Ned's glad he has both Ginsberg's interest and his trust. He lets himself be nudged towards the bed, falling onto it with a contented laugh when the backs of his legs hit the edge. With a quick and not particularly dignified wriggle, he rids himself of the rest of his clothes, leaves them on a heap on the floor.

The only logical next step is to sit up again and help Ginsberg catch up. Ned's never had any particular anatomical fixations, but he has to admit that Ginsberg has a great ass; he gets in a not-so-subtle grope in the process of helping the other man out of his pants. He might not be drunk, he feels giddy and light-headed as he pulls Ginsberg down on top of him, arching up to meet him like a wave.

"I love your hair," he murmurs, running both hands through it, because apparently he's reached that particular state of mind where small endearments and compliments spill from his lips without ever checking in with his brain, first.

But he needs his brain, needs to stay present for the time being. He can't quite lose himself yet. So, with a small internal check on himself, Ned clears his throat. "Okay, I'm going to walk you though this."