I was in the closet. That’s not a metaphor, by the way—I was literally, physically trapped in a closet. It wasn’t even my closet; it was his. And it had that guy-closet smell, you know? Leather and cologne up front, base notes of sweat and testosterone lingering beneath. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Actually, it was kind of hot in its uniquely masculine way, but I was in no mood and certainly no position to be turned on, crouched like a frog on top of some sneakers.
