His place looked over-the-top nice. Crystal everything. Black steel. Brushed aluminum everywhere. Copper artifacts from Peru. Vintage books from Oxford and Liverpool. Rugs made in Afghanistan. Furniture designed and imported from Sweden.
I looked around and asked, “What’d Daddy do for a living?”
“Computer shit.”
“It pays the bills.”
“That it does.” He began to strip me out of my clothes. First my Timberland jacket, then my Pistol Pete shirt. He dropped both to the floor and eyed up my chest. “Nice block you sport.”
“I work at it. Nothing comes easy in life. If you want inflated pecs, abs, and thighs, you have to work at it.”
“Can I touch you?” he asked, mesmerized by my firm n*****s, waving abs, and shallow-pitted navel.
“I hope you do more than just touch me.”
He didn’t touch me,
