“Do you want to be treated poorly?” “Jesus, I don’t know,” I’d said to whatever question I was supposed to be answering. I’d been on my haunches next to the napkin supply, trying to clean the cum out of my coat, one of hundreds of liquids that had seeped into the fur over the years, a scrapbook of stains: beer and dirt and tears, and, in the lining of the sleeves, smeared lines of blood.
