Free A Change of Needs by Nate Allen Page A

library of his memory, their images occasionally popping up in his conscious mind, appearing like randomly drawn lottery balls, their names like newspaper word jumbles, when some song or circumstance summoned the memory of them, and he’d have to unscramble the letters to remember the names, sometimes going through the alphabet, A, B, C, …D , “Deana, and her D-cups,” and there was naturally a smaller contingent of women whose encounters he remembered for the animal-like attraction and the energy expended, women whose last names he didn’t know, they bypassed going to the movies, or dinner, just straight to bed and exhaustingly scrogged like critters, they literally had nothing else in common except the fact they both knew what was going down the moment they met.
    Aside from the rank and file of these partners there remained a higher echelon of women he couldn’t forget, never far from the surface, a minority compared to the rest. Women who had emotion if not a level of love attached to their time in his life, the aforementioned pair and a dozen or so short-term relationships, women whom he had been upfront with about his nature, and what they could expect from him. And who were all initially agreeable for a time, perhaps because they felt they were capable of persuading him otherwise. But understandably, most women want to be somebody’s someone, and he wouldn’t blink at that inevitable dénouement. The relationship routinely souring like that carton of milk that had expired, and he would become the asshole that didn’t show up at the picnic with her friends, the Holiday dinner with the family, or who simply stopped calling.
    In a convoluted way he saw it as doing them a favor. Despite the abundance of good fortune he had enjoyed, he could more readily recall the names and faces of the opportunities missed, cursed with the reminder of the ones that were right before him that he had not pursued and wished he had. Forever “the glass is half full” optimist he thought, and yet discontented and fixated on trying to fill it.
    His marriage stood as the sole attempt at a long-term relationship in his adult life, and after a few years he was realizing maybe it was unfair to the woman, the child that had grown accustomed to being isolated, became a solitary man, and while he would not cheat on his wife, he wouldn’t have to. What remained wasn’t enough for her to subsist on, and she would eventually grow tired and leave. But she had given him a son, and in time the boy would prove to be the anchor that kept him from floating away and ceasing to exist, and for that he would forever be grateful, and like the ties that bind, it would require them to remain friendly, if not at least civil.
    At this point in his life he had the appearance of a Mickey Rourke-ish cad, somewhere between the 9 ½ Weeks and The Wrestler visages, not literally of course, but he had maintained a very good physical specimen, not just for a man his age, but in general, however 20+ years of working outdoors had left him with a leathery complexion, and he looked his age. Nevertheless he had long since adopted the attitude “ I ain’t good-looking but I ain’t shy, ain’t afraid to look a girl in the eye, ” from that Bob Seger tune. Though it was often accompanied by a degree of difficulty and verbal constipation in its application, he managed to articulate himself in a way that was foreign to his appearance and the contradiction of the man he was and the man he appeared to be was like catnip to the kitties . His accomplishments lent themselves to a well-earned confidence, and not its ugly cousin arrogance. He was remarkably humble and appreciative of every woman he’d “met.” So to be clear, he was never the best looking man in any room, but he was often the most examined, and women found him sexy and curious , as if they couldn't decide if they wanted to sleep with him or not. And in that “hesitation kills the squirrel crossing the