Disclaimer: I don't own Rent!

AN: I opened up my playlist, and whaddayaknow, LVB B was next! This took some thinking for how I was gonna integrate it…
Anyone alive with a sex drive
Tear down the wall, aren't we all?
- La Vie Boheme B, Rent, Jonathan Larson
It's been a week or two since Mimi broke up with me. I'm losing track. I've been wallowing in self pity and horniness. Yes, horniness. Let's say I miss Mimi in more ways than one. And when I see her heading off to work when I look out the window and I know that under her clothes she's in her trashy lingerie, it doesn't help much. I haven't been lonely like this since Christmas Eve last year. I feel like Mark. Maybe I should try filming things; maybe that's his cure. I hear the shower turn off and then Mark comes into the main room in just a towel that's slowly slipping… no, Roger, that's something else talking, not your brain. "What are you doing out here in just a towel… all dripping wet…?"

"I forgot to put some clean clothes in the bathroom to put on, so I need to get some. Excuse my near-nudity…" I excuse it. I encourage it. When he walks into his room, I can almost see his butt, if only the towel would slide a little… shut UP, Roger. He's a guy. Shit, now he's coming back out, still in a towel… "Looks like everything's in the laundry… mind if I borrow something of yours?"

"Yeah, sure," I mumble, still transfixed by that little trail of hair near the bottom of his stomach. Shut up, shut up, shut up. I think I remember doing laundry a day or two ago, but I don't question him. He walks back out in a rather tight -shut up, Roger- Ramones shirt and baggy pants with a chain on them. They look good on him. Shut up. I should film something, some girls, some hot girls that are not my roommate or my best friend and don't have a dick. Maybe I'll get lucky tonight. No, I'll just be thinking of Mimi, or of Mar – shut up! You don't like guys, remember, Rog? You're STRAIGHT. Straight as an arrow, straight as a pole, straight as a shut up, Roger, you know where this train of thought is going: straight to the gutter. Next stop: the depths of desperate horniness, all aboard! "Hey, Mark, can I borrow your camera?"

"Um..."

"C'mon, I promise I won't break it..."

"Oh, okay. But BE CAREFUL."

"Yes, mommy." He laughs. I laugh. Why have I never noticed how infectuous his laugh is before? Or how blue his eyes are? Or how his hair is just ruffled enough to be tousled and not messed-up, or how his neck is so smooth-looking and perfect for shut up, Roger! Ugh. I HAVE to get out of the house. I grab his camera and all but run out the door. Shit, shit, shit! What if he saw me staring at him and thought that I like him? I don't like him! I don't, don't, don't! Now, Roger, let's go find some nice hot trashy girls with humungous boobs and film them and maybe take one home. Good idea.

I film girls for about half an hour, but am unable to get even one of them to as much as speak to me. Next time I won't bring the camera. What was I thinking? It does keep my mind off how horny I am, though; I'm focusing on zooming and panning and winding the little thing on the side and not jerking it around. This does work. This must be how Mark gets by without a girlfriend. Personally, I'd rather write music, but no girl equals no inspiration equals musician's block 24/7. I guess I should go back now, because I feel my skin beginning to roast in the sun, even though it's the fucking middle of Febuary. Or is it February? Who knows? Collins would, but he's not here, it's just me and Mark, and Maureen and Joanne when they're speaking. I don't know why Joanne doesn't just dump Maureen's ass. Maybe for the same reason as I'm gawking at Mark, maybe because she loves that flirt.

Shit, now I'm home, which means Mark will be there in that shirt and those pants and shut up. I walk in the door, and he's lying all stretched out on the couch in that shirt and those pants and the pants are kinda slipping so I can see the bones of his hips and maybe if I sneak up and grab his waist and shut up, you don't really want to kiss him, and you know it! I poke his stomach and he wakes up. "Here's your camera back, Marky!" Why did I call him Marky?

"Why did you call me Marky?" Shit, I don't know, is that a pet name? Do I want to call him a pet name, is that it? Pet names are for... oh my god, am I in love with Mark? No, I'm not in love with Mark. I'm not. Guys love girls, girls love guys. Unless you're Collins or Angel or Maureen or Joanne, but I'm not them and I can't be. I'm normal, I'm straight, not bi, not gay. "Hello? Roger?"

"Oh, yeah, just... uh... wanted to see... how you'd react... yeah, that's it, testing your reaction!"

"Interesting." He lays back down again and his -my, oh my god, he's wearing my- shirt slides up a little more and I want him to just take it off and his pants and shut up, no you don't. Ugh, I should go to my room and be alone before my thoughts progress any further. Before I leave I grab that stupid afghan that Mark's mom knitted and put it on top of him, resisting the urge to kiss his forehead. What the fuck, Roger? Just shut up.