When I think of perfect sex, I think in terms of sequence: five minutes of hand stuff, followed by five minutes of oral, followed by ten minutes of fucking. Location is tertiary (though I'm partial to our bed), and both of us should come (ideally at the same time). After hearing this, you point out that my definition of “perfect” is so pragmatic as to be mundane. “If that's perfect sex,” you say. “Then fifty percent of our sex has been perfect.” My response: “Closer to seventy-five.”

x

Later, after a wild fuck that began with us making out on the couch during an episode of Fleabag and ended with us dislocating the glass door of our shower, I asked the inevitable question and received the inevitable response. I said, “What percentage of our sex would you qualify as perfect?” You answered, “Zero.”

x

For you, “perfect” means “ideal” (if not “flawless”) because, both as a partner and as a portrait artist, you are a perfectionist. For me, “perfect” means “satisfying” (if not “wonderful”) because, both as a partner and as a writer, I am a pragmatist. The difference between these two positions is significant and potentially dangerous, but we welcome it nonetheless. We didn't get married because we love being understood. We got married because we love being taught.

x

The etymology (as usual) winks at both of us but sides with neither. “Perfect” can be traced back to the Latin “perfectus,” and as an adjective it denotes a state of being “complete” or “finished.” In this sense, our entire past (including all the fucking we've ever done) is perfect. We couldn't add to it if we wanted to.

x

You: I can't live in a world where seventy-five percent of anything is perfect.

x

You stand by your definition of “perfect” and, in refusing to compromise, you say to me, “Come closer.” I stand by my definition of “perfect” and, in refusing to compromise, I say to you, “Come closer.” Sometimes we budge, and sometimes the language does, but as long as we are talking, it feels like we are moving towards each other.

x

When I asked for your definition of perfect sex, you said, “To have perfect sex, we would need perfect bodies–” Here you paused to slap both our stomachs. “And we're nowhere close to that.” In this way, the question of the perfect sex was replaced by the more interesting (and not unrelated) question of the perfect body.

x

What we are nowhere close to is the picture on your nightstand in which a young tuxedoed me is kissing a young white-dressed you because a priest has just declared us husband and wife. In this picture my body is twenty-three years old and one-hundred and forty pounds, while your body is nineteen years old and one-hundred and thirty pounds. We are floating in this picture, like something out of Chagall. Light surrounds us, and we have no idea of the weight that is to come.

x

To be a portrait artist, you almost have to be a perfectionist. In the quest to produce a subject's likeness, the margin for error is infinitesimal. If you misrepresent the shape of an eye even slightly, the project fails. If you misjudge the placement of a nose even slightly, the project fails. If every line, every shadow, and every shape is not absolutely and evidently perfect, the project fails. This is the medium you have given your life to, and here I have the audacity to say, “You are perfect just as you are.”

x

Fifteen years has passed since the day that photograph was taken. Good years, but hard years. Years of shitty jobs and accidental babies. Years of broken cars and bad apartments. Years of chasing after ramshackle dreams and coming nowhere close. It hurts, such living. For proof, see our bodies.

x

I once asked you to rank the three things you love most about your body. Speaking like a true perfectionist, you said, “I’ll admit I have a nice ass, especially for someone who doesn't work out.” I agreed with placing your ass at number one, since it would top any list I made about the best parts of your body. But when I asked for your number two, you refused to continue the game. “My ass is kind of decent,” you said. “The problem is, everything attached to it is shit.”

x

As a student of art across the centuries, you know that perceptions of beauty only exist because the eye can be trained to believe one shape is preferable to another shape. You know that beauty is an illusion, and that any body part, regardless of how it aligns with the current ideal, can be accepted and loved for no other reason than because it's yours. But knowledge is not your problem when you stand naked in front of our bathroom mirror and say to the body reflected there, “Who would want to fuck you?”

x

I can't join you in your perfectionism, but I can join you in your self-hatred. I too have looked in the mirror and wondered, “Who would want to fuck you?” And making the parts I hate into slightly less abhorrent shapes (such as the year I took up running and achieved something resembling a six pack) has never silenced this question. Only you, when you fuck me and mean it, can do that.

x

Me: Who is your ideal?

You: Jean Ingres. The drawings, though. Not the paintings.

Me: Why?

You: Ingres had the perfect line.

Me: If you compare your current work with your stuff from a few years back, you have to admit you're getting closer.

You: I will never get closer. Because the closer I get to Ingres, the more I'll know about technique. The more technical possibilities I know, the more I'll see what could be improved.

Me: You think Ingres was this hard on himself?

You: No–he was harder.

x

Once, after I watched you destroy a portrait that you had spent a month working on because (and I'm quoting you here) “the eyes are all wrong,” I asked you if perfectionism wasn't taking the joy out of your craft. Your fingers and wrists were rainbowed in pastel, and you said, “Perfection isn't for me--it's for the work.”

x

I am hard on my writing, often revising a seemingly inconsequential phrase dozens of times before moving on. But I am not a perfectionist. I realized a long time ago that good work will never feel finished. It will, however, feel good after you stop–but only if you let feeling good be reason enough to start.

x

I think you hate your body for the same reason you hate your art—because you love it with a fire that language could never hope to hold. Because you care.

x

As an exercise in vulnerability, I ask you which feels better—finishing a great portrait, or having a great orgasm. You laugh and say, “A portrait. And don't take this personally, but it's not even close.” I raised the counterpoint, mainly that you've never made a perfect portrait. “I've never made a perfect anything,” you said. “But without an ideal to work towards, you're just jerking yourself off.”

x

When I asked you to name someone with the perfect body, you mentioned a renowned yoga instructor who lives in Austin and has millions of subscribers on YouTube. When I asked you what made her body perfect, you said, “She's hard and soft at the same time.” We pulled up one of her videos and watched for several minutes as she maneuvered through various poses. You paused at the exact moment when she hit a pose called downward facing dog. “Look at her ass,” you said. “Tell me you don't want that.”

x

If by “want,” you mean “admire as a gorgeous form,” then, yes, I do want that ass attached to the yoga instructor from Austin who is perfectly hard and perfectly soft all at the same time. But if by “want,” you mean “recognize as the ideal possibility,” then, no, I do not want that ass attached to the yoga instructor from Austin—I want the ass attached to you. If this means that my eyes are all wrong, then so be it. My eyes have never been particularly right.

x

“Hard and soft at the same time.” Because of how you said this, I couldn't tell if you were equating perfection with balance or with contradiction. Later, you told me it was neither. “Her body is perfect,” you said. “Because you can tell she's not looking that good for anyone but herself. That's what makes her perfect—her not needing a single ounce of your approval.”

x

Your problem isn't that you don't believe in perfection—it's that you don't believe in me. When I say that your ass is perfect despite it being softer than it used to be, and that your tits are perfect despite their being saggier than they used to be, and that your stomach is perfect despite it being looser than it used to be, you think I am full of shit, and that (if such a thing were possible) I would rather fuck a version of you who resembles the yoga instructor. But I've had that version of you, and (as incredible as she was) I prefer the one who is with me now. You are ruined by perfectionism; me, nostalgia.

x

You: I'm shit. Your eyes are all wrong.

Me: Then let them be wrong.

You: Whatever. It's your life.

Me: Wrong.  It's our life.

You: I know. And damn if sometimes it doesn’t seem almost kind of perfect.