She wasn't a beautiful woman, though most people would find her hard features attractive. "I love all my men", she used to say, with a smile that was both childish and lustful. Sometimes people would call her cheap, but she'd never do anything for money; no, she was after a different kind of reward.

"Men are my antidepressant, their mere existence fills my nights with pleasure and my days with expectation", she'd tell her best friend, who was a lesbian and thus didn't exactly share her friend's priorities.

"It doesn't matter if they're handsome or ugly, intelligent or naive, ambitious workaholics or compulsive daydreamers; they all shine in their own way; they all unfold like magical parchment under the eye of a discerning reader".

"They're not always easy to deal with- sometimes they're inexcusably irritating-, yet I must admit that most of them treat me well. After all, they have to behave if they wish to keep seeing me- and why wouldn't they? My only vice is that I refuse to see my body as a piece of property, to be owned or conquered or even preserved, and my men come to respect this, after a while.

Her friend would nod absentmindedly once in a while- her chosen path towards emancipation and fulfillment took her through an entirely different realm; she had, however, become accustomed to such confessions, and even learned to almost sympathize...