Collectors

Stamps, notches, skulls, hearts.

I don't collect but I remember.

The people that have passed through my life or, since life doesn't matter, the people who have deigned to spend some time with me.

The most fun, the deepest love, the pain and despair. Joy, orgasm and knowing when to leave.

With a couple, it's a skill. To know that you're there only so long as you're wanted. But also to know when to depart so that more is wanted. Giving it your all but still holding back. You're there for her pleasure but equally not to make him look bad because it's not about you, it's about the lady.

And that's probably the best training I've ever had; it allowed me to be unselfish in bed (and in the garden and the living room and the conservatory).

But at the same time I've become more selfish. I want the two girls who want me, I want the third girl who is fascinated by me but can't become the black swan yet, I want the one who I have been damned by for breaking her heart too many times, I want the one I'm yet to meet.

So am I a collector? No, because I am an object. I'm devoid of the emotion that demands praise or seeks comfort. I come and go through people's love lives like the stray dog you'll feed or the dirty movie that turns you on for a period of time.

So fuck all around you, be it the American visitor, the guy you met who came to your apartment or the man you married to forget my pain.

Be happy and if you want, carve a notch with my name in it. But make sure you carve it wide.