Illustration by Mike Perry
I surveyed his dorm room. Black comforter with matching pillow shams, athletic trophies above the bed, Narcos paused on the TV, a musty glass of water on the bedside table (dust gathered around the bottom), a bottle of CVS-brand lube. I catch a whiff of BO covered with something tingly, woody, irritable: Old Spice NightPanther, uncapped, on the floor at the foot of the bed.
I could’ve been in my own bed, vodka and Coca-Cola and a few sips of Four Loko weighing me down, halfheartedly getting off through . . .
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