My bank account became hefty from Dane’s paychecks. I spent very little, almost every dime was banked. I wasn’t frugal, but I didn’t need a lot to live on and be happy.

Following a trip to my bank, depositing a little over a thousand dollars into a savings account, Alex confronted me in our apartment. Bluntly, he asked, “Do you fuck the writer for your cash?”

I knew Alex had been drinking; I smelled cheap bourbon on his breath. I honestly didn’t want to make a scene with him; we were good roommates and got along just fine. “I don’t,” I whispered.

“He pays you well, then?”

“He does. I work hard for it.” For the next half hour I walked him through a few of my days: things I did for Dane Bentley, errands I ran, how I made his life easier, important tasks I carried out.

“I need a job like you have,” he drunkenly confessed, stepping up to my side, kissing my neck, lips, and cheeks, obviously hungry for my skin, seducing me: just the way I wanted to be seduced.

* * * *

The following morning, between jolts of coffee, overcoming his brutal hangover, Alex admitted, “I want to know if you’ll be my boyfriend. This is how strong I feel about you.”

I told him: I was not boyfriend material, I liked men too much, I enjoyed a stranger’s cock up my ass or in my mouth, I liked to eat a guy’s cream and have unsafe sex, I would make a lousy boyfriend, I would be unfaithful, I would break his heart and hurt him dearly, I was not capable of committing myself to just one man, I was ...

“Can we try it, Shane? Can we just give it a shot?”

“Yes,” is all I said, happy that he asked.

* * * *

June 19. I was seated across from Dane’s desk, reading eight pages of his work about a man cheating on his husband. He interrupted me and said, “Shane, I want you to know that you’re doing a great job. I wouldn’t want anyone else to be my assistant.”

I set the pages and red pen aside, and said, “I’m sure there are other young men such as myself that would be better assistants.”

“I highly doubt that.”

I told him, “Thank you, Dane. I’m glad to be here. I appreciate you offering me this position.”

He looked at me for the longest time with heavy interest: narrow eyes, thin lips pressed ever so slightly together, head cocked a little to the right. I wanted to ask him why he was studying me like an object of art, what did he find so appealing about me. I kept quiet, though, took up the red pen and pages again, and continued working under his constant, tender gaze.

* * * *

Truth was, I couldn’t remember having a boyfriend last. My life at twenty-one was nothing but sex, a string of asses and cocks. Boys that liked to fuck me. Men that liked to be blown. Athletes. Twinks. Mechanics. Construction workers. Office boys. Bankers. Artists. Jocks. Frat boys. Firemen. Police officers. Professors. Bears. Daddies. Pizza-delivery boys. Military men. And others. Too many to count. Almost too many to fuck and enjoy. That was my life. There was almost no room for a boyfriend, for Alex.

I told him I had to have rules if he wanted to be my boyfriend:

He had to fuck me every day.

He had to go dancing with me.

He had to go drinking with me.

He had to flirt unconditionally with me.

He had to tease and play with me.

He had to buy me gifts.

“I’ll do all of that,” he confirmed. “Thank you for being my boyfriend.”