The lights were dim. My neon sign simmered in the night. I unzipped his trousers and took them off. I liked his smell.

"You're really hot, you know that?" He whispered.

"Sure." I replied and kissed him on his legs.

"I like your tattoos."

"I hope that's not the only thing you like about me."

"I like your silver hair too. What do you like about me?"

"I'll show you, put your legs up." I ate his ass on the couch. He messed up my hair. I came in his mouth. We sat there, lying on the couch breathing heavily.

"Why did you get your face tattooed?" He asked me.

"I'll get you a towel. Do you want something to eat?"

"Yeah I guess." He hesitated. I got my pants from the ground and went to the bathroom, fixed my hair and grabbed a clean towel. I looked at myself in the mirror. I gained some pounds. "I should stop eating out." I thought to myself.

"Do you want me to leave?" He said when I returned.

"I don't mind. You can crash here if you want." We ordered some Chinese food and ate it while listening to some music. I could hear the cars go by and the rain hitting the windows. He took a look around the living room.

"I like your sketches." He noted honestly.

"Thanks."

"Goes with the whole vibe of the house."

"My ex designed it but I wanted something more industrial." I could feel the Szechuan beef burning my lips.

"Oh, I see. How long were you guys together?" He exhaled.

"About five or six years."

"Why did you break up?"

"He died in a car crash." I shrugged. John swallowed loudly and started coughing.

"Shit, are you OK?" I got up and patted him on his back.

"I'm fine." He reassured me and continued coughing. I brought him some water. "I'm really sorry." He apologized.

"For what?"

"Your boyfriend." He explained. His eyes went all watery like when he was choking on my dick.

"It's OK." I reassured him and sat back down. There was a long pause. "So what do you do for living?" I asked him.

"I'm a writer."

"Cool. What do you write about?"

"Dunno. Sex, atheism, a little bit of philosophy."

"Difficult subjects."

"Depends. Do you like reading?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Really?" He exclaimed. This seemed to brighten up his mood. "What's your favorite writer?"

"I like the beat movement, but Dj Pancake is my favorite."

"I'm embarrassed to say that don't know him?" He pondered.

"He was this guy from West Virginia, committed suicide when he was 26. Most people don't know him."

"What did he write about?"

"The important stuff. I can lend you his book if you want."

"I don't know if I'll get the chance to give it back." 

"Well that's up to you." I replied. He left the morning after with my book in his backpack. A month has passed. Still haven't got the book back. I don't mind, after all I'm used to losing things.