Free House of Cabal Volume One: Eden by Wesley McCraw Page A

of
cyanocobalmin.
    I have a B12 deficiency, so I take a B12 shot
twice a week. I get moody and tired if I don’t take them.
    You ask me why I'm uncomfortable injecting
myself in front of Carrie.
    It's embarrassing. It makes me look weak.
Don't get me wrong. I like the idea of being in love, of trusting
someone enough to let down my guard. Keeping up appearances is
exhausting. But vulnerability isn’t an option.
    I have this ideal future pictured. Carrie and
I have a family and we’re happy, of course. Raising children is
undeniably appealing, especially with someone I respect and admire.
I mean who doesn’t want to share joy?
    And if I felt joy, that kind of life would be
possible. I don't feel much of anything. It's not Carrie's fault
I've shut off. I am who I am.
    I don't connect with anyone anymore.
    You make me nervous. Please, make yourself
comfortable; take off your tie or something. You slightly loosen
your business noose—you always wear ties and are not about to part
with this one. You tell me work makes you feel empowered.
    I wear a tie every day and I can’t stand
them. Work suffocates me. Like I'm living my whole life in a
box.
    The newest photo on the mantel is of my
co-workers at my twenty-seventh birthday party. If they’d been able
to blow out my candles, they would’ve wished to be me. God, I’m
such a conceited asshole.
    You pick up a portrait of my parents: loving,
Seventh Day Adventists that live a state away in Washington. You
see where I got my Irish good-looks and say the two of them look
perfect, as if the picture came with the frame, and I tell you they
are perfect. My dad’s a doctor and my mom volunteers at their
church. They don’t drink or smoke. They’re vegetarians. My dad
still races triathlons. I should call them more often.
    You continue to scan my living room as if
it’s a crime scene. What are you looking for?
    On my coffee table, spatial puzzles and mind
teasers, a few prototypes created by me, litter the oak surface,
along with a skin magazine. I’m twenty-seven, and that’s the first
porn I’ve ever bought, and damn am I ashamed of buying it.
    You ask me why? It’s not even hardcore. If
I'm so ashamed, why did I buy it in the first place? Why keep it on
my coffee table?
    I squirm in my seat. I don't know. Maybe I'm
tired of Carrie. I mean, I've only ever had sex with one
person.
    You wait for a deeper answer. A more honest
answer.
    When did this become about my sexual
insecurities?
    You don’t let it go and ask why I’m so
ashamed. For most people, softcore porn isn’t a big deal.
    Are you here to interview me about my sex
life? Stop looking at me like that. I don't know. I don't know why.
Because it's easier, I guess.
    You ask, Easier than what?
    Than real sex. Sex with Carrie.
    You reassure me that what I'm feeling is a
common problem for a lot of men. Sex can be stressful.
    It's not normal! You don't understand. I want
sex, it’s all I can think about sometimes, but when we do it, I
feel like I’m always failing. It's like this performance, and I
don’t have the script. She's judging me the whole time, and she
doesn't tell me what I'm doing wrong.
    I don’t even know if she loves me. She says
she does. It doesn’t feel like it when we have sex though. It’s
like she’s just putting up with me until it’s over.
    I lost my erection once, and she said it was
okay. It really wasn't. She wants me to be open, to be vulnerable.
What the hell does that mean? My confidence is fragile enough
without bringing feelings into it. What does she want me to do, cry
while we’re having sex?
    Porn can't reject me. I can't fail at
porn.
    God, I'm such a loser.
    A knock startles you. I just sit in my
Laz-E-Boy and wonder why you jumped. It takes a second pound for me
to recognize the sound as knocks on my front door.
    “Be right there!” I slowly get up. It must be
Carrie. I unbutton my pajama top and adjust my boxers, centering
the fly. She likes it when I answer the door in