I stand patiently at the door, waiting for it to be opened. I glance at my watch. Eleven, it's not too early, is it? Taylor had gone out last night to some wild shindig so it was quite possible he was lying unconscious on his bed. That would have to be the case. I rap my knuckles against the door again. If he wants to see this blasted Mueck exhibition though he's going to have to make it to the museum before they close the door on the general public. He's been whining and bitching for me to take him there even though I've already seen this round of Mueck's sculptures. I childishly stomp my foot on the ground.

My hand moves up to the doorknob and I turn it slightly. It's open. I shrug, tossing up as to whether to go in. I normally wouldn't but what if Taylor's sick? Or hasn't made it home? I chew the lining of my cheek, worried. What if he drank copious amounts and is now spewing the contents of his stomach across the tiles in his bathroom? I look up and down the corridor. No-one. I tentatively push open the door. Standing in the doorway I see the apartment is empty, there is not a sign of Taylor anywhere. Not even a cheap moccasin tossed off.

This is not a good sign. Immediately thoughts of Taylor lying in a gutter spring to mind and I physically shake my head to get rid of the disturbing images. If he just hasn't turned up from the party from last night I'm going to be royally pissed off. He could have called to let me know that he didn't want to go. I didn't have to get up at nine on a Sunday morning.

"Taylor?!" I question, my voice just above a whisper. I pause a moment, straining to hear a reply. Nothing.

I tip-toe around the kitchen and living area. What if he's been beaten by a burglar and is lying down comatose on the carpet, his blood staining it? My feet lead me towards his bedroom. My ears prick up, hearing a groan being emitted from his room. I hurriedly make my way towards the inner sanctum of the Hanson bachelor pad. It sounds as though he's seriously hung over from last night. He's probably been wretching all morning. I guess I can understand why sculptures would be the last thing on his mind. I grin ruefully to myself as a vision of Taylor kneeling in front of the toilet is conjured up in my mind. It'd be like his eighteenth all over again. Heh. I walk over to his door and push it open.

This is not the scene I was expecting.

Blonde ass-length hair cascading down a very feminine back is facing me and I can just see Taylor's face in a contortion of euphoria. I swallow as Taylor and his blonde friend turn and look at me in embarrassment and shock, "Oh God, sorry, I thought you were sick. Sorry, I'll er, just leave," I burble and turn and leave, getting the hell out of there as fast as possible. I virtually sprint down the corridor into the elevator. My hand is covering my mouth as though I'm about to throw up and as I stare at the mirrors gracing the walls of the elevator I notice the red colour seeping up my throat, into my cheeks and eventually throughout my face.

I think for the first time ever in New York on a Sunday morning at eleven I flag down a cab in thirty seconds. I fling myself into it and almost bark out the directions. I can't seem to get the image out of my head. The pretty, petite little blonde straddling Taylor and the thrusting motion... Oh God. I feel sick. I feel like I did just before my interview for Parson's. Like I'm about to see my breakfast splattered against a nondescript surface. Carrots. I swear, every time you throw up it's like you've eaten carrots, even if you've had nothing resembling the orange vegetable. You eat toast - you throw up carrots. I wonder what you'd throw up if you did eat carrots.

In the midst of my humiliation I feel a shaft of anger run up my spine. How dare he blow me off for a skanky little blonde? How dare he get me up on a Sunday morning at freakin' nine in the morning? How dare he whine until I agreed to going to some exhibition that I've already seen? And most of all how dare he do all that and then blow it off because he wants to screw some random blonde girl which he no doubt met last night?

Suddenly I'm not feeling so embarrassed and instead feeling quite angry. This anger quickly turns to utter contempt and sitting back with my arms folded I think of Taylor's face of mortification. I shudder. I interrupted Taylor's in the throes of sexual pleasure. I'd seen him at the point of orgasm. It sickens me.

I'm his best friend. I shouldn't have to be subjected to that.

And he's an ass.