The fire starts to die out, Sixteen Candles comes to an end, and I ask if I can see his closet—after all, he designed his own $5,000 arctic-fox-fur, gold-hardware bomber jacket. We wander into the house, a woody manor. Drake enters some numbers into a keypad on a bookshelf and—presto!— it swings open into his massive, paisley-swathed sleeping chamber, complete with a California king bed, for which he must purchase custom sheets.

When I ask about the strange square above the bed, he grabs a remote, and a projection system emerges from the ceiling.

Neato, I say. “Would I have you already?” he asks. “Are you sleeping with me?”