All For Show: A Fake Boyfriend Gay Romance

by Rachel Kane

  Why did that bother me? This was going to be a fake relationship, what did it matter what his real feelings were?

  It bothered me for the same reason it would bother me if any cute guy didn’t like me! I try so hard to be likable! I say reasonably clever things, don’t I? I keep in shape, I do modern things with my hair.

  And it didn’t matter! I didn’t even want to be in a relationship. Who wanted the stress? Changing everything about your life to accommodate another person’s needs, it was just pointless. But Nat’s implication that he wouldn’t want people really thinking we were together really chafed. Who was he, to not want to be associated with me? Did he think he was too good for me? Even when he was just wearing a normal shirt, he looked like he wished he were in a sweater-vest.

  Mr. Thurgood said, “Grff?” and I realized I was standing still on the sidewalk. I’d apparently come to a halt, getting more and more het up over what Nat might’ve meant.

  “Could I be wrong?” I asked Mr. Thurgood. “Could I be totally misreading what he meant? It isn’t possible. I’m known for my keen instincts and ability to read people.”

  “Snff?” asked Mr. Thurgood, shifting excitedly on his haunches as if I might be holding out on a treat. I chose to interpret his question as asking for more clarification.

  “Well, I say known, but I suppose what I mean is, people have told me all my life about my deep sense of what other people are feeling and thinking. And I should clarify that by people I am specifically excluding all the exes who have told me I have no idea what people are thinking and feeling, but rather that I am constantly making up their thoughts and motivations in my head.”

  “Hrmpf.” He pulled on the leash, and we began walking again.

  The whole thing had obviously touched a nerve. I had been single a long time now. I hadn’t tried to go out with anyone since the break-up. Apparently, the solitude was making me way oversensitive.

  It really didn’t help that he was cute. That kind of bashful-cute where he didn’t even realize it because he was too shy. If he’d been some ugly brute with a ton of confidence, maybe I wouldn’t feel so confused about his thoughts and motivations.

  Sometimes my thoughts tie themselves into knots that take me hours to untangle. I wouldn’t even get the chance to untangle them, though, because just as Mr. Thurgood and I reached my street, my phone rang. I groaned when I saw who it was. “Hello, Harris.”

  “How did your thing go? What did Nat want? Sergio is dying of curiosity.”

  “Nat is a very strange and offensive person. Maybe. Or very shy and difficult to talk to. One or the other.”

  “Wow, you sound grumpy. I take it the meeting didn’t go well?”

  I didn’t feel like explaining the whole fake-boyfriend farce to him. He didn’t need to know the details. “It’s all right,” I said. “We’ll all survive.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine, Harris.”

  “This is not your Relaxed Saturday Guy voice. You sound down.”

  Oh no. It was the patented Harris tone of concern. He was worried about me. I couldn’t allow that. It would mean constant calls and having friends come over to check on me. Even though he was my best ex, he could be so overbearing when he worried.

  “Not down, not me!” I said, injecting a note of levity into my voice. “The sun is out, the day is young, the gulls are only moderately invasive.”

  “Sergio hoped this project would be something fun for you, given how depressed you’ve been lately.”

  “Who says I’m depressed? I’m so happy, I’m like a child’s painting of a clown holding three red balloons!”

  Harris uttered a long sigh. Oh no, not the sigh of concern. A sense of doom swirled around me like the morning fog off the bay.

  “I don’t like it when you hide from your feelings,” said Harris.

  “Luckily my feelings aren’t your responsibility anymore.”

  “You’re alone in the world, and I worry about you.”

  “I’m not alone. Mr. Thurgood is my friend, and he’s with me all the time.” I looked down, but Mr. Thurgood was paying attention to a golden retriever across the street, and couldn’t be bothered to look up at me with understanding and sympathy.

  “Okay, okay. I’m not trying to babysit you, I promise. But why don’t you come to dinner tonight? It’ll cheer you up.”

  Yes, because nothing was more cheerful than spending an evening eating fancy food with people who were absolutely superior to you in every way, and who were worried about you. “Nah, I have plans.”

  “You do not.”

  “Seriously, Harris. I have plans.”

  There was a moment of silence on the line. I fretted that he was going to bring up the fact that I never did anything on Saturday nights, that I was the least fun person ever to have walked the earth, that even Mr. Thurgood was tired of me.

  Instead, he sounded resigned. “Okay, Owen. I’m sorry if I crossed a line. Take care.”

  This was horrible! Harris couldn’t go around thinking I was depressed and lonely. I didn’t think I could bear the constant calls, the invitations to go out, the seemingly random drop-ins at home and at the paper. People would notice. They’d start to talk. They’d ask him, What’s wrong with Owen? And he would sadly shake his head.

  Oceanside might be big and prosperous, but it feels like a small town. In a small town, people talk. And I would give anything for them not to be talking about me.

  I stared at my phone, still standing there on the sidewalk. I had to prove to Harris that I was still the same happy, fun person he thought. No despairing!

  What could be more happy and fun than appearing on television in a fake relationship? Even if it was with a person who cringed at your presence?

  I couldn’t believe I was doing this, but I was dialing Nat’s number.

  “Um, hello?” said his voice. It sounded hoarse and strange.

  I said, “You left very abruptly!”

  “Oh, Owen! It was awful! There’s water, and the cabinet is ruined, and--”

  “Are you okay?”

  His laugh sounded slightly maniacal. “Am I...okay. Yes. I mean, there are various interpretations of the word okay, and I am some, but not all, of them. My kitchen is about to create a swirling whirlpool that drags me to the inky depths of my downstairs neighbor’s place, and I have to find a plumber, and the only one who will answer me is going to charge me forty million dollars to show up, and--”

  I suddenly felt very guilty. Guilty and shallow. I’d been wandering around feeling offended by him...for not hanging all over me? That was silly. He had a lot on his mind. He had come to me for help. No wonder he was so tense!

  “Well, I’m glad it’ll all be fixed soon,” I said.

  “It will?”

  “The show,” I said. “Surely they’ll set it all right?”

  He sighed then, a sound I wasn’t sure I could interpret. “I’m...I’m not sure I can do the show.”

  “But wait! What changed in the past hour?”

  “Isn’t it all just a little much?” he said. “You don’t really want to have a fake boyfriend for a week. It’s a weird thing to ask someone. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Really? Can I ask you...did I say something wrong? Did I do something?” Like me! C’mon, I’m a good person!

  God, I was glad he couldn’t hear my thoughts.

  “You?” he said, sounding surprised. “No, of course not. No, it’s me.”

  “You realize the it’s not you, it’s me speech traditionally means it’s you.”

  “Wait, you lost me there.”

  I paused, because it’s not like I could launch into all my insecurities on the phone with a guy I’d literally just met, especially a guy I found cute.

  “Never mind all that,” I said. “Let’s do the show! It’ll be fun!”

  “But I’m not--I mean, we’re not--”

  “Fine, fine, yes, you and your ground rules. We’ll make sure ev
eryone in town knows we’re not actually together. We’ll just have to prove to the rest of the world that we’re a couple of hot, virile, interesting guys anyone would be happy to date.”

  “Nobody’s going to believe that you--”

  “Nat! Stop objecting! You need your kitchen fixed, and I need the ego boost! Now you say that we’re hot and interesting!”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “No! You have to say it!”

  “Okay! Fine! You’re cute, you’re quirky--”

  “Quirky?”

  “You’re a goddamned meringue of fluffy goodness, okay? Everyone in the world wants to be your friend! Or your boyfriend!”

  My smile was wide, and I almost found myself blushing. “You got that right. Best guy in the world, that’s me. When does shooting begin?”

  6

  Nat: Lights, Camera

  I found I was sitting on my couch, gazing at my lovely new kitchen. It gleamed and shone in the glowing light from above. It sparkled with radiance. It struck me as being so beautiful, I almost did not want to cook in it, but that was okay, we hardly ever cooked anymore.

  Wait, I said to myself. When did the kitchen get fixed?

  “You’re looking very relaxed and satisfied,” said Owen from afar.

  I turned and saw him approaching from the door of my bedroom. The bedroom was dark, and fog swirled out of it.

  He was emerging wearing a suit cut very trim on his lean frame. It was a deep, rich blue that brought out the color in his eyes. His hair was down over his forehead, making him look boyish and innocent, but the look on his face wasn’t innocent in the least. The way his shirt was unbuttoned, showing his collarbones and just the beginning of his chest, the way his pants showed off his strong legs and hinted at his package...I found myself getting aroused just watching him walk over.

  “I’m not quite satisfied...yet,” I said, a wicked grin on my face.

  Owen slid down onto the couch next to me. “Perhaps you need another room to renovate? Maybe we should do something about the bedroom.”

  I reached up and touched his full lower lip, feeling its softness. “Something wrong with the bedroom?”

  “Yeah. You and I aren’t in it.”

  I blinked. Something was strange here, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I was having the hardest time remembering when exactly Owen and I had started sleeping together.

  I tried to think back, but the past was a blur. Had we even been on the show yet? I was so drowsy, and he was so handsome, did it matter? He was here right next to me, looking sultry and sensuous as ever, his lips parted just slightly, breath heavy with desire.

  Oh god, is this a dream? Am I dreaming about Owen? No, no, this is wrong, I’m not attracted to him! I can’t be!

  But my body was moving without me. I felt like I was on fire, being this close. Once more my thumb brushed his lower lip, and now I moved even closer to him, letting my lips touch his in the gentlest kiss possible, as though I had to go slow, so I would not scare him away. A little game we played, knowing our hunger was pushing us together with an intensity made all the more pleasurable by drawing it out, making it last.

  I couldn’t describe this sensation of knowing we had been together so many times before, of knowing each other’s bodies so perfectly, combined with having no memory whatsoever of when we’d gotten together. I felt a little drunk from it, honestly, still wondering if this was a dream, but not wanting to wake up.

  I felt his hand slip under my shirt, felt him touch the ridges of my belly. I closed my eyes and let out a little gasp, shivering and shuddering as his hand moved upward. I think my whole chest broke out in gooseflesh when he reached my nipples; they hardened so quickly, a little signal of my need for him.

  “Do something for me,” I whispered against his lips.

  “Anything.”

  “Take me in the kitchen.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Right on the granite countertop.”

  “Oh, you like it chilly?” His hands were on the other side of me now, exploring my back, but now they were moving down, down, around my ass. He began to rise, lifting me in his strong arms, carrying me to our gorgeous new kitchen. There was something about being in his grip, something that made me feel so safe, so protected, like there was nothing in the world that could come between us.

  That voice inside my head protested. This isn’t real, it said, it’s just stress, you don’t even like him like this, and if you did like him like this, you could never tell him because guys like you--

  “Stop,” I whispered.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just talking back to my conscience.”

  If this is a dream, can’t I just enjoy it a little while?

  Now he was tearing at my shirt, buttons popping off, his mouth finding my nipples, first one, then the other. I uttered an involuntary groan at the sensation. His tongue was so warm against my skin. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, until it was resting against the flat birch panels of the cabinet doors, one thin line of cold at the back of my neck, from the rounded modern door handles of brushed steel. “Do it,” I urged him, as his hands found my belt.

  I lifted my hips enough for him to slide my pants down to the floor, and had to hold onto him as my body shivered from the cold of the countertop. It took me a minute to adjust, like leaping into a swimming pool. He was helping me warm up, though, his hands stroking and pulling and cupping. It made me laugh, the contrast between the heat of his hands and the freezing granite, but I quickly grew serious, because while I was naked before him, it hardly seemed fair. He was still fully clothed in his blue suit. Not fair at all.

  My hands slid down the smooth fabric, feeling the muscle lying just underneath his clothes. I passed his belt, continued down to the bulge in his pants. I could feel myself tingling with anticipation, as my fingertips explored his hardness. I could feel the ridge of his head through the fabric, and the thought of that thickness inside me made me shudder harder than the cold had. I could barely work his belt and buttons, my hands were shaking so much with anticipation.

  He responded by getting even harder, so that it was tough for me to work him out of his pants and into the open air. But finally he was out, he was in my hands, so thick and hot and ready for me that it took my breath away.

  “That feels so good,” he said. “The way your hands squeeze when they wrap around me like this.”

  “That’s nothing, compared to how you’re going to feel in just a minute,” I said.

  We kissed again, and all thoughts left my mind, replaced by a single need, the need for him to fuck me, hard, right now, forever.

  He broke my kiss just long enough to breathe these words, “There’s one thing though...”

  I brought his lips back to mine. “Tell me. Anything. I’ll do anything to have you inside me.”

  “It’s just--”

  “Yes?”

  “Beep, beep, beep, Nat.”

  “I don’t understand.” Was it getting foggier in the kitchen? Had the lights begun to flicker out? Something was happening, something was changing.

  “Nat! Beep! Beep!”

  He was sliding away from me! Some strange force had angled the kitchen downhill, and gravity tugged him in the wrong direction. “Owen! Come back!”

  I reached out--

  Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

  I woke up in a cold sweat, clutching the sheets, gasping for breath. “What...what?” I said to the dark and empty bedroom. I was horrified to see the size of the hard-on I had sprung in my sleep.

  I looked over at the alarm clock, which was madly beeping. Eight in the morning. “Jesus,” I said, wiping my brow. I hadn’t realized sex dreams were going to be part of the bargain here.

  Sex dreams about Owen? What was I thinking? That was crazy!

  I wondered if I should reach under the sheets and get myself off. Maybe it would take some of the pressure off.

  No. No, it’d do just the o
pposite, wouldn’t it? I’d get all worked up and feel even more awkward when I saw Owen. One horribly awkward conversation was enough, thanks.

  “Sorry, cock,” I said. “You should have stayed in the dream.”

  Walking into the bathroom, I turned on the sink to splash some cold water on my face, then remembered I had to cut the water off. I groaned. No sink. No shower. No toilet! Ugh. That was the whole reason I’d set my alarm early, so I could get to the gym and catch a shower.

  The reality of my situation settled back onto me. This was going to be a miserable couple of days.

  And Owen was going to come over! It was Sunday morning, and we’d made plans to get together and plot out our fake relationship, all the little touchpoints for when we were interviewed about our pasts. Where we met, our favorite places to eat, that sort of thing.

  The only problem was that after that dream, I really dreaded seeing him. God, what if he could take one look at me and know I had a sex dream involving him...in a suit…with a fog machine in the background?

  I looked into the mirror. “I am not attracted to Owen. This is just stress. Between the kitchen, the show, all the stuff going on in my life, it’s natural to feel a little unsettled.”

  Part of me piped up: But what’s wrong with being attracted to Owen? He’s cute, he’s funny, he has a nice dog--

  “No way! You don’t understand! I ruin every relationship I touch! If I tell him I find him attractive, I’ll do it in such a weird, clumsy way that it’ll scare him off, and then we can’t do the show, and then my kitchen doesn’t get fixed, and so I’ve got all the problems I already had, plus the embarrassment of acting like a love-smitten highschooler!”

  But it’s only natural! You’ve been single forever!

  “Oceanside has a million cute guys! I don’t lust after all of them!”

  Maybe if you’d actually talk to one of them, you’d be less stressed out all the time?

  “The last person I’m going to take advice from about this is...um...myself.”