Every night, I sleep alone in my narrow bed. It is not, as I once pondered, that I have chosen to do so for some God-inspired principle--I live no monkish life of prayer and fasting--I am unshorn by the cathartic razorblades of holy vows. I am chaste in neither mind nor body. But I sleep alone for the very human reason that I am not happy when my head rests next to that of a woman I do not love. I cannot, as so many seem perfectly willing to do, fuck randomgirl and then, gathering my clothes in the morning light, say "That was nice; maybe I'll see you around sometime." I demand meaning.
And so--selfishly--I ignore the casual flirtings of perky sorority girls in bright-pink flip-flops--not because the words are unenjoyable or the girls unattractive--but because I know that I cannot find happiness without a woman in whose presence I feel utterly comfortable, fully at ease with her and with myself--and those eyesore-shod girls are for the most part either unable or unwilling to be that for me.
The woman I look for is a subtle and intelligent woman, capable of challenging me when I need to be challenged, and capable of realizing my psyche well enough to know when I am weeping inside--when to laugh at me for my stupidities, and when to hold me gently as I deal with them. I look for a woman that will let me do stupidsilly romantic things for her, will let me stare into her eyes as I listen to her speak on the things that she cares about, and let her know by my interest that even if I gave them no thought before, they are important to me now, because she cares about them.
But she is an elusive creature, that girl. So I pull the covers up to my neck, clutch my second pillow to my chest simply to have something to hold, and draw slumbering breath--alone.