Randy

You can't remember ever being in a relationship that felt so natural, so right.

There was always something off when you took out girls. It felt forced, and something inside always told you that things wouldn't work out. Hell, you dated Marcia for over a year, and you could hardly think of her as anything but a friend. You couldn't even consider sleeping with her, and the two of you hardly ever fooled around. Everything you told your friends that you did with her was a lie; and you couldn't imagine marrying her, settling down, and having kids like Bob talked about doing with Cherry Valance. And it wasn't even because you had your eyes on someone else. It was just that you couldn't do it. You just … couldn't.

But things are so easy with Ponyboy. You don't have to remind yourself to kiss him, or make mental notes about doing something sweet for him or getting him presents for no reason. You want to kiss him, you want to slip the love notes you wrote into his books for him to find later, and you want to surprise him with a pack of cigarettes or a book whenever you can. And it doesn't bother you one bit that he can't afford to buy you things. He's always telling you that you don't need to get him gifts; just being with you is enough. And you love hearing that, but you also don't care. You just want to give him the world.

And it kills you that you can't give him more. You hate that you have to hide what you are. You hate that you can't hold hands as you walk from class to your car. You hate that you can't drape your arm around his shoulders at the movies, and you hate that you can't dance with him and kiss him at the bars. You see the way that he looks at the straight couples. There's a sadness and longing in his eyes, but also a hint of bitterness, and you know that he feels the way you do.

But you're doing the best that you can. You always give him a kiss as soon as you get to the car after class, and then you hold his hand all the way back to the house. When your roommates go out to parties on the weekend, you stay in with him, and the two of you cuddle up on the couch and watch TV. You never miss a chance to kiss him or hug him, even if you can only hold him for a few seconds. But it's not good enough. Nothing is good enough, and you always find yourself wishing that you could give him more.

You've never felt like this before, and you'll do anything to make him happy. You'll do anything to make sure he stays. God, you love him.

XXX

He's resting his head on your chest, basking in the afterglow of a makeout session that got very hot, very heavy, and very handsy, very fast. You hated pulling away from him, turning the kisses into cuddles, but you don't want things to move too fast. You don't want to do something that you'll both regret, and you've already gotten damn close more times than you can count.

"What do you want for Christmas?" you ask. You need something to distract you from how turned on you are, and it's the first thing that you can think of.

"A hippopotamus," he replies.

You smirk. "It'll eat you. What about some Tinker Toys?"

"Only a hippopotamus will do. 'Sides, they're vegetarians."

You smack him in the face with your pillow, and he starts laughing. He digs his fingers into your ribs, tickling you; you screech and tickle him back. The two of you play fight, tickling, screeching, and laughing, until you're out of breath. You smile at him and kiss his forehead. He smiles back at you, and then he's staring off into space.

"You ever done it with anyone, Randy?"

"Told you about Mary Ruth," you reply. "It didn't mean anything. Well, I guess it did. It made me realize I was gay, but I didn't have any feelings for her."

"No, I mean with a guy," he replies.

Your stomach does a backflip. "Have you?"

"I asked you first."

You sigh a long, heavy sigh. You know that he would've found out about this sooner or later. But you wish it could've been later. You're scared to death that this will scare him off.

"His name was Mike," you finally reply. "Fitting, I guess, because he looked like Micky Dolenz."

"He's the cutest Monkee. You've got good taste," Pony replies. But he still seems hurt.

"'Course I have good taste. I'm with you, aren't I?"

He blushes, smiles, and nuzzles at your chest. And you know that you're forgiven.

"I was wasted when he picked me up at the bar," you continue. "I saw him a few times after that, but I just … I couldn't stay. I was scared. I wasn't ready."

He cocks an eyebrow and looks at you, and you read his mind.

"And it fucking hurt. He said it'd feel good after a while, but guess we never got that far, 'cause it fucking hurt."

He kisses your neck and nips at your ear. "I don't want you to hurt."

You tighten your arms around him. "I don't want to hurt you, either."

You just hold each other for a few minutes, and then it clicks. You can usually read him like a book, and you're surprised that it took you so long.

"That's what you want for Christmas!" You feel bad for laughing, but you can't help it. "You want me to pop your cherry!"

He's blushing so hard that you're sure his face will burst into flames. But he's also trying to bury his face in your neck and hide, and you know that he's not too upset with you.

"Don't make it sound so vulgar," he says. His face is still buried in your neck, so his voice comes out muffled.

But he's so beautiful. You love him so much. And you know exactly what he needs to hear. You both blush as you mumble the poem into his ear, but neither one of you can hide how turned on you are.

"I'll be your Allen Ginsberg," you mumble.

"I'll be your Neal Cassady," he whispers back.

"Christmas?"

"Christmas."


So, obviously(?), they're talking about the Christmas classic I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas, which I do not claim any ownership to. And then later, they're talking about the Allen Ginsberg poem Please Master. Some say it's about Ginsberg's basically-lifelong partner Peter Orlovsky, but others think it's about an affair he had with Neal Cassady. Regardless, I don't own.

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