"We ate quickly and adjourned to the bedroom to celebrate our upcoming cohabitation. I stretched out on the waterbed and Keith invented nasty new arcade games with my joystick. . . "
"Afterwards, Keith lay in my arms, warm and stickywet and smelling of fuck, his big head on my chest, the weight of him nearly painful. I stroked his big, damp back, stubbing my fingertips now and then on one of the moles that peppered his back and shoulders."
Chapter 42 of Larry Duplechan's Eight Days A Week: