Chapter 7
Neal had been staring at the screen for what felt like decades. Punching at keys, erasing. Deleting sentence after sentence of useless crap. Rereading Nick Sands’ email between failed thoughts. “Can’t wait to see what you come up with for your column. Clever, for sure.” NS. A not so veiled challenge. Since getting sober, Neal’s brain felt brittle—frail, spinning, ready to break into pieces with the slightest breeze. He ran ideas though his head, and kept coming back to s*x. Write what you know and obsess about. s*x and fashion. Sitting, reaching for an idea, he calculated that he’d slept with over two thousand men since moving to the city. He began to type.
After sleeping with two thousand nameless men I’ve come to realize that anonymous s*x is definitely everything it’s crack
