(no subject)
For prettyboyeyes.
Ray/Gerard
Neon pink
Amaze
Cooking (oh the vagueness...)
Ray was in the drag show every Saturday at eight, lighting up the Pink Flamingo with renditions of Erasure. His stage name was Colette. He was considered the butchest queen there by patrons and performers, and thus took the occasional male role in operettas, but no one thought him rough. Not Ray. Whispers of how he well he wore those green Manolos echoed sweetly through the audience every time he sang.
Gerard went to the drag show every Saturday at eight, careful in his choice of linen suits. His business name was Mr. Way. The table nearest to the stage was widely recognized as his, and apart from receiving his customary cosmo, he was left well enough alone. He always brought twenty-four dark roses and they always went to Ray.
Ray lived in the barrio, where guinea hens run freely in the streets. The walls of his bedroom were copious and white, except for the one the headboard of his bed rested against: that one was neon pink. When Ray brought Gerard there at midnight after work, they’d begin in the kitchen: Ray playing domestic, cooking something exotic--yellow Thai curry or coconut rice--while Gerard observed his every twitch, chin in hand, making coversation about politics or porn. He always made Ray laugh more than was ladylike.
They’d progress to the living room, breaking out weed and the Velvet Underground. Ray got so philosophical for a drag queen, Gerard would tell his bedridden brother, who breathed for intrigue. Really knew his Nietzche.
Then they would fuck on Ray’s silk rose-patterned sheets, Gerard on top, kissing the crest of Ray’s shoulder each time he pushed up. The rattle and hum of their chests and a sharp creaking of bones would join crickets to form symphonies of salt, sweat, and sugar.
Then they would go back to work.
Ray/Gerard
Neon pink
Amaze
Cooking (oh the vagueness...)
Ray was in the drag show every Saturday at eight, lighting up the Pink Flamingo with renditions of Erasure. His stage name was Colette. He was considered the butchest queen there by patrons and performers, and thus took the occasional male role in operettas, but no one thought him rough. Not Ray. Whispers of how he well he wore those green Manolos echoed sweetly through the audience every time he sang.
Gerard went to the drag show every Saturday at eight, careful in his choice of linen suits. His business name was Mr. Way. The table nearest to the stage was widely recognized as his, and apart from receiving his customary cosmo, he was left well enough alone. He always brought twenty-four dark roses and they always went to Ray.
Ray lived in the barrio, where guinea hens run freely in the streets. The walls of his bedroom were copious and white, except for the one the headboard of his bed rested against: that one was neon pink. When Ray brought Gerard there at midnight after work, they’d begin in the kitchen: Ray playing domestic, cooking something exotic--yellow Thai curry or coconut rice--while Gerard observed his every twitch, chin in hand, making coversation about politics or porn. He always made Ray laugh more than was ladylike.
They’d progress to the living room, breaking out weed and the Velvet Underground. Ray got so philosophical for a drag queen, Gerard would tell his bedridden brother, who breathed for intrigue. Really knew his Nietzche.
Then they would fuck on Ray’s silk rose-patterned sheets, Gerard on top, kissing the crest of Ray’s shoulder each time he pushed up. The rattle and hum of their chests and a sharp creaking of bones would join crickets to form symphonies of salt, sweat, and sugar.
Then they would go back to work.