"Better she finds my bank-roll than my prostate," Perry said. Lester spent a lot of time thinking about getting lucky, making up for a lifetime of bad luck with girls. "OK, let's get changed," Lester said. As usual, he was wearing tight-fitting jeans that owed a little debt to the bangbanger cycling shorts, something you would have had to go to a gay bar to see when Perry was in college. His shirt clung to his pecs and was tailored down to his narrow waist. It was a fatkins style, the kind of thing you couldn't wear unless you had a uniquely adversarial relationship with your body and metabolism. "No, Lester, no." Perry said. "I said I'd go on this double date with you, but I didn't say anything about letting you dress me up for it." The two girls were a pair that Lester had met at a fatkins club in South Beach the week before, and he'd camera-phoned their pic to Perry with a scrawled drunken note about which one was his. They were attractive enough, but the monotonic fatkins devotion to sybartism was so tiresome. Perry didn't see much point in hooking up with a girl he couldn't have a good technical discussion with. "Come *on*, it's good stuff, you'll love it." "If I have to change clothes, I'm not interested." Perry folded his arms. In truth, he wasn't interested, period. He liked his little kingdom there, and he could get everything he needed from burritos to RAM at the market. He had a chest freezer full of bankruptcy sale organic MREs, for variety. "Just the shirt then -- I had it printed just for you." Perry raised his funny eyebrow. "Let's see it." Lester turned to his latest car, a trike with huge, electric blue back tires, and popped the trunk, rummaged, and proudly emerged holding a bright blue Hawai'ian print shirt. "Lester, are those . . . turds?" "It's transgressivist moderne," Lester said, hopping from foot to foot. "Saw it in the New York Times, brought the pic to Gabriela in the market, she cloned it, printed it, and sent it out for stitching -- an extra ten buck for same-day service." "I am *not* wearing a shirt covered in steaming piles of shit, Lester. No, no, no. A googol times no." Lester laughed. "Christ, I had you going, didn't I? Don't worry, I wouldn't actually have let you go out in public wearing this. But how about *this*?" he said with a flourish, and brought out another shirt. Something stretchy and iridescent, like an oil-slick. It was sleeveless. "It'll really work with your biceps and pecs. Also: looks pretty good compared to the turd shirt, doesn't it? Go on, try it on." "Lester Banks, you are the gayest straight man I know," Perry said. He shucked his sweaty tee and slipped into the shirt. Lester gave him a big thumbs-up. He examined his reflection in the blacked-out glass doors of the Wal-Mart. "Yeah, OK," he said. "Let's get this over with." "Your enthusiasm, your best feature," Lester said.