“劫掠左”，软性说男孩，关闭他的Porsche的门的。

“为什么？”

“我们在汽车不可能把它留在”。 并且，虽然我不是肯定的为什么，我采取食物，并且我们走到我的大厦，艺术装饰被咬住砖。 “我是，很好奇最后看您的地方”，男孩说。 “并且我很准备碰撞”。

我体会他想要度过夜在我的地方，并且，虽然我们一起睡觉了完全成功公寓、旅馆、飞机和火车五个国家，我去害羞并且说， “我不认为您要”。

“为什么没有？ 是您的其他男朋友以后过来？”

“只有我的其他男朋友是我的右手。 并且我喜欢认为它作为一只热的小鸡”。

他笑，并且我锁上开放门为他，带领他一个古色古香的电梯。 “这是迷人的”，男孩说。

“准备好。 它是一个真正的鞋盒”。 电梯停留，慢和我们出去并且步行沿着向下大厅。 我打开门，并且停留： “您准备好？”

我在灯开关翻转，并且男孩喘气。 “您没有哄骗。 它我的水池房子真正地小于”。

“您的水池房子有一个充分的厨房，并且一个大理石卫生间”，我笑。 “您仍然想要停留？”

“我可以做都市野营”，他说。 “这将是象当我在我的办公室睡觉摆脱同居者女朋友时。 并且我在密林睡觉了。 我可以任何地方睡觉”。

我劫掠我的枕头，并且打开橡皮奶嘴云彩在我的躺椅。

“婴孩，您好比此可能居住”。 他滑倒他的buttondown和地方它在我的玻璃书桌上，我的一件少量家具-在我的厨房，充分有冰箱葡萄酒毛皮和仅一台煮浓咖啡器那个费用一半我的租。 “为什么这里在您？”

“由于三个月熔化了入六，然后十二”。 我崩裂开放我的膝上计算机，观看他脱下衣服。 “我认为我现在会回来在纽约，但我眨眼睛和年的。 并且，它在居住在一个粗砂都市环境里之间或酒精中毒为了适合下个了不起的美国人点燃了女孩。 并且我不喝，绝不是大豆lattes”。

男孩是赤裸在我的床，报道的身体一半，眼睛一半上关闭，虽然他清楚地说， “我移动您在这里外面。 您再从未离开我的地方”。

“It’s not that bad.” My declaration is punctuated by a siren, red as the sunset that’s just closing. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yeah, I’ll sleep anywhere. But I’m saving you from…” Soon he’s snoring as I type away, working, writing, watching him rub his face into my pillow, liking the soft, fat white of my down comforter against his lean, tan body. When I put down my laptop it’s almost midnight, and I lie next to The Boy, reading on my iPhone as he sleeps, liking hearing his soft snores. Little pillows of breath, they–

Don’t drown out the helicopters outside. The Boy rolls over on his back. “Do you have to pay extra for this entertainment?” he asks. “Why are you living like this?”

“It’s authentic, like a Fifty Cent music video,” I say, still scrolling my iPhone. “And I need street cred to write about f**k-you shoes.”

“You’ve got to move. Come live near me.”

“I can’t do the suburbs,” I say. “And beach towns give me anxiety. They’re too relaxed. There are too many flip-flops.” I rub The Boy’s back, his neck, until his moans melt into soft snores, and I go back to reading.

It’s a blank black, like my iPhone lying next to my head when I wake up. “I just heard a woman scream,” says The Boy. “Like out of a horror movie. Is my Porsche going to be there when I leave?”

“I didn’t hear her. But want me to check your car?”

“Sometimes it’s better not to know.”

The next time I wake up, The Boy’s looking at one of his cell phones, sitting up. “It’s 5 a.m. Time for me to go to work.” But he crawls back under the covers and pets me heavy, and finally the only noises we hear are the rustling of the bed clothes as we completely unclothe, as we breath off each other’s moans. We’re not quiet until we finish, and our pleasure has us playing on that border between sleep and wake.

“All right.” The Boy kisses my forehead, my closed eyes. “I’m out, baby.” I give him time to take the elevator, to cross the street to his car, and call him. “Is your Porsche riddled with bullets?”

“No, but I have a ticket and it’s like night of the living dead out here.” I direct him how to get back to his place, his nine-bathroom palace with a postcard view of the Pacific, and I don’t fall back asleep until I hear him say:

“It’s so good to be home.”

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