He threatens to take some Viagra, which makes me competitive. This isn't a rave. And then, and then, and then some more, and then like Prada, it's suddenly over. We lie still, arms folded above our heads. He rejects me.
Nothing feels right.
We don't have any dope. I command him to take a cab across town to pick it up. He leaves, I write out this story. Now I feel sick to my stomach. I head to the bathroom and retch out bits of Thai food and bile, then crawl into bed, wearing huge sweatpants and a dirty T-shirt.