I always felt sorry for the girls Bradford dated.  He didn’t care about them anymore than he felt for the sleazy newscaster he met at a bar in college.  The newscaster was a man, Phil Moniker, everyone in Austin new who he was.  What they didn’t know is that Phil paid boys like Bradford to sit naked in the hot tub with him, drinking Mai Tais, then asking them to shower while he watched.  Sometimes he would pay Bradford five hundred dollars to clean his kitchen in a thong.  Bradford always told me these stories, not to justify why he had a roll of hundreds, but as an aside.  Bradford’s escapades with women and with Phil Moniker ran together like a line of train cars, one no more significant than the next.

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