Criteria

You are not likely to please me, but I do not recommend you allow that to discourage you. I want you to keep trying. I want you to think about all of the ways that you can make me happy. I am not naturally an unhappy person, but many days go by where I am happy and you are not the cause. I want you to have exclusive rights to my joy, to my pleasure, and my satisfaction.

I want you to write me poems.

I want you to talk about me to your friends. The good stuff, the bad stuff, the stuff I’d murder you into slices for saying to anyone else. I want them to look at me with crude eyes, widened at the very nature of my shames. I want others to look at you in awe for the patience you must possess, and consider the attributes that I must have to make me worth your time.

I want you to never trust me within an inch of your own life. Know that I can end this with a single word, that you would have to pack everything you’ve every brought into your house, and leave it empty so that I may stay there instead of you. I want you to sacrifice everything you’ve ever wanted out of life and take the risks you know that I won’t.

I want you to follow my dreams.

Tell me what you are afraid of. Tell me what I shouldn’t be afraid of. What afterlife do you think we have to look forward to? What reward will be worth all of the pain that we suffer for?

Leave me when I ask you to. I do not need your time with me to be constant. I need you to leave me alone and allow me to leave for days, weeks at a time. If I find someone else, understand and grieve for your loss. If I come back to you, celebrate unto the heavens that you learned the error of my ways and hold me tight so I cannot leave. Let me leave when I want to again.

Frustrate over the inconsistencies. Cry over the failures. Promise that you’ll never do any better than me.

And never believe anything I say to you.

Except this.

And even then.

Eden

I am reluctant to tell the woman at the front desk that this is my first time. I do not know what is "better" -- the status of virgin or distinguished pro. I allow myself the brief moment of judgment for others as I decide the latter to be "depressing." But I understand, intellectually, that this is a fleeting judgment, as the novelty may wear thin, but the routine a safety net.

But I'm 26 now. What the fuck do I know? I've found myself in the beds of all sorts of people, and even had the odd scare of procreation. But here in some divine country orchard paradise, surrounded by apple trees, is an eden filled with rooms.

There isn't a special room for leather. There isn't a special room for feet. Couples can go anywhere. One does happen to be lined in plastic--but even if deigned to declare myself a seasoned vet, would not have inquired for what purpose. But in general, it seems all very multi-purpose. The guests in the rooms don't have to hang their head as they walk to room 47, even as the discreet eyes widen, "He's into that?!" You can even decide once you enter.

A sturdy, weathered mango of a woman stands guard, her eyes giving away her status as proprietress.

"Sugar, you want Angela. Up to the left. 62."

My mind races, pretending to be either an architect or a mathematician. Are there really 62 rooms in here? I thought of the outside structure. I was never good at spatial relation, as Angela will soon attest to.

For a while the house seemed so small and now it's a bustling factory, smoke stacks churning, and assembly lines to fill their goods.

Room 62. I am escorted by a man who has trained himself to not looks at the women who work here. Perhaps on his first week, it was a candy store but either he was swiftly reprimanded or the candy cost too much.

He doesn't look at me either, probably trained to intimidate the men who come here just enough to not risk assault on the workers, but not shame the into thinking this is the best day they'll have this month. The stairs are gleaming with a faux gold leaf trim, an oddly tacky detail in their otherwise stately Tudor barn of a place.

I pass the doors of gracious lying women who coo behind with sincerity but exaggeration. The men, while abundant, are easy to overlook--I haven't heard a single masculine voice.

Further down the hall, with a forest green carpeted pathway to lead me, I find a cherry wood door with an emblazoned "62" impeccably gleaming.

I knock. "Come in."

I went in, nearly blinded by a room filled with fuchsia tones. I put the flowers on the table and made my way to her, deceitfully thin in her best bustier and heels.

I had missed her more than I realized.

We played the best damn game of backgammon since when we were kids together.

"You are the best brother," she clucked, "But you never let me win."

I let my laugh reach the halls.

Rings Around

I wore the ring a good two years longer than anyone wanted me to. I was told to let it go, drop it in a bin, maybe get some money for it, or throw it in whoever's face in retribution. Easy words. This ring was a symbol of my accomplishment. Inevitably, yes, it became a record of my failure. But I worked damn hard for it. Having to pass off something you've earned and fought for only to realize it was a blood-spattered white flag for some time now is no easy matter indeed.

But the ring came off quickly for a moment. I hesitated. For months at a time, when this would occur, should a bit of dirt or lipstick or hair product should see its way into an improper crevice between my skin and the metal, I would casually remove it, rinse, and reattach my diploma of love everlasting.

In the moments of displaced passion, it never seemed suited to be worn during casual encounters. I would tuck it in a sock, or my knapsack by the door, better left off my mind during flatward interactions.

But this time, slip. It clang against the pavement. I pocketed it, not at the moment concerned. I considered for a moment. I could it put it back on, regain my moment of "that's pretty, isn't it? The world is shit, isn't it." But I left it in my pocket nearly a night's length.

Naked, uncertain, and a little shy, I am walking around town. And I am alone.