The DJ at the bar Katie has taken me to for my birthday plays mash-ups of Michael Jackson and, apparently, whatever else he can lay his hands to at that particular moment. We sit in a curtained booth that Katie's pull at her job has gotten for us and we cuddle and crack jokes about pedophilia and dance like assholes to Li'l Wayne tunes until the bouncers that have a sightline into our cloister laugh at us.
Earlier, we had gone to get massages at a place Katie found out about online, and it was incredibly relaxing. The woman doing my massage was kind enough not to notice the half-erection I got as she rubbed down my shoulders, because, really, it wasn't that kind of place.
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