“I watched him pull his t-shirt over his head. I could put hin on replay doing that and watch it all day...”

“I almost jumped when the door opened. Alex came back inside, wearing black sweatpants; I swallowed as I saw his chest bare. "Forgot my T-shirt," he said sheepishly. His bag was on the floor near the bed, and I watched the lantern light play on his skin as he crossed to it. Squatting by the bag, he pulled out a T-shirt; I sat frozen, taking in the movement of his back and shoulders.I stood up, my heart hammering. "Wait. Can I just...?" I trailed off as he turned to look at me."What?" he said, rising to his feet.An embarrassed laugh escaped me. I shook my head. "Just--before you put that on, can I...?" In slow motion, I went over to him. I reached out toward his chest and then stopped, my fingers hesitating an inch from his skin. "Is--this all right?"Alex stood very still, a soft smile on his face. "Anything you want is all right.”

“When Ben unfurls the T-shirts, there are two small problems. First, it turns out that a large T-shirt in a Georgia gas station is not the same size as a large T-shirt at, say, Old Navy. The gas station shirt is gigantic-more garbage bag than shirt. It is smaller than the graduation robes, but not by much. But this problem pales in comparison to the other problem, which is that both T-shirts are embossed with huge Confederate flags. Printed over the flag are the words HERITAGE NOT HATE."Oh no you didn't," Radar says when I show him why we're laughing. "Ben Starling, you better not have bought your token black friend a racist shirt.""I just grabbed the first shirts I saw, bro.""Don't bro me right now," Radar says, but he's shaking his head and laughing. I hand him his shirt and he wiggles into it while driving with his knees. "I hope I get pulled over," he says. "I'd like to see how the cop responds to a black man wearing a Confederate T-shirt over a black dress.”

“Danny swallowed hard, his eyes still narrowed as they ran over Paul. “I should say no.”“Oh, you should,” Paul agreed, feeling wonderfully devious as he reached for the hem of his shirt and worked at pulling it over his head, being slow about revealing his stomach muscles, watching with a sense of satisfaction as Danny’s gaze started to follow his movements. “Say no, Danny Boy. That makes it fun. I like a challenge.”

“Death watched me, amusement once again lifting to his dark eyes. Unlike me with my bedraggled clothes and knotted hair, he looked good in the morning light streaming into my apartment. Okay, actually, he looked exactly the same as when I’d first seen him when I was five years old, but recently I’d come to appreciate the way his black T-shirt pulled tight over the expanse of his shoulders and his faded jeans hugged his ass. Not that I was looking, of course. I mean, he was Death.”

“Fuck, it's hot in here.” He put the guitar down, stood up, whipped his shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor. Then he pulled off his belt like D'Artagnan drawing a sword...”