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.