Something sharp was digging into her hip. She
unlatched the carabiner on his pants, sending all 30
keys crashing to the ground, and his Dickies following
quickly after. His too-tight briefs were pink, but
she just knew they were organic.

In the dimly lit room she could make out a poster. She
panicked. Was that Brooke Burke? He pushed her down
to his uncircumcised dick (he told her his penis was
ironic), and she was pretty sure his pubic hair was
shaped into a landing strip. His balls were definitely
shaved. Everything smelled like cologne.

"Oh that feels so good. How about some music? Have you
ever heard of Arcade Fire? They're kinda indie."

She heard the unmistakable bassline of ‘Haiti’ through
the Bose Wave Music System. "Have you heard this
yet?"

A wave of nausea washed over her.

"Yes."

Mid-blow she quickly scanned his bookshelf: Dan
Brown’s "The Da Vinci Code". Dan Brown's "Angels and
Demons".

"Oh fuck no," she said.

"I hope you don't mind, but I get a little racist when
I fuck."

Her head was spinning. She was going to vomit.

"Where are we?"

"Williamsburg, baby. Williamsburg. With the artists."