Richie wasn't a virgin by any stretch (ba dum tss) of the imagination, but he was going through a dry spell. More of a drought. Sometimes, he hugged the toaster to simulate human warmth.
Sex just wasn't worth it. If Richie was with a girl, there was a high probability of having to fake an orgasm, and he would be the first to admit his acting skills weren't that good. If Richie was with a guy, the paranoia wouldn't let him relax (and he really needed to be able to relax).
Coming wasn't worth it either. Not without someone to point to and say, "They like me too." Coming out in Hollywood even harder, and not just because they had walk-in closets. You try putting your dating profile in People when the nearest gays were Matt Bomer and Zachary Quinto. They were tens. Richie was like… a smudge on the paper that miRichie wasn't a virgin by any stretch (ba dum tss) of the imagination, but he was going through a dry spell. More of a drought. Sometimes, he hugged the toaster to simulate human warmth.
Sex just wasn't worth it. If Richie was with a girl, there was a high probability of having to fake an orgasm, and he would be the first to admit his acting skills weren't that good. If Richie was with a guy, the paranoia wouldn't let him relax (and he really needed to be able to relax).
Coming wasn't worth it either. Not without someone to point to and say, "They like me too." Coming out in Hollywood even harder, and not just because they had walk-in closets. You try putting your dating profile in People when the nearest gays were Matt Bomer and Zachary Quinto. They were tens. Richie was like… a smudge on the paper that might be mistaken for a one.
Still, there was a part of Richie ready to blurt it out at every interview, like the l'appel du vide that made him side-eye traffic on particularly difficult Monday mornings.
Richie had been waiting for half an hour. Maybe limos were always fashionably late. He wasn't a limo kind of guy, but Bobby had ordered it for the show. InStyle was giving Richie an award, and apparently his manager felt the need to make up for the fact that he didn't actually have any style. Richie had not been allowed to dress himself. He had also been forbidden from mentioning the Tumblr account called Let's Get Richie Tozier Some New Clothes.
For Richie, sex came up a lot (ba dum tss), but not in casual conversation. Most of his conversations were professional, for his definition of the word. He was semi-famous for his dick jokes, but the real joke was his sex life.
Richie didn't discuss sex with his bank teller or his barista, or his doorman— Except for Ramone— Ramone was like family. Even when he wasn't talking about it, Richie still felt like he was lying. Not big, elaborate lies. He didn't have a wife, or kids, or a dog.
Maybe he should get a dog.
It only took two weeks to form a habit, and Richie had been ashamed of himself for thirty years. At this point, it would take a miracle to change him.
The limo pulled up, performing a ten-point parallel park, despite its tardiness. It was oddly endearing.
"Don't anthropomorphize the cars," Richie told himself. He had been reading William Denborough's latest book, the one about the Evil Herbie. "They don't like it."
The driver's side window rolled down. An absolutely edible man stuck his head out the window.
"I'm so, so sorry, sir. My driver's wife went into labor, and he picked her up in his limo, so I had to wait for this one to get back from the Al Pacino job, and—"
Richie raised a hand. He was just trying to slow Eds down a little, but the man cut himself off so fast that Richie worried for his tongue.
"Don't worry. I get it. I helped deliver my coworker's Lobby Baby. Met our doorman that way, and sometimes Ramone gives me his abuela's empanada's, so win-win."
Eds dimpled. "What was the first win?"
"Oh, I'm the godfather."
He slid in the back, and Eds pulled away from the curb.
"Do you have any of your own?" asked Eds.
Richie scoffed. "No way. I get the best of both worlds. No dirty diapers, but I get full access."
The dimples seemed to invert. "...To the baby?"
Richie made a face. "Ew. Not how it sounds. Babies are hilarious. I get so much material from that little fucker. I can't wait till it's old enough to talk."
"I've never heard you make a joke about babies."
He was a fan.
Richie actually rubbed hands together in glee. Until he glanced at Edible's hands and saw his wedding ring— a perfect fit for the tanned and manicured hands, which were at ten and two, down to the minute.
He sighed. "Yeah, well, maybe someday they'll let me write my own material."
Shit. He hadn't meant to let that slip.
Eddie looked at him in the rearview mirror and squinted.
"How'd you get that burn?"
"Toaster hickey," said Richie. "So Eds—"
"Wh— How do you know my name?"
"Oh, I—" Richie blushed. "Wait. Your name?"
He glanced at the dash.
Edward Kaspbrak.
Huh.
"Oh." Eddie flicked the ID. "I forgot. Haven't actually driven in a while."
"Should I be worried?"
"Professionally, dipshit." Eddie looked like he hadn't meant for that to slip. He cleared his throat. "It's my company, but like I said—"
"Limo Baby."
"Limo Baby," Eddie agreed. "Sorry again, for being late."
"Don't worry about it. I'm not in a hurry to get—"
Richie was interrupted by the car crash.ght be mistaken for a one.
Still, there was a part of Richie ready to blurt it out at every interview, like the l'appel du vide that made him side-eye traffic on particularly difficult Monday mornings.
Richie had been waiting for half an hour. Maybe limos were always fashionably late. He wasn't a limo kind of guy, but Bobby had ordered it for the show. InStyle was giving Richie an award, and apparently his manager felt the need to make up for the fact that he didn't actually have any style. Richie had not been allowed to dress himself. He had also been forbidden from mentioning the Tumblr account called Let's Buy Richie Tozier Some New Clothes.
For Richie, sex came up a lot (ba dum tss), but not in casual conversation. Most of his conversations were professional, for his definition of the word. He was semi-famous for his dick jokes, but the real joke was his sex life.
Richie didn't discuss sex with his bank teller or his barista, or his doorman— Except for Ramone— Ramone was like family.
Even when he wasn't talking about it, Richie still felt like he was lying. Not big, elaborate lies. He didn't have a wife, or kids, or a dog.
Maybe he should get a dog.
It only took two weeks to form a habit, and Richie had been ashamed of himself for thirty years. At this point, it would take a miracle to change him.
The limo pulled up, performing a ten-point parallel park, despite its tardiness. It was oddly endearing.
"Don't anthropomorphize the cars," Richie told himself. He had been reading William Denborough's latest book, the one about the Evil Herbie. "They don't like it."
The driver's side window rolled down. An absolutely edible man stuck his head out the window.
"I'm so, so sorry, sir. My driver's wife went into labor, and he picked her up in his limo, so I had to wait for this one to get back from the Al Pacino's job, and—"
Richie raised a hand. He was just trying to slow Eds down a little, but the man cut himself off so fast that Richie worried for his tongue.
"Don't worry. I get it. I helped deliver my coworker's Lobby Baby. Met our doorman that way, and sometimes Ramone gives me his abuela's empanada's, so win-win."
Eds dimpled. "What was the first win?"
"Oh, I'm the godfather."
He slid in the back, and Eds pulled away from the curb.
"Do you have any of your own?" asked Eds.
Richie scoffed. "No way. I get the best of both worlds. No dirty diapers, but I get full access."
The dimples seemed to invert. "...To the baby?"
Richie made a face. "Ew. Not how it sounds. Babies are hilarious. I get so much material from that little fucker. I can't wait till it's old enough to talk."
"I've never heard you make a joke about babies."
He was a fan.
Richie actually rubbed hands together in glee. Until he glanced at Edible's hands and saw his wedding ring— a perfect fit for the tanned and manicured hands, which were at ten and two, down to the minute.
He sighed. "Yeah, well, maybe someday they'll let me write my own material."
Shit. He hadn't meant to let that slip.
Eddie looked at him in the rearview mirror and squinted.
"How'd you get that burn?"
"Toaster hickey," said Richie. "So Eds—"
"Wh— How do you know my name?"
"Oh, I—" Richie blushed. "Wait. Your name?"
He glanced at the dash.
Edward Kaspbrak.
Huh.
"Oh." Eddie flicked the ID. "I forgot. Haven't actually driven in a while."
"Should I be worried?"
"Professionally, dipshit." Eddie looked like he hadn't meant for that to slip. He cleared his throat. "It's my company, but like I said—"
"Limo Baby."
"Limo Baby," Eddie agreed. "Sorry again, for being late."
"Don't worry about it. I'm not in a hurry to get—"
Richie was interrupted by the car crash.