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to you?”
    “Maybe,” I say. “I can’t tell yet.”
    “I take that as a compliment. You, on the other hand…”
    “Are you calling me a slut?” I fire at him.
    “You tell me,” he winks.
    But I won’t tell him… yet.
    It’s cute. His attempt to play the educated hussy is commendable, but it’s not gonna work. Not with me, at least. I have to admit, he may be more experienced than I first surmised. And maybe, just maybe, he thinks
he’s
the player here.
My list of dalliances is longer than yours
, he’s insinuating, like we’re comparing dicks. (But surely I’d win that one, too.) I let him think that. It makes him more interesting and conversational and gets me out of dodging questions about my own flings. He doesn’t need to know that the list of people I’ve fucked in the past three months dwarfs the roll call of people he’ll fuck in the next decade.
    Then again, he could just be stringing me golden lines of bullshit. His “hookup” may have been nothing more than a brief good luck kiss with his co-star. He fancies himself a writer… who knows what’s truth and what’s fiction here?
    Then again, who the fuck cares? Not me! His ass is far more intriguing — a globe of a bubble, either a natural blessing or the result of an army regimen of squats. I was in the mood to bottom today, but I’m gonna have to tap that thing. The thought of burying my face between his legs is getting me hard, forcing my cock to rub up against the specks of dry splooge still in my jockstrap.
    We’ve made it a mile when he yawns and says, “I need some caffeine.”
    I am a little worn out from the shoot — plus, I didn’t sleep last night. Mostly because I was having a three-way, but also because I locked myself out of the apartment I planned on staying in and had to go all the way down to my agent’s place at seven in the morning.
    We stop at some indie café in Chelsea and Danny buys me a latte. Good. Great. Wonderful. But it’s too rainy outside and he doesn’t want the drink to chill before he’s finished. We find ourselves sitting on a big fluffy brown couch in one of the dimly lit corners, just talking again. Now he’s asking about my life. There’s not much I want to say in this regard, so I push him to get the ball rolling.
    He’s a rich Jersey boy, as it turns out. A McMansion out in some suburban town — a quick ride from the city in the car his parents bought him for his birthday this year. He’s lived the life. He’s been to this country, that city. He’s been to movie premieres with celebrities because his father works on the business end of entertainment. His mom stays home all day (and probably bangs their mailman or her personal trainer).
    He’s bragging, and I don’t like it. He’s rubbing his millionaire life in my face. Of course, I could let him know that I, too, have seen the world. I shot scenes with horse-hung Swedish guys in Stockholm just a month ago. I’ve been to Mexico. Italy. Russia. Hawaii. All in the name of porn. All expenses paid. I flew and stayed for free in mansions on the sea and in five-star hotels. I partied all night at the bathhouses in Berlin. I kissed a fellow rent boy in front of the Eiffel Tower at midnight. As Danny regales me with his exciting life, I bite my tongue to prevent sharing a single word about mine. This is pissing me off. My life is exciting, but it’s also potentially damaging to this date.
    I mean… this elongated hookup. Or whatever it is.
    And then it slips out. I need to even the score, and if I can’t brag about boys I’ve banged across the globe, I’ll do it another way. I tell him about Mommy and Daddy and the Doc.
    Okay. Mr. Barely Seventeen had a slightly rougher time than I originally let on. He left the house when Mommy and Daddy found out he sucked dick. He hadn’t even actually sucked a dick at that point… but he sure had been thinking about it. Mommy and Daddy sent him to a psychologist first, thinking he had some sort of