You don't want to admit it. You HATE to admit it. Trevor Philips, your pal, is hot. Weirdly. Weirdly hot. Really. Weirdly. Hot.

His waist is slim. When he walks, he sways his hips. Even with his resting bitch face, he has baby deer eyes. Murderous, dark, baby deer eyes.

He screams when he cranks it, tosses off. He takes pleasure in other people's misery.

He's hot.

Currently, he is smoking a blunt on his shitty couch. He glances at you. "Oh hey, sugartits." He throws you a beer.