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By Emmanuel Williams

I’m in pain.

I had sex 3x in the last week with separate prostitutes. 

It cost more than I like to admit. Then there was the price…

After I sobered up and calmed down to prepare for the next semester of College, which will officially start tomorrow, I saw an actual couple check into the motel I’m staying at while I finalize my new apartment, and I couldn’t help but thank God they were on the other side of the building so I didn’t have to hear their sex.

I thought the girl was my type and that’s the worst if you can hear some other man pleasing her.

The truth is: I want that.

Not the girl so much as to be in love.

I realized I was all alone in my room. Management looks down on visitors so they must have purchased the room as a couple. They were even assisted in getting in the door the first time. It’s how I knew it wasn’t a date with a prostitute. Management would have never allowed it. Which is why I’m alone in my room.

Earlier today one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, dressed in lace, and with Spanish descent and black hair, beautful skin and frankly all around great – stood very close to me while we waited for Starbuck’s. I thought she would succumb to her attraction and get so close that she actually touched me. I wanted more than anything to simply ask her “what did you order?”

But management frowns on visitors, and I had already had two, and they had me sign a mock contract written in pen that if I brought someone else over, I would forfeit my room. Which I still need while the apartment gets eventually leased.

So I stood there, hoping my White Chocolate Mocha Frappucino would hurry the fuck up inside a Macy’s at the Cherry Creek Mall.

Did she even speak English?

I spoke enough Spanish to survive, and hell, we could teach each other. 

My cup came first, and I even had to go back for a sleeve and still she gravitated toward me physically.

I’m not just kicking myself, I’m murdering myself about not being more available for that woman. She made every move she could besides starting the conversation herself.

I run to my art within this pain. My literature. My friend. My own words in an organized mosaic.

I had money, I am smack in the neighborhood of the brothel sidewalk, so forgive me if I try the local cuisine. 

Would you like to hear each position the girls were up for?

I can’t tell you. Gentleman’s honor.

But seeing that couple show up at the motel was like having a bad day where you had lost your way for miles, and suddenly you see Santa Claus walking Jolly and Mighty in a red onesie sporting rosy cheeks and and red sack of presents over his left shoulder as he shuffles right at you.

The Universe couldn’t have given me a stronger reminder, that love awaits me.

That this shitty motel isn’t the end of my journey.

My pain reminds me of deeper desires.

I know because while I was with my ex I didn’t give two golden shits about other couples, I was in one of my own.

So while my cock can have the local cuisine in this party atmosphere, my heart must have someone who loves me, craves me, wants me, and wants to stay with me. Through thick and thin.

I have not forgotten romance because I froze at the mall.

I have not forgotten love because the going has become tough.

I have a strong heart. But that doesn’t mean it never falls apart, seizes, or breaks.

It means I care for it. I have to!

However the fuck I must…