1. Atlas

C onnection.

It’s a constant strain–something I didn’t think I would struggle with as a young man, but here I am. The older I got, and the more the world changed, the more I became secluded from my own wants and needs. Putting everyone before my own happiness.

Women need to be respected, cared for, loved, looked after; the list is endless. They need this and want that. Don’t ask their age, don’t tell them they look fat in a dress, don’t take control… let them lead. Fuck! Everything has become about them, for them. And while I’m happy for them getting the respect they deserve –and everything else they desire. What about me?

I’m a good man. I work hard and provide all the requirements a woman could need to live comfortably, yet I’m miserable. It doesn’t matter how many beautiful women I have taken to my bed or gone on dates with; it all ends the same.

A multitude of misery riddled within my body.

Now, let’s make one thing very clear so you understand my position. I am far from the term ugly. I take care of myself; I keep my hair cut and my beard nicely trimmed. I dress well, eat better than most people in New York, and on many an occasion, I have been told I am ‘model-like handsome’. One woman even told me I looked very similar to Patrick Bateman.

You know, the character from American Psycho. But I digress. This is not about my looks because, for me, looks are not the be-all and end-all of a person.

Connection is. It’s the one thing I can’t seem to ascertain within my dating pool. Then one morning, I had an epiphany–an idea that has brought me months of excitement at the potential end result. It’s why I sit here, now, at the opposite end of the table to a woman named Astrid.

Conventionally, she’s absolutely impeccable, with all the attributes that would make a man fall to his knees and beg for even a slice of her time, a look, a breath of interest. Not me. What I’m interested in lies beneath Astrid’s outer exterior of what men find typically attractive when they first look at a woman.

It’s not her long auburn hair, or her colossal breasts. It’s not the way her body is shaped like a figure eight, nor is it the fullness of her lips. No, for a man like me… it’s her right hand. It’s perfect, and I haven’t been able to stop staring at it, thinking about what it would feel like wrapped around the thick expansion of my cock. All while it stroked up and down languidly, inciting my balls to constrict so tightly that it chokes the cum right out of me.

That hand is… everything.

“Atlas?”

I look up at her, forcing a smile onto my face. “Sorry, Astrid, what was your question?”

She releases a light giggle, her right hand lifting from the table to stroke at the blue heart necklace that dances just at the centre of her jugular notch. And what a beautiful one it is. The right amount of space at the bottom of the throat, sitting right between both collarbones and—

“I asked what you what you do for work.”

“Right… right.” I clear my throat behind my fist because my throat has all of a sudden become dry. “I, uh, I’m a morgue technician.”

“Oh…”

Most wouldn’t notice the slight twitch in the eyes of a person that is shocked or disgusted by a response, but I do. The twitch in the corner of her right eye tells me she wasn’t aware of my job, proving that she didn’t read the dating profile from Open Doors.

“It, uh, it was on my dating profile.”

“Was it?” The fingers of her right hand now moving to the ends of her red-toned hair.

“Indeed.”

“I’m sorry, you were just so—”

Handsome, I must’ve missed it.

“—Handsome that I must’ve missed it.”

Well… at least she’s honest.

“Thank you… I guess.” I smirk, releasing a breathy laugh. I’ve heard it so often that any and all responses to that are... fake.

Leaning forward, Astrid rests her elbows on the table–another pet hate of mine other than a woman pressing her breasts together… aaand that’s exactly what she’s doing. Predictable, they all are in 2035. Nothing shocks me anymore, and nothing interests me.

“So, like… what do you do as a morgue technician?”

Is this my open?

“Astrid, let me ask you a question.”

“Go for it…” She bites her lip, but God, I can’t stop staring at that hand.

“Have you ever seen a dead body before?”

Her brow twitches, and I wait for my answer with bated breath. This is it, this is where I’ll know if I have to leave and do what I need to another way, or, if she will willingly come with a man she just met. It’s the question I ask all of them. The ones before her and the few that will come after her.

“No.”

“Would you like to?” I clasp my hands together in front of my face, resting my chin on the top while looking into her deep brown eyes.

“What like…” she leans in closer, whispering, “a real as day dead body? Like totally on the slab and like… dead.”

“Totally on the slab… totally dead.” I mimic her, and she snorts. She thinks for a moment, obviously weighing up her options because, let’s face it, this isn’t really something you offer on a first date. Except I can see the cogs turning in her head. She wants to, but she’s scared; she’s intrigued but disgusted at the same time. She—

“Ok,” she whispers.

The curve at the corner of my mouth is real this time. It always is when they agree, when they give over their trust so easily that I don’t even have to fight for it. Those are the ones I love; those are the ones who will make for the perfect woman–one that won’t fight or scream or… embarrass me.

With warmth in my heart, I stand from the two-person table, and the legs of my chair screech along the wooden flooring of the high-priced restaurant we just finished eating in. Decorated impeccably with Christmas decorations that I’m sure they paid a pretty penny for, but none of that matters in this moment.

I pull out my wallet and throw down a few hundred-dollar bills onto the table. That should cover the meal, tax and a generous tip for the waitress who didn’t even care enough to call me ‘sir’.

“Let’s go.” I hold out my hand.

“Now?” She tilts her head.

“Now, darling.” And with the pet name leaving my lips, she slides that flawless right hand into mine. Even the skin on it is soft; nails a little longer than I would like but I can work with that.

Tonight is going to be perfect. I can feel it in my bones.