Her name is Julie and she's sleeping next to you. It took two dates to remember her name -- you were better at remembering other things about her -- but there she is, blonde hair fanned out on your pillow.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. Without waking her, you reach over, grab it, side the bar across to wake it up. It's the flavor of the week. Jack or John or maybe Eric, you can't remember. You aren't gay, but you certainly don't discriminate.
He wants to know what you're doing. You don't tell him that you're relaxing after fucking your girlfriend -- or the girl that might as well be your girlfriend. You tell him you're busy, and get a frowning emoticon for it. Jack, John, or Eric, he knows better than to ask what you're doing.
You answer him by saying you want to see him tomorrow evening, before you go out with Julie to dinner. You like it when you can start your night out by carrying him through your apartment, his lean little body over your shoulder, and toss him down on the bed to fuck him until he screams.
You're not gay, but you sure as fuck haven't been straight in a long time, mob be damned.