"This jacket's ruined." He'll have to scrub at the weave with a wet hanky just to get the jizz out. And Morris says he never does laundry. "Has anyone ever told you that you come a lot?" 

And early. Not that Ginsberg was paying much attention at that point, with the acrylic wool of the art-department couch scratching his palms and that hot liquor breath on his neck. 

Draper fumbles the money clip out of his pocket. "Here. Buy yourself something that fits, for Christ's sake."

"You know, some of us have more to worry about--" 

But there's maybe three hundred dollars there when he turns his head -- three hundred goddamn dollars, laid out in sleek pastel bills in Don Draper's hand. Michael stares, like the math will make more sense.

Up close Don Draper is even taller than he looks, but thinner too, like it's the skeleton under the skin that gives him all his breadth and sleekness. The stubble is already showing under the skin of his face, pale blue. If this is how he treats Megan Calvet, no wonder he had to marry her. It's hard not feeling mauled, if all that business about getting Michael out of his clothes was just a matter of aesthetics. All that stuff with his shirt hitched up to his shoulder and those big blunt manicured hands on his back, holding him there. Ginsberg tugs his shirttails down decisively and does up his belt, ignoring the creeping sensation of damp.

"Don't embarrass yourself," Don says. What he means is probably something like don't embarrass me by telling anyone I fucked you on the art department couch that smells like rolling papers and farts. "Do you want it, or not?" 

"Roger Sterling only paid me two hundred." 

"What?" 

"Fuck it. Forget it."