“But what about the sex?” he asks me, exasperated.

“It’s not always about sex,” I remind him.

“Well, it should be partly about sex,” he says. “And you haven’t had any since you’ve been here.”

“Does monogamy mean anything to you?” I ask, frowning at the term paper on the screen. I just used the words “shallow and morbidly pedantic” to describe Shakespeare. I don’t think that is going to get me an A. Maybe my bad poetry will. If old Bill could become famous for making people believe two whiny fourteen-year-olds falling in love over three days and then offing themselves is a love story, then I can write more bad poems about Santa/Satan and have them considered classics. It can’t be that hard. I should really look into publishing my works for posterity and the masses to enjoy in the millennia to come. The Tao of Ty.

“It sure does,” Rob says. “Though nothing good. It’s like hearing you have herpes.”

“I don’t think that’s quite right.”

“So… no blow job?”

“No blow job.”

“Jerk me off?”

“Hand cramps.”

“Lie there while I do all the work?”

“Skipped right past enticing and went straight on to creepy. Congrats.”

He sighs again. “You know, it’s never this hard with anyone else. And I mean that in the dirty way too.”

“Gross. Flattering, but gross. Maybe you should stop hanging around people who’re that easy.”

“It’s not about the chase,” he says with a wicked grin. “It’s about the kill.”

“Yuck.”

My computer chimes and then the screen fills with Corey and Sandy, side by side. They look disgustingly pleased with themselves about something. This can’t possibly be good. “Hi, baby doll,” Sandy says warmly.

“Oh good,” Corey says. “Nothing has happened yet.”

I arch an eyebrow. “With Rob?”

“Rob?” He sounds confused. “What about Rob?”

“He’s pretty much naked on my bed asking me to have sex with him.”

Corey pales slightly. “That’s… not the best timing.”

“It never is,” I agree.

“I am so alone!” Rob laments, as if he didn’t just come from washing the smell of the random guy who slinked out of his bedroom earlier this morning.

“Twinkie parade,” Sandy says. “It’s like we’re in a Hostess factory.”

“I’m not a twink,” I say with a scowl.

“Yes, you are,” all three say at once.

“Bastards.”

Rob gets up from my bed and drops his arm around my shoulder. His skin is still wet. Slick. It does absolutely nothing for me. Bless his heart for trying, though.

“It’s snowing outside,” I tell Corey, ignoring Rob. “Let me guess. It’s ninety there.”

“Seventy-six, but that doesn’t matter. Rob should leave.”

“I can handle myself,” I reassure him. “He’s not that big.”

“Well, that doesn’t bruise the ego or anything,” Rob mutters, squeezing my shoulder. It’s a wonder that towel is still hanging on. Gravity must not know how to handle ludicrous attempted seduction.

“This is like watching one of those pay-porn sites,” Sandy says. “Like I could type in what I want you to do and then you’d do it.”