Kavinsky didn't want to brag about it, because what a weird fucking flex. Sex had never been a requirement for him, it was just something he did well, and that he could use against people. It was what his life had settled into. Sex and drugs and cars, until that's all it was. All he was. Flat and meaningless except for those brief moments.

So he thought about it for a moment. Quiet, holding onto Billy and not thinking about that.

"Making things," he said, which was a stupid fucking answer. "I think about making things a lot."