I'm a man of honor. That's a fancy way of saying I've never committed a crime, never lied on my taxes, and never—not once in seventy years—accidentally brushed a woman's hand in a grocery store line.
I've lived alone since God knows when. I was an orphan, a blank slate dropped into a world where the ink was already dry and the story was written by people who hated me.
To eat, I broke my back. To get through high school, I worked three part-time jobs simultaneously. I was the kid who smelled like deep-fryer grease and exhaustion, the favorite punching bag for every bully from the playground to the breakroom.
But here's the kicker, the cosmic joke of my existence: I was allergic to women.
No, literally. One touch and my skin would erupt in hives so violent you'd think I'd wrestled a man-eating jellyfish. A single brush of a shoulder could send me into anaphylactic shock. My life was a perpetual game of "the floor is lava," except the lava wore flower perfume, mini skirt and had soft voices.
Now, here I was in a dingy New York hospice, the air smelling of bleach and the inevitable end. This city was never kind to me, and frankly, neither was the planet. I was a speck of dust that lived a quiet, itch-free, entirely sexless life. My breath hitched. My lungs felt like they were filled with wet concrete. Well, I thought as the lights flickered and the monitors began that annoying, long beep, at least in the afterlife, I don't have to worry about the hives.
Then the world blurred. Darkened. And then... it vibrated?
Suddenly, I sucked in a breath that didn't hurt. My lungs expanded like brand-new bellows. I snapped my eyes open, expecting a tunnel of light or a very disappointed Saint Peter. Instead, I was standing in a place so bright it made my retinas scream.
Massive, shimmering white pillars stretched into an endless golden sky. And the statues... oh, lord, the statues. Everywhere I looked, there were marble-carved naked women. Not just "artistic" naked—we're talking "HD-4K-uncensored-Renaissanc" naked.
"Great," I wheezed, looking at my hands—which, strangely, didn't look like wrinkled prunes anymore. "Even in death, the universe is mocking me. Is this the 'Forbidden Planet' or am I in the lobby of a very expensive, very confusing spa?"
Then, I saw her.
In the center of this marble-breasted madness sat a woman on a throne. I've seen CGI, I've read mangas with '10/10' waifus, I've watched movies where the lead actress made the world stop spinning. They were all garbage compared to this. She was the peak. The final boss of beauty.
"Arthur," she spoke. Her voice didn't just reach my ears; it caressed my soul like a warm silk blanket.
"Okay, let's stop right there," I said, my voice sounding suspiciously younger and sassier than it had few minutes ago. "I know how this goes. You're either the person who's going to tell me my life was a simulation, or you're the one I owe rent to for this luxury cloud."
She giggled—a sound that could probably end world wars. "I am Venus. Goddess of love, beauty, desire, and... well, quite a lot of things you never got to experience."
What the—
"Venus. Right. The Goddess of everything I was allergic to," I deadpanned, crossing my arms. I looked at her, really looked at her, and my survival instincts screamed. "Listen, lady—Your Majesty—Goddess. I'm an old man who just died in a room that smelled like cabbage. I'm unique, sure. A unicorn of virginity. But if you're looking for a hero, I think you've got the wrong file. I'm no warrior and I'm no hero."
Venus leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with a mix of genuine pity and divine amusement. "Your life was... exceptionally unfortunate, Arthur. Seventy years of kindness, yet you lived in fear of a touch. It's the most tragic comedy in the history of the Earth realm. I've decided to take pity on you."
"Pity? Oh, I love pity. It usually comes with a 5% discount at the pharmacy," I snapped, though I was shaking inside. "What are we talking about here? A heavenly pension? A mansion where the walls aren't made of naked statues?"
"Better," she whispered, her smile widening. "A new world. My world. A world called Venhus. A world of magic, ruled by strength and beauty. I'm giving you a second chance, Arthur. A body of youth, a life of adventure, and the destiny of a man who will finally, finally, be touched."
I blinked. "Wait. Is there a catch? There's always a catch. Do I have to fight a demon king? Do I have to save a princess? Because I'm tellin' you now, if a princess touches me and I explode into hives in the middle of a quest, that's going to be real awkward for everyone involved."
"Trust me," Venus said, waving a hand and causing the world to dissolve into white sparkles. "I've given you everything you need to thrive. You'll be... overpowered."
"Wait! I have more questions!" I yelled as my feet left the floor. "Does the new world have indoor plumbing? Can I bring a laptop? Goddess! Venus!"
The last thing I saw was her blowing me a kiss. "Good luck, my little merchant. Try not to faint!"
"I'M NOT A MERCH—"
And then, I fell. Ungracefully.
Falling for eternity is a great way to discover that you're not a "screamer"—you're a "dry-heaver."
I don't like heights. I don't like the feeling of my stomach trying to exit through my throat. But apparently, Venus thought a three-minute freefall through a cosmic kaleidoscope was just the thing to spice up my transmigration. I vomited twice mid-air. If there's a god of the wind out there, I apologize for the projectile bile, but that's on the Goddess of Beauty, not me.
Then, the world stopped spinning and started smelling.
I woke up on a floor that felt like it was made of splinters, rotten banana and regret. The air was heavy with a scent I can only describe as "Concentrated Wet Dog mixed with Ancient Gym Socks." I sat up, my head throbbing like a hungover drum, and scanned the room.
"What the hell?" It was a dump. No, calling it a dump is an insult to landfills. The roof was held together by prayer and bird droppings; the walls were peeling with a damp, black mold that looked like it was trying to spell out "LEAVE OR DIE." I spotted a piece of a broken mirror propped up against a pile of moth-eaten sacks. I crawled over, praying for the face of a Greek god.
Guess what I got?
Was a cosmic middle finger.
"Are you kidding me?" I croaked. My voice was younger, sure, but it was thin and raspy.