Manhattan’s a meat grinder, and I’m the cheapest cut. Personal injury lawyer, bottom-rung, $200 suits from Men’s Wearhouse. Women smell the desperation on me. Last date I had, she never came back from the bathroom and left me with a $90 tab at a dive bar near Murray Hill. I’m 34, balding, and my Tinder bio -- “Loves dogs and justice” -- hasn’t landed me a lick. But last night, I cracked the code. Grindr. Pretended I was gay, threw up a blurry pic of my jawline, called myself “Bryce.” Within 20 minutes, some Wall Street twink in a Chelsea loft was offering to blow me. No cash, no strings, just a quick unzip and a fat load in his mouth. I laughed the whole way home. Free head and I didn’t even have to buy dinner.

---Journal Entry #52---

It’s a system now. Grindr’s my slot machine, and I’m hitting jackpots. “Bryce” is a gay 6’2” biglawyer, even though I'm actually a straight 5'9" shitlawyer. I’ve hooked up with three guys this week: a Korean NYU Sophomore, a gym rat in Hell’s Kitchen, and a graphic designer who cried after, saying I reminded him of his ex. None of them have any clue that I'm straight. I don’t get it, but I don’t care. The best part? My luck’s finally improving. Landed a client today -- a slip-and-fall at a penthouse on the Upper East Side. The client saw me walking down 34th in my suit, said they were looking for a lawyer and that I had “confidence.” I didn’t tell him it’s because I got orally serviced in a Midtown alley an hour before.

---Journal Entry #68---

I’m a goddamn sex wizard. Twelve guys this month, all freebies. I’ve got a script: “Just out of a bad breakup, not looking for anything serious.” They eat it up, then they eat up my load. My caseload’s exploding also. Word’s out I’m the guy who’ll claw through the stickiest muck for a win. Took down a Walmart truck hit-and-run yesterday, got my client a fat judgement. My shitlaw Boss slapped my back, said, “You’re a shark!” He’d choke on his Scotch ff he knew I prepped for trial while some male-barista prepped me in a Stabucks bathroom.

---Journal Entry #89---

Big leagues now. Met “Tad” on Grindr. He's 50s, salt-and-pepper, corner office type. Blew me in his Tribeca condo, then asked what I do. Told him I’m a lawyer, kept it vague. Next day, he’s emailing me: partner at Kessler & Dunn, the kind of firm that bills $1,500 an hour to sneeze on a contract. Offered me a job. Interviewed today, wore my one good tie. Tad winked at me across the boardroom table, said, “We need fresh meat.” Signed the offer tonight: mid six figures, my own office, secretary. Catch is, he thinks I’m gay. Everyone does. Gotta keep up the act now -- rainbow cufflinks, brunch invites, the works.

---Journal Entry #103---

Manhattan’s my oyster, and I’m slurping it raw. Kessler & Dunn’s a goldmine -- clients with private jets, mistresses, and generous cocaine habits. I’m winning cases left and right, all while Tad slips me flirty Post-its about “team bonding.” Last week, he cornered me in the break room, asked if I’d seen Brokeback Mountain. I said yes, lied about crying. He gobbled down my lie, then gobbled down my cock. Thing is, I’m still straight -- stone-cold, pussy-chasing straight -- but the lie’s my ladder. Women still won’t touch me, but men can’t stop. Funny how that works. Yesterday, I billed a client $50K while some Soho artist sucked me off in a stairwell. Success tastes better with a side of sin. We'll see how far I can take it...

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