on a black jacket over a white shirt and black cargo pants, and it made her look like a penguin. "I know you!" she continued. "You're -- the little boy! Justin!"

"Actually --" Randy began, aghast, but she cut him off.

"Oh my God, I love you!" she exclaimed. "You and Brian are, like, totally my favorite characters, besides Debbie, of course. I just want to make out with her, though! I mean, you're cute and everything, but I just don't swing that way, honey, you know what I'm saying?"

"Um," Randy mumbled, but apparently his loss for words was interpreted by Rosie as a sign to continue talking.

"And I LOVED the Prom," she enthused, wrapping her arms around herself in a bear hug. "Like, it was so beautiful and then, WHAM! Baseball bat to the head. How'd you feel when Brian walked through the doors, huh? Be honest," Rosie chirped, clapping her hands excitedly. Randy gaped at her for several seconds.

"I, er," he finally managed to bite out, hands stuffed in the pockets of "Justin's" hoodie to conceal fist-clenched rage. "I have to go, uh, be somewhere. Else. Like, now." He hid out in his trailer for nearly an hour, re-reading "Harold's End" for the umpteenth time until Hal and Harris came to fetch him.

*


"I hate her!" Randy screamed into the receiver, melodramatically flung over the edge of the couch.

"Precious, I feel your pain," Simon soothed, but Randy could HEAR him biting his lip to hide a smirk, even all the way in New York.

"She's fucking retarded," he scowled. "All stupid and fat and big-mouthed. At lunch, she kept calling me 'Sunshine' and 'Justin' and shit. I want her to die," he growled. "But I want to do it myself. I know, I could poison her," he ruminated aloud. Simon, who had previous experience with blatantly homicidal Randy after particularly nerve-wrenching DVD signings, simply let him rant. "I could like, slip something into her absinthe when she's not looking."

"Does she drink absinthe, though?" Simon pointed out. Randy paused and then let out a long, defeated sigh.

"What about you?" he proposed. "You could like, write an article about how evil and stupid she is."

"I already have, darlingest," Simon laughed. "And I doubt she ever saw that one."

"Yeah, but this will be different," Randy argued, his voice picking up speed as the idea grew in his head. "It could touch on her unprofessionalism in her waning acting career, or something. You could call it, like, 'Rosie & Her Four Chins'. It'd be brilliant."

"It would be," Simon agreed placatingly. "And I would if I had the time. But I'm really backlogged in work for the next issue of 'Colors', pookiekins. You understand."

"Hmph," Randy grumped. Simon figured it wouldn't be the last he heard of the situation, but also valued his genitalia too much to warrant crossing his disgruntled boyfriend anymore. "Are Aggie and Ella there?" Simon was relieved when Randy changed the subject.

"Of course," he chuckled. "I'm at home, Randy."

"Let me talk to them."

"Talk?" Simon blinked, glancing over at the chair in his and Randy's shared apartment that Randy favored, where Ella sat perched on the top and Aggie was occupying the seat.

"Yes, talk," Randy said, more irritated than a moment before. "Put them on the phone."

"Randy, they're cats --"

"PUT THE CATS ON THE PHONE, SIMON." It was not a request, it was an order. Begrudgingly, Simon held the phone up to Ella's head first, then Aggie's for several seconds, listening to Randy's cooing and baby talk and suppressing a sigh. He had always been more of a dog person, truth be told, but the cats had been part of the package deal of living with Randy, and the big dogs Simon had had growing up wouldn't have worked very well in cramped, dirty, traffic-heavy New York City, anyways. He'd told himself this everytime he had to clean out the cats' litter box, or when he tried to recapture his tie that Aggie would sit on top of the microwave chewing on, and end up getting scratched at in the process. 'Dogs probably could climb on top of small appliances and eat your favorite Dilbert tie, too, hypothetically,' he would rationalize through gritted teeth, while washing the newest scratch on his arm.

After Randy's anger had been temporarily mollified, Simon edited a couple of articles, made three more phone calls to set up interviews and appointments, took a shower, jerked off quickly, and climbed into bed. The cats sniffed at the huddled mass underneath the blankets for several minutes before curling up around it begrudgingly, and Simon sighed and considered it a small yet important victory.

(To be continued!)