Fuck…

I immediately sat up in bed, realizing that I wasn’t in New York City’s Central Park. I was in Durham, North Carolina, and I was having another nightmare.

Glancing at the clock on my wall, I saw that it was just past one o’clock. The calendar hanging directly above it only confirmed that I’d been living here for far too long.

All the research I’d done six years ago—weighing the pros and cons, checking the records of all the top firms, and scouring the make-up of women on Date-Match, was now seemingly invalid: The condo I purchased was a mere remnant of what had been advertised, there was only one firm worthy of my time, and the pool of f**k-worthy women was dwindling by the day.

Just hours ago, I’d gone on a date with a woman who told me she was a kindergarten teacher with a penchant for the color red and history books. In reality, she was twice my age, color blind, and she just wanted to “remember what some good c**k felt like.”

Frustrated, I slipped out of bed and walked down the hallway—straightening the “E” and “H” frames that hung on the wall while trying not to look too hard.

I was going to need more than my usual few shots to get through tonight, and I was starting to become extremely annoyed that I hadn’t f**ked someone in what felt like forever.

I poured two shots of bourbon and tossed them down back to back. Before I could pour another, my phone vibrated. An email.

Alyssa.

Subject: Performance Quality.

Dear Thoreau,

I’m sure that right now you’re in the middle of f**king yet another conquest, and are seconds away from giving her your infamous “One dinner. One night. No repeats.” line, but I was just thinking about something and HAD to email you…

If you enjoy sex as much as you claim you do, why do you only insist on one night? Why not a strictly friends with benefits relationship so you won’t have so many dry spells? (I mean, this is day thirty of “Operation: Still No Pussy” for you, correct?)

I’m actually starting to wonder if the only reason you give one night is because you already know that your performance won’t be good enough to warrant another...

Having a subpar dick isn’t the end of the world.

—Alyssa.

I shook my head and typed a response.

Subject: Re: Performance Quality.

Dear Alyssa,

Unfortunately, I am not in the middle of f**king another conquest. Instead I’m busy typing a response to your latest ridiculous email.

This is indeed day thirty of your appropriately named, “Operation: Still No Pussy,” but since I’ve f**ked you over the phone and made you cum, it hasn’t been a complete failure…

I do in fact enjoy sex—my c**k has an insatiable appetite for it, but I’ve told you countless times that I don’t do relationships. Ever.

I refuse to even address your last paragraph, as I’ve never received a single complaint about my “performance” and my c**k is far from being subpar.

You are quite correct in your closing statement though: Having a subpar dick really isn’t the end of the world.

Having an un-fucked pu**y is.

—Thoreau.

My phone rang immediately.

“Seriously?” Alyssa blurted out when I answered. “Does your message really say what I think it says?”

“Have you suddenly forgotten how to read?”

“You are ridiculous!” She laughed. “What happened to your date tonight?”

“It was another f**king liar…”

“Aww. Poor Thoreau. I was really hoping the thirtieth day would be the charm.”

I rolled my eyes and made another drink. “Is living vicariously through my sex life your newfound hobby?”

“Of course not.” Her light laughter drifted over the line, and I could hear the sound of papers shuffling in the background. “I’ve been meaning to ask you: Where are you from?”

“What do you mean, where am I from?”

“Exactly what I asked,” she said. “You can’t be from the South. There’s no drawl or even a hint of an accent in your voice.”

I hesitated. “I’m from New York City.”

“New York?” Her voice rose an octave. “Why would you ever leave there to come to Durham?”

“It’s personal.”

“I can’t imagine ever wanting to leave New York. It seems so perfect. And there’s just something about the lights and the lives of people who stay there, how they all must have these huge dreams and…”

I tuned her out and tossed back my shot. Her poetical waxing about that desolate place needed to be put to a stop. Fast.

“And wouldn’t the law firms in New York be far more alluring than the ones here?” She was still talking. “Like, one of my favorite—”

“What’s the name of that ballet you’re auditioning for this year?” I cut her off.

“Swan Lake.” She always dropped the subject if I said anything about ballet. “Why?”

“Just wondering. When is the audition?”

“A few months from now. I’m trying as hard as I can to balance my classes—” She cleared her throat. “I mean, I’m trying really hard to balance my case loads with my practice time.”

“Why don’t you just ask your boss if you can work weekends in exchange for a couple weekdays off?”

“I’m pretty sure that won’t work.”