Page 136 of The Hookup Experiment

Intentions, sure?

But the results speak for themselves.

There's too much swirling in my head. I need to write. But I don't want to dig through it yet. I want to stay here, in the comfortable space of his room.

Because I like him.

Because I like fucking him.

Because he understands. In some strange way, he understands.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this is an asset, not a liability.

Or maybe I'm full of it.

That's a strong possibility.

He emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, wet hair sticking to his forehead, water rolling off his chest.

He looks good here. And, more, this feels personal, like we're really in each other's lives.

Experiment notes: Subject went off-script with social media dives. Add new rules, to forbid these kinds of things, and repeat with a more compliant subject.

Or maybe give up on the whole separating sex and love thing.

Focus on the what-do-I-like instead.

"You okay?" He adjusts the towel.

My eyes flit to his crotch instinctively.

He smiles. "I can drop it."

"I've seen it before."

"My ego."

"That's not what I mean."

"I know," he says.

"We can talk. If you want. Or you can talk. I can listen."

"About Deidre?" he asks.

"Or anything," I say.

He moves to the dresser, dries, pulls on a pair of boxers. "Is that what you want?"

I don't know what I want. "I want to sleep."

"Good news." He motions to the bed.

"I can't. Not right now. I'm too wired."

"My ego again."

"Tricky—"

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