I love you Jessica for this. I have always chosen the brisk walk into the dungeon of back-handed hell. My women love me with no pride but to be licked and teased in private: “Oh, don’t tell anyone,” they would say, “until I am long-gone.” Or, “I want a ring bigger than the one my husband gave me.” And finally, “I want a Cadillac, since I have almost no fat on my ass.”

There was always a material line, I couldn’t cross, it’s nothing but Fitzgeraldian blackness; infatuation was my forte. I got the most beautiful and beguilingly women, because I think of women most closely to food, and thought presentation was best. I traveled their loins with the thought of the least noise. They were all absolutely perfect. The thoughts of them now, like of old wars, haunt me because they were so brief and so completely indulgent. I held my breath the whole time and turned purple or became completely broke. But, the memories are so etched in my mind that I need only close my eyes, and I am brought back. There is no thought as visceral and rich as the bodies and voices of those three women. I know I will never have love or this friendship you speak of, because I only wanted fire. And, I think I still do. Or else, I will simply take the memories I have to my quiet death. Throw me on the funeral pyre alone, because no true love of mine would bother with any thought of sacrificing themselves. “At least, the sex was good,” the first one said. The third one claimed to have draped my car with flowers and chalked pronouncements, but by the time I woke, she’d thought better of it and removed every trace. I didn’t believe it. I cannot imagine her doing that. She didn’t have to. I worshipped her, and I guess she realized that.