Kant realizes it sounds like he’s fishing for compliments, and that in doing so he might find the lake empty. He apologizes and stares at his stupid face in the sideview mirror, getting sucked into an emotional gravity well where he pities Julian for dating such a loser, and resents Julian for pitying him, and pities himself for being pitied, all of which cancels out into silence.

As much as he appreciates the support, he doesn’t actually want Julian to like him for his niceness or intelligence. He’d hoped that being in a relationship would somehow make his self-worth feel less concentrated around cartoonishly yucky sexual degradation; yet six months in, neither of them has acknowledged Kant’s obvious avoidance of sex, because he can’t or won’t specify his needs, being convinced that he is always in debt and on probation, that Julian’s assenting to date a stammering moon-faced pornsick Asian virgin in his thirties was already asking too much, and any extra demands would only risk losing everything, plus what could be more pathetic and off-putting than begging Julian to please pretty please be terrified of his cock. And on top of all this, Kant is basically someone who, in his normal life, wants monogamy, stability, even kids someday, a life entirely incompatible with his hideous desires, so wouldn’t it be simpler to refrain from indulging them, lest they get their roots even deeper in him? If Julian hasn’t brought up the sex problem, it’s probably because he’s fine with not having sex with Kant, and who could blame him.

And yet: Kant also wonders if his own reticence is a smokescreen to avoid admitting that he’s never been very physically attracted to Julian either. It’s not that Julian doesn’t take care of himself, with his thrice-weekly gym visits and flexitarianism; he is undeniably good-looking. But not perfect. He has a recessed chin and patchy leg hair, butt acne, a dick that could be two inches longer (though still bigger than Kant’s), and occasional hand eczema requiring creams and latex finger cots. None of this comports with the fantasy in Kant’s head. It would be unconscionable to ever suggest that Julian is inadequate; it’s clearly Kant who’s lacking, for looking the way he does, and wanting the vile, absurd, disgusting, and physically impossible things he wants. Yet the sense of his own guilt and hypocrisy do nothing to counteract the wanting.

Kant shakes his head. For him, sex is not play, and not sports, nor even work—sex will always be a trial, ending in a verdict.