We hopped in a cab uptown to his pad on 68th and Central Park West, copping various PG-13–rated feels the entire way. As we entered his fourth-floor apartment, he warned me, “My roommate is here, but we can hang out in my room.” I hoped he had noise-canceling earplugs for when Kit and I banged. Oh, right. Fat Mike had already declared tonight a sex-free zone. Ugh. Fuck off, Fat Mike!
