I don’t ever remember having a specific moment in my youth when I discovered my sexuality. In some way I just always knew what was right for me. Their long slender lines, beautifully round curves, and majestic imposing stature were just something I've always needed. Government buildings are the sexiest thing on planet earth. I don’t care whether they’re marble, concrete, steel, or some other material; they’re all beautiful to me. Life being sexually attracted to government buildings is wonderful except for one major problem: no matter how much I want to have sex with them, I cannot figure out how to get consent.

We had a workshop at work recently about sexual harassment and the meaning of consent, and I’ve been trying really hard to implement all I learned into my relationships. But when I approached the Pentagon about taking our relationship to the next level, with mutual consent, it just didn’t answer me. I sat there pleading with it for five minutes before being escorted off the premises by security staff without even getting a word of response. Dear god, this is torture. All I want to do is caress those five majestic pentagonal corners lovingly as I gaze into the starlight with my beloved. Yet, unless it is within a mutual constant state of consent, it’s morally and legally wrong of me to make any advance. What am I doing wrong?

The other day, in a second of pure confidence or stupidity, I managed to make my situation even more embarrassing. I was still reeling after my love, the Pentagon, had just cut me out of its life so harshly, and in an attempt to make up for the five-sided hole in my heart, I tried to hook up with the most beautiful government structure of them all: the White House. Its smooth cylindrical pillars were just irresistible to me, I couldn’t help myself. I followed the guide we were given to establishing consent to the dot. I was not intoxicated, I was very direct, I made sure to not appear threatening in any way, and I made my intention of the relationship being mutually agreed upon clear at all times. The White House just sat and stared at me. It looked directly into my soul- searching for what tragedy must have sent me towards looking for buildings for metaphorical support- but it saw nothing but a cold, empty husk of a man- so it too remained silent. Having learned that an absence of a no does not constitute a yes, I accepted my rejection with dignity and respected its decision, though tears certainly ran down my cheek. If only I could figure out how to get consent from these beautiful symbols of American bureaucracy, I could finally be satisfied. Alas, it appears that my attraction will never be reciprocated, and I will remain hollow and loveless, left to fantasize a day where man and building may love freely.