Vector is the reason I work out. I have this fantasy where we start talking at the Vanity Fair Oscars party bar. We exchange a few pleasantries. He asks what I do. I say I loved him in Despicable Me. He laughs. I get my drink.
"Well, see ya," I say and walk away. I've got his attention now. How many guys voluntarily leave a conversation with Vector? He touches his neck as he watches me leave.
Later, as the night's dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, he finds me on the balcony, my bowtie undone, smoking a cigarette.
"Got a spare?" he asks.
"What's in it for me?" I say as I hand him…