ON THE BUNNY RANCH WEBSITE, GIRLS, BUNNIES, women, come in a variety of shapes, but are never fat. They offer a variety of breast sizes, from fake triple Ds, to natural Cs, to very small, like double A. They are either Asian or white, never Latina or Black, which I’d have called problematic the first day Josh and I browsed if I’d had the energy. I said something to that effect and Josh said, “It’d be a start,” and his voice sounded afraid like, where do I even begin?
We scrolled for hours before we found Willow, the last bunny left after I vetoed other options: girls in their early 20s riding horses in push-up bras, or dancing on poles, or dressed in Khaleesi cosplay. Girls who, beneath layers of makeup, were still beautiful; girls who, beneath layers of makeup, had a certain look to them, aggressive, almost angry.
In Willow’s pictures, she wears a blank expression. She’s facing the camera but her gaze jumps the lens. Her body is slim, white, with a flat butt, bad highlights. She’s cute, but not beautiful like me, even now. Even now, even if I don’t always listen, the world assures me I am beautiful. And I had a butt before I shit off so much weight. It always seemed to drive Josh crazy.
“You’re an ass man,” I said when we first met.
“I’m an everything man,” he said, and every time I caught him checking out another woman I wondered if that’s what she had: everything. Later, long beyond our first few years of negotiation, trust exercises, he would say, “I’m the man who loves you,” after a Wilco song. Josh got into Wilco around the same time I got cancer, like welcome to your 40s, motherfuckers.
There have been many indignities. My illness has changed the course of both our lives. We’ve both lost. But Josh will care less, I hope, once we’ve met Willow. Willow will be a caretaker. Josh deserves a caretaker, space for himself, his sexuality. Cancer is a drain, tending to a cancer-ridden body is a drain. He needs to bring himself fully to the task of mine and that is what Willow will help him do. She is a practical solution, which is how I first pitched her.
“Whoever we choose, they’ll take the pressure off us both,” I said, the day we perused the Bunny Ranch website, scrolling photos of legal sex workers.
“I’m not sure pressure is what I feel,” Josh said.
“You’ll feel less horny then.”
“I’m not feeling that horny these days.” He sounded hurt.
