Three black, short-haired felines are lined up in the studio apartment’s foyer like Hitler’s Third Reich soldiers: Fury, Exterminator, and Princess. The trio has golden-shimmering-evil eyes. Princess hates Luke, hisses and growls. She’s the devil compared to her brothers. Her tail swings left and right and her eyes of death stare him down.

When Luke walks quietly and calmly around the trio, he whispers, “I loathe pussies. I’m a dog man.”

Princess obviously understands English, or at least the word dog, and hisses again. She flings out a paw with extended claws, ready for battle. More growls. So much dramatic growling. Jesus, she’s a feisty kitty with too much attitude. RuPaul in cat form.

As Luke crosses the living room area, he thinks Princess will run after him and jump on his back, digging its sharp and needle-like claws through his white shirt, penetrating their knife-sharp points into his shoulders or spine. This doesn’t happen, though, at least not this morning. Maybe in the future it will, but for now he’s safe.

He walks through the studio apartment: lots of Swedish furniture in calming green hues; homoerotic black-and-white photos by the local artist, Arman Chess; wall of hardback books by Edmund White, James Baldwin, Truman Capote, Armistead Maupin, Michael Cunningham, and others. The apartment looks tidy: no clutter, clean everywhere, smells like pine. He sees a paperback copy of Ben Tyler’s Tricks of the Trade on the Z-shaped coffee table. A business card from Halo’s Bar hangs out of its center. Halo’s is owned and operated by Miles Halo, one of Perrin’s best friends. Two bamboo walls that almost reach the high ceiling block off Perrin’s bedroom. According to Perrin, the bamboo came from Congo, but Perrin likes to tell stories about adventures he’s never even taken around the world. Such a storyteller. The guy should be a fiction writer.

Luke walks through the bamboo doorway and stops. Perrin Lerue is still asleep, on his back and sprawled over his bed. Luke takes note that Perrin’s naked. How can’t he since the Frenchman is beautiful in the warm rays of August light?

Perrin has the body of a god: lanky with some black hair on his chest, pink nipples, eight abs, muscular thighs sporting very little hair, and legs that look like a runner’s. His cock is six-inches limp, nicely cut. The man’s ball sack droops between his legs; its curls of black hair freshly man-scaped.

Luke likes the guy. Always has. Always will. It’s more than a crush these days. It’s infatuation. It’s lust. It’s finding Mr. Right in a world of demented Mr. Wrongs. If asked about his feelings for Perrin, he’d tell you, “He’s my man. He doesn’t know it yet. Someday he will. I’m holding out for him. No one can replace Perrin. No one. He’s everything I want in a guy. Prince Charming all the way.”

Luke feels fire rush through his body. Turned on by his friend. Attracted to his friend. Drawn to his friend. More than just a friend in his mind, and heart. Something he’s never told or shared with Perrin. More than puppy love. More than just lust. Luke suffers from hardcore love for the Frenchman. Over-the-top emotions that he drowns himself in, dying inside. Silenced. He’s too afraid to tell Perrin how he feels about him because he doesn’t want to ruin their friendship. Perrin’s a good friend. No. Wrong. Perrin’s a great friend. An amazing friend for the last five years, three months, and six days. Luke’s best friend. Luke doesn’t want his I’ve-Found-the-Man-of-My-Dreams emotions to ruin the masculine beauty that they share as friends. No way. Not in this lifetime. Never. So Luke keeps his affections for Perrin under wraps, hidden. It’s best this way. Honestly, it is.

Luke shakes his head. Tries to clear (and clean) his thoughts. He licks his lips.