I got to his house around 9.30. I knocked on the back door, no answer. There was a note for me on the front door. He would be back in a minute, come in. Sort of like the note that Mia Wallace leaves on the front door for Vincent Vega. I really like his apartment. The rooms are big and the carpet is nice. Of course the first thing I did was lock the doors and start digging around in his room. I'm a bad girl. Which leads me to something that has always confused me about him - he's so willing to leave me alone in his house. He doesn't think twice about it. That time I spent the night with him while he lived with his mother, he got up to go to work and as he was getting dressed, I just layed there and looked at him. It was strange for him to not expect me to leave when he left. Actually he expected the opposite. I don't feel comfortable leaving people alone in my room, with my things. Maybe the marines made him that way. Maybe he's not like that with everyone. Maybe because we've slept together he trusts me.

He and his roommate came back like 15 minutes later.

...

So we're sitting there watching these bad movies. The first time he and I ever watched television together. It was quite uneventful. I was looking at him out of the corner of my eye, sitting there all tall and thin. I was mentally salivating like some sort of sick, sad primordial version of myself. So, we watched movies and then went to bed. It was pleasant. I've already established that his body rivals that of the gods. Seeing him naked is like looking at those really beautiful art photographs in coffee table books. My awe of his physical appearance really confuses me. Why do I think he's so beautiful? He's not a textbook example of male beauty, but looking at him makes me weak. Why does going down on him turn me on so much? Its slightly (not overly) rewarding, and it makes me feel calm and satiated. Going down on him makes me smile. It makes me happy and sleepy and comfortable. That's got to mean something. But its hard to be objective when I think about him. That intoxicating body clouds my judgment. When I was waiting for him to come home, I looked around his room. On a bookshelf in his closet there were probably 50 books stacked up with erotic names like "mastering java," "advanced networking." There was a worn Sisters of Mercy shirt under a Ministry shirt. His computer was on, he has a big monitor and the PC case was off. The speakers from his stereo were connected to his computer, and there was a role of film on his desk. I could develop a pretty serious crush on the inhabitant of that room, no matter what he looked like. I didn't see his camera anywhere.