It’s Darsey. Of course it is. Who else can it be? I’m not Agatha Christie but can piece the night’s mystery together.
Another mystery: he may not be getting boners with Cliff McGregory, but he certainly has one for me right now: pulsing, long, somewhat sweaty, veined, and ready for some friction or other type of action between gents—us.
I have options to choose from, of course:
One, I can be outraged, fly out of the bed, quickly turn on a light, scold him for his trespassing, and tell him to immediately go back to his room. I can yell at him, “Who do you think you are? I’m not the type of guy you just slip your d**k into and get what you want! Get out! And get out now! Go! Go! Go!”
Two, I can say something racy to him, completely out of character, like, “It’s about time you showed up,
