I’m in the checkout line at Target. I’m holding a $22 raincoat. I don’t love wearing synthetic

fabrics, but I suppose it’s preferable to wearing semen. Back at home I have a pair of black cargo pants that are bleach stained beyond repair, so I’ll wear those too, over shorts.

Maxwell gets out of his standup class around 10PM, so I have another hour to construct my

second skin. Along with the raincoat I’m buying a bottle of body wash. Salicylic acid. Scentless. When I get home tonight I will scrub off the most exterior layer of my dermis. Nothing will stick to me.

 

I return to my apartment and get dressed. Underwear, plain t-shirt, workout shorts, then overtop: bleach stained cargos, black hoodie, raincoat, ball cap. Looking at my apartment, you’d probably be surprised to hear me describe myself as a germaphobe. However, messy does not mean dirty. Sure, I might have random bullshit strewn about, but my random bullshit is dusted and sterile. Maxwell texts me. He’s ready. I drive to his.

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Maxwell lives with the sluttiest man on the planet, a Silverlake hinge addict who is currently on sabbatical to try the “relationship thing” with a “nice girl.” Even so, evidence of his old tricks remain. The apartment was constructed with persuasion in mind. When I’m there for too long I sometimes imagine the apartment itself is trying to fuck me.

Maxwell and I take tequila shots for courage. We go to 7/11 and get cash from the ATM. No paper trail.

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We circle the Tiki theater for a few minutes looking for parking. We eventually find a spot on the

street a quarter mile away. This feels like an ideal distance. The Tiki theatre has a vicious red exterior. Last year it was one of two operational porn theaters in Los Angeles. Now it’s the only one. Its marque is simple. Tiki Adult Theatre. 24 hours. Parking in rear.

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