So I saw that guy again, the really hot john who I have lots of sexual chemistry with, saw him again for money. And from my entrance into his apartment, the lines normally dividing me from them, a certain dynamic and a certain acting of roles, was not there. We sat on his fancy couch in his well decorated apartment and had a cocktail, talking about the good and bad things of our past week, of our lives, and went on to a second cocktail. He was playing Belle & Sebastian. That helped cement my attraction, his playing it, allowing me to know he listens to it. It was a signifier I understood, that this person was decent, probably even good, and definitely cute.

We had sex to Cyndi Lauper's She's So Unusual. My choice. The first song on that album, appropriately enough, awkwardly enough, is "Money Changes Everything." The sex was again steamy and amazing, really fantastic. He eventually changed it to Madonna's new album, my choice most definitely not a good sex soundtrack.

We had another cocktail on his couch afterwards. He paid me. We looked at pictures of people on his laptop and talked more. I ended up going with him to Star Lounge in Chelsea, where for whatever reason I had been thinking of going and where he was heading to meet friends. I couldn't keep my hands off of him, kept grabbing him, making out with him. We drank more, did some coke, and made out more, looking at each other in this way where we both found each other cute, likable, and yet would shy away from those looks, knowing that that would be weird. Eventually, we admitted to how weird it was and I confessed that I am really attracted to him. He admitted as much also. I told him that I probably couldn't see him for money anymore but that I wanted to hang out with him more. We made out some more, the sexual chemistry and this awkward situation, tension with roles, making things so full of spark.

He came with me to a house party in Bushwick and then to my apartment. I felt a little awkward, a little scummy when he was in my apartment, aware of how it must have looked to him, to be far away from his home of Chelsea in rough Bushwick and to be in my apartment, which compared to his which I had just been in is a total shithole. I saw the scrappy futon and my sheets with cum stains on it through fresh eyes, was worried that he hated it. But he didn't, or at least didn't say so, and we went it at again, sleeping next to each other, and he left early this morning, and it was a bit awkward, both of us mentioning the weirdness of the situation in which we were both participants.