"Good."
"But I'm not sure which part."
"Every part," he says.
"You liked being watched?"
He nods.
"Watching?"
"Fuck yeah."
I like to be watched. He likes to watch. It's a match made in sexual Heaven. It's almost too good to be true. Except for my total inability to take our relationship outside the bedroom. Well, the metaphorical bedroom. "Would you ever want to watch me with someone else?" Where the fuck did that come from?
"No. I don't like to share."
I nod.
"But on your own, with other people around… maybe."
"Where would we do that?"
"A sex club."
"Do those really exist? Or are they just a thing in the movies?"
"No idea."
"Damn. And here I thought you ran the biggest sex club on the West Coast."
"No, that's the other Patrick Murphy."
"The one?"
"I'm sorry. We can't all have Irish first names and Vietnamese last names."
"Imogen is Irish?"
"Hell yeah, it's Irish."
"So that's why you like me," I say.
"No, it's your tits."
A laugh spills from my lips.
Sex. Yes. This is easy. And easy is good. And, yes, I'm afraid of feelings, but at least I can admit it, here, to myself, in his car, while I contemplate how long I need to stay at his friend's party before I drag him back to his place.
Probably an hour, minimum.
That's another two until we're alone at his apartment.
"I liked the pictures." He interrupts my dirty thoughts. "And sending me to somewhere public while I talked you off… that was evil."
"Thanks."
"I've got plans for next time."