I saw that it was a Hustler and I relaxed a bit. Sleazy, but at least it wasn’t totally weird. You obviously went through a tremendous amount of effort to hide the magazine. I discovered it when I attempted to open the bathroom drawer and found it jammed shut. I could tell that something was stuck in the tracks, so poked my head in the cabinets beneath and found the magazine not-so-expertly hidden.
My instinct was to jokingly give you a little hell about it, but only after I had a peek myself…
And then it hit me. I have never had a problem with pornography. I am usually a big fan. You were aware of this. So, why would you choose to hide this from me? Why not throw it on the bed, wide open, like bait? I am a pretty easy catch.
It was hard to not think about our sex life at that point. I traveled frequently for work. When I was home, our relationship was routine and heavily sweetened with marijuana. Through this purple haze it had become difficult for me to see what was happening.
I started to back track in my head. How long had it been? Three… four months? Four months and no sex. Well, at least not with you. Like I said, I traveled. So maybe I wasn't the most honest and faithful girlfriend. Did you deserve it, though? What with all of that classiness you have?
[Break for laughter]
There is definitely nothing sexier than guy who is wasted after 3 beers, has a problem going to work on time, any time, and has habit of doing incredibly dumb shit. Such were my thoughts as I yanked the magazine out of the metal tracks.
Why did it have to be the Multiple Penetration Special Edition? My imaginary train of thought hit a violent switch track.
I sat on the toilet, perplexed. I had refused to ever believe that you had some kind of sexual issue or fetish that I would have a problem with. A small part of me had hoped that you were just gay and we could move on with our lives.
I opened the magazine as if it contained a hidden explosive. I gave the first picture an honest try. However, to me there is nothing arousing about a girl taking two unimpressive cocks in her ass. I know it works for some, I am not judging. I prefer pornography in which the female is having fun or at least doing a damn good job of acting like it.
This talented young lady stepped it up for the centerfold -- two in the front, one in the back and one in the mouth. Impressive, I admit, but more in a ‘Ripley’s Believe It or Not’ kinda way. I couldn’t even justify touching myself let alone breaking out the heavy equipment.
I thought about the fact that you elected to buy this magazine, out of all your choices. I prefer less sausage and more taco, but that’s just me. I stopped looking and left the magazine on the bathroom counter. I felt dirty and definitely not in a good way.
I confronted you about it that night. Deep down I was hoping you would do something dramatic like yell at me and then bend me over the patio railing and fuck me for all to watch. No such luck, though. When I asked you why you hadn’t made a move to touch me in four months you responded by starting to cry.
“My mom taught me to never touch a girl unless she asked,” you said through your sobs.
I stared at you.
“Did you think I was going to cry RAPE???” I asked, hearing the disbelief in my tone, “Jesus-fucking-Christ! RAPE ME! Seriously, I want you to!”
Um… That was your cue. Really. You could have done anything to prove your manhood in that moment and you chose to let your lip quiver. You sucked back your snot and wiped your eyes, looking at me like a lost, lame dog.
It was then that I realized what your issue was. You didn’t have any sexual dysfunction and you definitely weren’t gay. You simply preferred to see a bunch of dick because you were so burnt out on looking at pussy in the mirror all day. Yep, I went there.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Dear ___________,
I think the way that I threw myself at you was atrocious. Sorry about that. I couldn’t have made it any more obvious that I was in to you. I guess I was just frustrated that you wouldn’t give in… and I couldn’t figure out why. The night that I stayed with you and Jenny in Greeley was pretty pathetic. I am sure that you would agree. I made up some lame excuse for why the couch wouldn’t work and then I conned my way in to your bed. I may as well have just said, “Fuck me” but you weren’t having any of it.
I thought I would try to get your attention once more when we went to the Tom Petty concert. Jenny and I made a pact that we would get “hoed out,” dressing scandalously with the intention of making a bad name for young women every where. I bought a new outfit and, I must say, I looked hot. My hair was cooperating perfectly that day and my butt looked amazing in those pants. I had no trouble attracting attention from everyone but you. Even Jenny was in to it. She and I marched around Red Rocks like we owned the place. We even decided to walk right in to the men’s bathroom instead of waiting in line for the women’s. No one complained.
I would have been happy calling it a night once we left Red Rocks, but the big party was that night. Everyone was there. A mutual friend had a cabin in the mountains and had arranged an overnight party for every trainer from the restaurant we all worked for. We arrived to find the party in full swing. Our co-workers were all inebriated. I partially have myself to blame. I had loaned my famous “Drunk Jenga” game to the group just for this occasion. Apparently it had been a hit. Katy, who I loathed, greeted me with wine stained teeth and some warbled story about how she had fallen down a hill and her prosthetic leg had come off. I laughed, picturing how glorious that must have been. What I wouldn’t give to watch that dumb bitch tumble down a hill, her wooden appendage following closely behind.
Walking in to a party where everyone is already heavily intoxicated can really be a drag. No pot-head likes to hang around a bunch of slobbering idiots, so I decided to hang out on the deck. I had a bag of weed, a cold beer, a blanket and pillow and about a gazillion stars to keep me company. I hung out for a while until I heard someone say something about truth or dare. I listened to the muffled laughs and random uproars and postponed using the bathroom until it was absolutely necessary. When I could hold it no longer, I went inside. What I saw I don’t think I will ever forget.
Ray was one of the “older” of our co-workers and I say this gently because he could have fathered many of the rest of us. Maybe it was his divorce that drove him to complete insanity, I don’t know. What else could compel a grown man to pull out his nasty testicles and slap them against a young girl’s forehead on a dare? I was horrified. At the same instant I witnessed the tea-bagging, I also looked over to find you, bent over, pants at your knees with a piece of my Drunk Jenga game shoved neatly in your ass.
“Wow!” I said out loud, “You can keep the fucking game.”
Hilarity insued. That is when I realized that several people were documenting every dare with disposable cameras. I couldn’t decide who was in for more humiliation, the people who would later be blackmailed because of the photos, or the poor kid being paid minimum wage at Walgreen’s to develop them.
Needless to say, my attraction to you vanished instantly. Thereafter, I became revolted at the thought of you. I was so grateful that I never succeeded in getting in your pants. Who knows… you may have asked me to stick a light bulb or a tire iron or a small rodent in your ass. That would have been terribly awkward. And while I will never be able to erase the things that I saw from my mind, I much prefer those memories to any that may have been made with you in an intimate setting.
I made no secret of what I saw that night. I told everyone who would listen. I had no mercy. For you or anyone else. Sure, I received an attitude from those who were bitter I spent the night on the deck, but they said nothing when pictures of testicles, tits and hairy ass cracks started to circulate. Thank goodness for self-respect. ☺
I thought I would try to get your attention once more when we went to the Tom Petty concert. Jenny and I made a pact that we would get “hoed out,” dressing scandalously with the intention of making a bad name for young women every where. I bought a new outfit and, I must say, I looked hot. My hair was cooperating perfectly that day and my butt looked amazing in those pants. I had no trouble attracting attention from everyone but you. Even Jenny was in to it. She and I marched around Red Rocks like we owned the place. We even decided to walk right in to the men’s bathroom instead of waiting in line for the women’s. No one complained.
I would have been happy calling it a night once we left Red Rocks, but the big party was that night. Everyone was there. A mutual friend had a cabin in the mountains and had arranged an overnight party for every trainer from the restaurant we all worked for. We arrived to find the party in full swing. Our co-workers were all inebriated. I partially have myself to blame. I had loaned my famous “Drunk Jenga” game to the group just for this occasion. Apparently it had been a hit. Katy, who I loathed, greeted me with wine stained teeth and some warbled story about how she had fallen down a hill and her prosthetic leg had come off. I laughed, picturing how glorious that must have been. What I wouldn’t give to watch that dumb bitch tumble down a hill, her wooden appendage following closely behind.
Walking in to a party where everyone is already heavily intoxicated can really be a drag. No pot-head likes to hang around a bunch of slobbering idiots, so I decided to hang out on the deck. I had a bag of weed, a cold beer, a blanket and pillow and about a gazillion stars to keep me company. I hung out for a while until I heard someone say something about truth or dare. I listened to the muffled laughs and random uproars and postponed using the bathroom until it was absolutely necessary. When I could hold it no longer, I went inside. What I saw I don’t think I will ever forget.
Ray was one of the “older” of our co-workers and I say this gently because he could have fathered many of the rest of us. Maybe it was his divorce that drove him to complete insanity, I don’t know. What else could compel a grown man to pull out his nasty testicles and slap them against a young girl’s forehead on a dare? I was horrified. At the same instant I witnessed the tea-bagging, I also looked over to find you, bent over, pants at your knees with a piece of my Drunk Jenga game shoved neatly in your ass.
“Wow!” I said out loud, “You can keep the fucking game.”
Hilarity insued. That is when I realized that several people were documenting every dare with disposable cameras. I couldn’t decide who was in for more humiliation, the people who would later be blackmailed because of the photos, or the poor kid being paid minimum wage at Walgreen’s to develop them.
Needless to say, my attraction to you vanished instantly. Thereafter, I became revolted at the thought of you. I was so grateful that I never succeeded in getting in your pants. Who knows… you may have asked me to stick a light bulb or a tire iron or a small rodent in your ass. That would have been terribly awkward. And while I will never be able to erase the things that I saw from my mind, I much prefer those memories to any that may have been made with you in an intimate setting.
I made no secret of what I saw that night. I told everyone who would listen. I had no mercy. For you or anyone else. Sure, I received an attitude from those who were bitter I spent the night on the deck, but they said nothing when pictures of testicles, tits and hairy ass cracks started to circulate. Thank goodness for self-respect. ☺
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Everybody's Billy
Billy is pushing 30 now. No one really ever talks about where Billy came from and why he is always sitting in that same old leather chair. My brothers never liked Billy. They picked on him, but if you ask me it was only because they were scared of him. Billy has that unnerving way of staring. Billy and I are about the same age now. I discovered, only recently, that I am the reason Billy remains… Everybody’s Billy.
“What’s his name?” They asked me, as if he couldn’t speak for himself.
“Name, Biwwey.” I stated matter-of-factly. I don’t remember why his name was Billy. Did he tell me? Did he speak a language I only knew at age two?
Billy has a new lady friend. He always has someone new. Sugar and spice and everything nice, she meets Billy and becomes… different.
“Billy needs to sleep!” She will say if she finds that he has attracted the attention of someone else. She will stomp and pout, pull hair and throw punches all for Billy. She wants Billy all to herself, and I think he likes that.
My brothers and I slept in the basement. So did Billy. Actually, he rarely ever left the leather chair. He just sat and stared. My brothers would crawl over next to me in the night. They would swear that Billy was tormenting them. They would say that they couldn’t sleep. Billy wouldn’t stop staring.
“Just ignore him.” I would say, careful not to catch Billy’s gaze from across the basement.
I would dream of Billy’s eyes, blinking so slowly, and I would wake in a cold sweat. Panic attacks, my family would say. I was being attacked by something, that’s for sure. What it was is anyone’s guess.
Cameron would say that he could see Billy watching us at night. He said Billy crept to our bedsides to stare at us while we slept. I told him he was silly and he should stop saying these things. I really wanted him to stop scaring me. I didn’t want to think about Billy’s eyes on me at night.
“Did you hear the latest about Billy?” My grandfather asked me recently.
I shook my head in reply.
“We almost lost him,” he said.
Billy spent a week away, taken by one of his latest ladies, pink and proper. Her reluctance to bring him back could better be described as defiance. Tears poured and words one would never expect came pouring from her mouth. When the battle was finally over, Billy was returned to his leather chair.
He sits there now, apparently content with his long and enigmatic existence, waiting for the next sweet little fly he can trap in his web.
He remains, dressed like Chucky in red with stripes. His shoes are worn as if the motionless doll has been walking for years. Perhaps Cameron was right all those nights that he insisted Billy was moving around in the basement. Billy remains, a malignant negative energy force that cannot be eradicated, even after 30 years.
Do I have myself to blame for opening the door to him? Did he somehow communicate with me all those years ago? Did he tell me his name was Billy?
“What’s his name?” They asked me, as if he couldn’t speak for himself.
“Name, Biwwey.” I stated matter-of-factly. I don’t remember why his name was Billy. Did he tell me? Did he speak a language I only knew at age two?
Billy has a new lady friend. He always has someone new. Sugar and spice and everything nice, she meets Billy and becomes… different.
“Billy needs to sleep!” She will say if she finds that he has attracted the attention of someone else. She will stomp and pout, pull hair and throw punches all for Billy. She wants Billy all to herself, and I think he likes that.
My brothers and I slept in the basement. So did Billy. Actually, he rarely ever left the leather chair. He just sat and stared. My brothers would crawl over next to me in the night. They would swear that Billy was tormenting them. They would say that they couldn’t sleep. Billy wouldn’t stop staring.
“Just ignore him.” I would say, careful not to catch Billy’s gaze from across the basement.
I would dream of Billy’s eyes, blinking so slowly, and I would wake in a cold sweat. Panic attacks, my family would say. I was being attacked by something, that’s for sure. What it was is anyone’s guess.
Cameron would say that he could see Billy watching us at night. He said Billy crept to our bedsides to stare at us while we slept. I told him he was silly and he should stop saying these things. I really wanted him to stop scaring me. I didn’t want to think about Billy’s eyes on me at night.
“Did you hear the latest about Billy?” My grandfather asked me recently.
I shook my head in reply.
“We almost lost him,” he said.
Billy spent a week away, taken by one of his latest ladies, pink and proper. Her reluctance to bring him back could better be described as defiance. Tears poured and words one would never expect came pouring from her mouth. When the battle was finally over, Billy was returned to his leather chair.
He sits there now, apparently content with his long and enigmatic existence, waiting for the next sweet little fly he can trap in his web.
He remains, dressed like Chucky in red with stripes. His shoes are worn as if the motionless doll has been walking for years. Perhaps Cameron was right all those nights that he insisted Billy was moving around in the basement. Billy remains, a malignant negative energy force that cannot be eradicated, even after 30 years.
Do I have myself to blame for opening the door to him? Did he somehow communicate with me all those years ago? Did he tell me his name was Billy?
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
My Dear _______ Letters...
I like men the way I like a good trail mix, totally unpredictable. Now, I am not really a huge fan of trail mix, so perhaps that is not the best metaphor to use here. But how else would you describe the kind of men I have a history of being attracted to? There is no common theme. They are tall, short, skinny, Not-skinny, hairy, hairless, metro’s, macho’s, brunettes, blondes, redheads, and bald guys. They are White, Black, and Hispanic. (Yes, strangely, I have never had it for an Asian, other than the hot Army captain from Disney’s Mulan.) I am the only common denominator. If you lined them all up side-by-side, there would be no universal physical trait to identify them as “my type,” except a great smile, which I admit to being a sucker for.
Such an epic line up would be a great opportunity for me to clear up some things with a handful of these poor saps. Reflecting, there are a few hearts that I perhaps stomped on and maybe a few physical encounters that became a bit sticky, and not in a good way. The power to put together my ex-conquest line-up is out of reach for now, but the power of the pen… or the Macbook I guess, is not.
Such an epic line up would be a great opportunity for me to clear up some things with a handful of these poor saps. Reflecting, there are a few hearts that I perhaps stomped on and maybe a few physical encounters that became a bit sticky, and not in a good way. The power to put together my ex-conquest line-up is out of reach for now, but the power of the pen… or the Macbook I guess, is not.
Dear ___________,
I don’t know if you ever realized that the leopard print thong you so carelessly left out had been hung from the fire sprinkler in your room. I still wonder if you left it there.
Our fling was doomed from the beginning. I think we both knew it. That trip to the vineyards in California was fun, but I think anything can be fun after several bottles of wine. I don’t remember exactly, but did you really have the balls to go down on me on that bus ride back to the hotel? I am not sure… Surely there was someone in our group who was sober enough to remember… maybe not.
Now, help me out… did we fuck in the elevator that night, or was that a different night? We thought we were smooth thinking no one was on the elevator at 3:00 AM. That poor guy was either traumatized or thrilled to see your white ass pounding away when the elevator doors opened. I am sorry that I couldn’t stop laughing. Gratuitous public displays of sex make me feel a little silly. Plus, his reaction was classic.
“Uh… I’ll… uh… take the next one.” He said over my uncontrollable giggles.
I don’t think we finished… that seemed to be our story. The second time we tried to do it sober. Big mistake. I realized that I didn’t really find you all that attractive. I think your thought process was about the same, because you shriveled and shrank as I vainly tried to convince myself that I was turned on. I think we both decided at the same time that we were done trying. Have you every tried to stick a limp noodle in a rusted keyhole? That’s a metaphor, of course.
Everything was just so awkward. It took me until that last day to really figure it out. I don’t remember what brought all of us to your room, but there were several of us there. You were packing to leave and had apparently forgotten that all of your skivvies were on the bed for everyone to see.
All of the sudden it hit me… I have never had a good sexual experience with a man who wears thongs. Sorry, I just find it seriously creepy. Add to that the fact that they were leopard print and I think every person in the room was thinking exactly what I was…
“This guy is totally gay.”
Don’t get me wrong I love gay people. They give great décor and fashion advice and who doesn’t love a woman who will sport a t-shirt that reads, “I dig your girlfriend.” However, never did I intend to have numerous awkward, semi-public sexual encounters with someone who was questioning which team they wanted to bat for.
It wasn’t my idea to hang the thong up on the sprinkler. It was Joe’s. I don’t think that crazy Mexican likes gay people as much as I do.
A rumor surfaced only a few weeks after the trip. People started to say that you had been caught red handed with someone of the same sex. It was a big scandal for a while. I simply disregarded it. After all, I already knew.
Our fling was doomed from the beginning. I think we both knew it. That trip to the vineyards in California was fun, but I think anything can be fun after several bottles of wine. I don’t remember exactly, but did you really have the balls to go down on me on that bus ride back to the hotel? I am not sure… Surely there was someone in our group who was sober enough to remember… maybe not.
Now, help me out… did we fuck in the elevator that night, or was that a different night? We thought we were smooth thinking no one was on the elevator at 3:00 AM. That poor guy was either traumatized or thrilled to see your white ass pounding away when the elevator doors opened. I am sorry that I couldn’t stop laughing. Gratuitous public displays of sex make me feel a little silly. Plus, his reaction was classic.
“Uh… I’ll… uh… take the next one.” He said over my uncontrollable giggles.
I don’t think we finished… that seemed to be our story. The second time we tried to do it sober. Big mistake. I realized that I didn’t really find you all that attractive. I think your thought process was about the same, because you shriveled and shrank as I vainly tried to convince myself that I was turned on. I think we both decided at the same time that we were done trying. Have you every tried to stick a limp noodle in a rusted keyhole? That’s a metaphor, of course.
Everything was just so awkward. It took me until that last day to really figure it out. I don’t remember what brought all of us to your room, but there were several of us there. You were packing to leave and had apparently forgotten that all of your skivvies were on the bed for everyone to see.
All of the sudden it hit me… I have never had a good sexual experience with a man who wears thongs. Sorry, I just find it seriously creepy. Add to that the fact that they were leopard print and I think every person in the room was thinking exactly what I was…
“This guy is totally gay.”
Don’t get me wrong I love gay people. They give great décor and fashion advice and who doesn’t love a woman who will sport a t-shirt that reads, “I dig your girlfriend.” However, never did I intend to have numerous awkward, semi-public sexual encounters with someone who was questioning which team they wanted to bat for.
It wasn’t my idea to hang the thong up on the sprinkler. It was Joe’s. I don’t think that crazy Mexican likes gay people as much as I do.
A rumor surfaced only a few weeks after the trip. People started to say that you had been caught red handed with someone of the same sex. It was a big scandal for a while. I simply disregarded it. After all, I already knew.
Dear ___________,
I am sure you noticed that I vanished. Sorry about that. Hey, at least we weren’t in a relationship! Yeah, I know that we were decent friends for a couple years before we went on that business trip to California. There was something in the California air, I think, or maybe it was the fact that I had tried to get it on with another guy who turned out to be useless in the dick department. I was feeling horny, so I decided you were “it.” It was a just a bonus that you’re good looking!
According to my plan, I ended up in your hotel room. What a great conversation! Music, chess, you have a brain! I thought I had hit the jackpot! I was thrilled when we kissed. You have a talent for it, for sure. I was definitely hot for you. I know the feeling was mutual. I noticed that as soon as we lay on the bed. Everything was going swimmingly when I decided to check out the goods. Well endowed to boot! At this point I was giving myself an imaginary pat on the back.
…And then you had to bust out what some would call a “shit-eating grin.”
Really? I have never been so terrified.
For a split second, I thought I had found a ticklish spot and was ready to laugh out loud until I realized that I had somehow awakened your inner clown.
In later conversations with close friends I have attempted to explain the horror that I felt at the sight of your face. You reacted as if I had touched your penis, given you a million dollars, and sent you down a roller coaster hill all in one instant. Was it your first time? I almost asked you this out loud.
To top it all off, you started to pant a bit. I think this is where my out of body experience began. I saw a horrified girl on a hotel bed holding the cock of an extremely happy Latino, who was quite possibly impersonating a golden retriever, drool and all.
That is about the time when I told you that I really liked you and that I didn’t want to rush anything. I wanted to save it and make it special. Well, sorry, I was feeding you a line of bullshit. I bailed as fast as I could.
I know that I promised to call and visit, but when you started to say not-so-subtle things about soul mates and marriage and litters of children, I started to sub-consciously plot your demise.
I changed my number and I am thankful to this day that we lived so far apart.
According to my plan, I ended up in your hotel room. What a great conversation! Music, chess, you have a brain! I thought I had hit the jackpot! I was thrilled when we kissed. You have a talent for it, for sure. I was definitely hot for you. I know the feeling was mutual. I noticed that as soon as we lay on the bed. Everything was going swimmingly when I decided to check out the goods. Well endowed to boot! At this point I was giving myself an imaginary pat on the back.
…And then you had to bust out what some would call a “shit-eating grin.”
Really? I have never been so terrified.
For a split second, I thought I had found a ticklish spot and was ready to laugh out loud until I realized that I had somehow awakened your inner clown.
In later conversations with close friends I have attempted to explain the horror that I felt at the sight of your face. You reacted as if I had touched your penis, given you a million dollars, and sent you down a roller coaster hill all in one instant. Was it your first time? I almost asked you this out loud.
To top it all off, you started to pant a bit. I think this is where my out of body experience began. I saw a horrified girl on a hotel bed holding the cock of an extremely happy Latino, who was quite possibly impersonating a golden retriever, drool and all.
That is about the time when I told you that I really liked you and that I didn’t want to rush anything. I wanted to save it and make it special. Well, sorry, I was feeding you a line of bullshit. I bailed as fast as I could.
I know that I promised to call and visit, but when you started to say not-so-subtle things about soul mates and marriage and litters of children, I started to sub-consciously plot your demise.
I changed my number and I am thankful to this day that we lived so far apart.
Dear _________,
I am so sorry if I hurt you. I should be real… I know that I hurt you. It was not my intention. I was truly attracted to you, but it never would have worked any way. It was a fling, and nothing more.
You were adamant that you had never met any one like me. I believe it. I am pretty sure that I don’t have anything in common with girls in LA. I don’t have any understanding of fashion or celebrities or botox… it’s just not my thing. And I knew that you hadn’t traveled much before…
I lied to you. I had a boyfriend back home. He was a waste of space and my relationship with him ended very shortly after I met you. Perhaps you were the catalyst for that break-up, and for that, I thank you.
I will never understand why you preferred to be called Pablo when it's not your real name. You were a gringo through and through. Such beautiful blue eyes! You were so sweet, and funny, and lord knows that I have always had a thing for chubby guys. They are usually the best in the bedroom, which you proved admirably, even if it was just orally. I am glad we never slept together. That would have made it too complicated and probably would have hurt you even more.
I knew that it would have to end. I knew it the night that I woke you up in your hotel room at 3 AM to come outside and see the snow. You had never seen snowfall before and the look on your face was priceless. It was romantic as hell when you danced with me in the snow, but then I noticed the look in your eyes. It was THE look, and I suddenly felt horrible. I knew that the very limited time we spent together in Utah meant no commitment, but you were wearing the commitment face.
I was a coward and I didn’t want to leave one crappy relationship just to jump in to a long-distance one. So, I did what a coward would do, I stopped answering the phone. It wasn’t right of me. I should have just been honest with you and for that I am so sorry.
To this day I wish you nothing but happiness and I hope that you have found another girl who can play pool, buy you a lap dance, drink you under the table, and dance with you in the snow, because that is what you deserve.
You were adamant that you had never met any one like me. I believe it. I am pretty sure that I don’t have anything in common with girls in LA. I don’t have any understanding of fashion or celebrities or botox… it’s just not my thing. And I knew that you hadn’t traveled much before…
I lied to you. I had a boyfriend back home. He was a waste of space and my relationship with him ended very shortly after I met you. Perhaps you were the catalyst for that break-up, and for that, I thank you.
I will never understand why you preferred to be called Pablo when it's not your real name. You were a gringo through and through. Such beautiful blue eyes! You were so sweet, and funny, and lord knows that I have always had a thing for chubby guys. They are usually the best in the bedroom, which you proved admirably, even if it was just orally. I am glad we never slept together. That would have made it too complicated and probably would have hurt you even more.
I knew that it would have to end. I knew it the night that I woke you up in your hotel room at 3 AM to come outside and see the snow. You had never seen snowfall before and the look on your face was priceless. It was romantic as hell when you danced with me in the snow, but then I noticed the look in your eyes. It was THE look, and I suddenly felt horrible. I knew that the very limited time we spent together in Utah meant no commitment, but you were wearing the commitment face.
I was a coward and I didn’t want to leave one crappy relationship just to jump in to a long-distance one. So, I did what a coward would do, I stopped answering the phone. It wasn’t right of me. I should have just been honest with you and for that I am so sorry.
To this day I wish you nothing but happiness and I hope that you have found another girl who can play pool, buy you a lap dance, drink you under the table, and dance with you in the snow, because that is what you deserve.
Dear ________,
I think it’s fair to start out by saying that you are a complete douche bag. Who spells Nick without a ‘C’ any way?
I find it wildly hilarious that you somehow thought you were the man. Let me clue you in to something, sir. You are anything but. In fact, your genitals are greatly lacking and your ego is as big as the moon. You know that day when you came out to your car after work to find a box of “finger condoms” (as we call them in the restaurant business)? My friend and I left those there for you after we decided to start calling you “Pinky Dick Nik.”
It was a shame that I wasted time on you. You were attractive in the face, which may be why I gave it a chance… the tequila helped. But the tequila certainly hadn’t numbed me enough. I remember thinking, “You’re inside me? Jesus, I have experienced more stimulation from my pal, Playtex.” So, I rolled you over. It was the only way that I was going to have any fun. When I kept saying “Shhhh…shhhhh” and putting my hand on your mouth, I wasn’t trying to make it hot. I just wanted you to stop saying, “Are you close? Are you close?” Jesus, what a turn-off. So I got off, hopped off, and was delighted to leave you hanging, if you can call 3 inches of pencil thickness hung.
A few weeks later you came to my condo for a party I was hosting. I had no issue with it. You were there with your latest lady, a bartender from our restaurant. I will never forget overhearing her telling another girl that sex with you was some of the best she has ever had. I laughed out loud, nearly choking on my Jell-o shot. All I could say was, “Wow, I am so sorry.” She looked at me with disgust as I continued to laugh. I am pretty sure you both left shortly afterward. Poor girl. I hope she found a thick one after you and realized what she had been missing out on… and why I laughed so hard.
I find it wildly hilarious that you somehow thought you were the man. Let me clue you in to something, sir. You are anything but. In fact, your genitals are greatly lacking and your ego is as big as the moon. You know that day when you came out to your car after work to find a box of “finger condoms” (as we call them in the restaurant business)? My friend and I left those there for you after we decided to start calling you “Pinky Dick Nik.”
It was a shame that I wasted time on you. You were attractive in the face, which may be why I gave it a chance… the tequila helped. But the tequila certainly hadn’t numbed me enough. I remember thinking, “You’re inside me? Jesus, I have experienced more stimulation from my pal, Playtex.” So, I rolled you over. It was the only way that I was going to have any fun. When I kept saying “Shhhh…shhhhh” and putting my hand on your mouth, I wasn’t trying to make it hot. I just wanted you to stop saying, “Are you close? Are you close?” Jesus, what a turn-off. So I got off, hopped off, and was delighted to leave you hanging, if you can call 3 inches of pencil thickness hung.
A few weeks later you came to my condo for a party I was hosting. I had no issue with it. You were there with your latest lady, a bartender from our restaurant. I will never forget overhearing her telling another girl that sex with you was some of the best she has ever had. I laughed out loud, nearly choking on my Jell-o shot. All I could say was, “Wow, I am so sorry.” She looked at me with disgust as I continued to laugh. I am pretty sure you both left shortly afterward. Poor girl. I hope she found a thick one after you and realized what she had been missing out on… and why I laughed so hard.
Dear _________,
I consider the two dates we went on as nothing more than a comedic scene in my memory. I was never attracted to you. We were casual friends, but from a dating standpoint I thought you were creepy.
Nothing physical happened between us, thank goodness, not even a kiss. I find the idea somewhat revolting actually.
I guess the only reason I owe you a note is to clear the air regarding the night that I allegedly stole your car.
First of all, when you invite a girl to your birthday party, she usually expects a party. You and two of your idiot friends playing Nintendo does not count. Secondly, it is usually not the best etiquette to answer the door completely hammered drunk… that is supposed to happen as the night progresses. I politely sat long enough to drink one beer before I decided I had enough. I remember wanting to kick myself for being dropped off with no plan for a ride home.
I told you that it was time for me to leave and had made the commitment to call a cab. You followed me to the parking lot, keys in hand, stumbling belligerently, insisting that you could drive me home. I didn’t want to spend the fifty bucks it would take to pay for a cab, but I certainly didn’t want to end up dead either. So when I watched you fumbling through the keys and trying to decipher which car was yours… well, let’s just say that I have an inner evil laugh. It was too easy.
I slowly sat in the passenger seat and closed the door as you clumsily plopped in the driver’s side and tried to stick the key in the stereo. I watched the hilarity for a few seconds before you found the ignition. It was perfect. You hadn’t even shut the door. I shifted my weight and, using both legs, I kicked you out of the car and on to the pavement. I jumped in to the driver’s seat, shut the door and took off before you even had time to roll over. I probably could have just left it at that, but I couldn’t help myself. I reached my arm out the window, gave you the finger, and yelled, “LATER, FUCKER!!!”
I laughed for a solid 15 minutes on my way home. And, hey, I was nice enough to bring your car back the next day.
Nothing physical happened between us, thank goodness, not even a kiss. I find the idea somewhat revolting actually.
I guess the only reason I owe you a note is to clear the air regarding the night that I allegedly stole your car.
First of all, when you invite a girl to your birthday party, she usually expects a party. You and two of your idiot friends playing Nintendo does not count. Secondly, it is usually not the best etiquette to answer the door completely hammered drunk… that is supposed to happen as the night progresses. I politely sat long enough to drink one beer before I decided I had enough. I remember wanting to kick myself for being dropped off with no plan for a ride home.
I told you that it was time for me to leave and had made the commitment to call a cab. You followed me to the parking lot, keys in hand, stumbling belligerently, insisting that you could drive me home. I didn’t want to spend the fifty bucks it would take to pay for a cab, but I certainly didn’t want to end up dead either. So when I watched you fumbling through the keys and trying to decipher which car was yours… well, let’s just say that I have an inner evil laugh. It was too easy.
I slowly sat in the passenger seat and closed the door as you clumsily plopped in the driver’s side and tried to stick the key in the stereo. I watched the hilarity for a few seconds before you found the ignition. It was perfect. You hadn’t even shut the door. I shifted my weight and, using both legs, I kicked you out of the car and on to the pavement. I jumped in to the driver’s seat, shut the door and took off before you even had time to roll over. I probably could have just left it at that, but I couldn’t help myself. I reached my arm out the window, gave you the finger, and yelled, “LATER, FUCKER!!!”
I laughed for a solid 15 minutes on my way home. And, hey, I was nice enough to bring your car back the next day.
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