12.18.2007

Revenge Is a Beer Best Served Cold: Part 3

I think we need to talk. Again. But before we do, go ahead. Go right ahead. Click on that link real quick and revisit a topic I'm pretty fucking sure we've already goddamn covered.

Okay. Ready? Here we go.

An Open Letter to the Boy I Fucked a Couple Nights Ago
by: Moxie Moure

"First off, I'm sorry. You know, it's funny. I've written these before, these silly little Open Letters, but this one...goddamn. I mean, Jebus, haven't we done this before?

"I'm sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start with the facts.

"Should I live in some small-ass town in California, I would want to spend a weekend in the city too. I understand, and I like many storytellers love the idea of returning home with stories. The best storytellers know that we have to make stories--they don't just happen. Most people understand this, but it's more of an understated feeling. Yes I get it, but this isn't about what I do and do not get--this is about what you clearly do not understand. Yes, I know that you are limited by your years and that is why I'm am taking the time I could be spending asleep to explain this to you. Please listen carefully, because I swear by all that is good and holy that I may very well never take the time to explain this again. I'm not upset that you tried to make your story, but rather how you chose to conclude it.

"You may have heard before the idea that sex is a contract. This is usually invoked when one is trying to explain to another why it is unethical to be so callous about such an important act. I'm not saying that I ascribe to this school of thought, but let's entertain the idea, just for a minute, that this is true. Given this assumption and the one that human beings, as we will, have all kinds of sex, we must then also assume that there must be an infinite amount of contracts that could be infered from this act. Hmm. I don't claim to be some kind of expert, or 'sexpert' if you will, and I refuse to relate all of my experience to a cliche as simplistic as circumnavigating a city block. What I will say is that I know what I'm fucking talking about, and I am absolutely positive when I say that you broke the fucking rules.

"So here we are, and you're likely still wondering if I'm even speaking to you. Well, I am, and I'm telling you that if there was any infered contract associated with our meeting and fucking and me locking the door behind you, it's that I essentially don't give a fuck what you think, who you are, or what you will eventually tell your friends about me, but am perfectly happy with you using me as some kind of turning point or life-changing experience or even as some even just slightly consequential anecdotal one-night-stand. Don't get me wrong, I hope you get your story; I mean, I got mine--I got to go to work the next day and expound on the baby-faced Jew I fucked the night before. If our assumed contract would have remained fair it would have been left at that, but you weren't satisfied by your few minutes of hormonal freedom in exchange for leaving me the fuck alone--you had to fucking push it.

"So here's my advice to you, and it is three parted.

1. I've said this before, but I will repeat it for you now: girls like me do not grant further communication for actions akin to little more than trick-or-treating. I mean, why would I? Do you think we have some amazing connection or something?

2. In the future, keep your internet stalking just that--stalking. Good for you, kiddo, we're all proud of you for finding my MySpace profile. Next time, just forward a link to all your friends so they can see the girl you fucked. Peruse the pictures, read the comments, and see if you can pick out which of my 'friends' I've slept with too. Messaging your one night stand who did not tell you her last name a few hours after leaving her apartment is on the no-no list--trust me when I say this. It's juvenile, which brings me to...

3. If you can't figure out which fork to use, don't eat at the grown-ups table. Until you can navigate all of this stuff succesfully, stick to fucking twenty year old girls that match your twenty year old self.

"Don't think that all of this would come without a concession from me--I mean, I am sorry. I really am. I should have known better, and you have no idea how much it freaks me out that even in knowing this, I still decided I just had to have it. Don't think you're the only illicit boy that has graced my plate as of late, because there are many. Some I am regretful of tasting, and some I still wonder what that first bite would be like. Much like the moment when you offered me your lap at the bar, I am caught wondering of other boys how that first forbidden electric pang might feel, how my skin might quiver under a hand that should be no where near me.

"But Illicit, forbidden, and any other boys aside, the internet is not real. Let me repeat that: the internet is not real. That being said, be glad I didn't use your full name, because I know it, l and I have never ever let some little boy I fucked tell me what I can and cannot write on my blog, and I don't intend on starting now. You see, sometimes you enter into a contract with sex that you're unaware of--things that could be contracted, pregnency, emotional turmoil--and yes, I realize getting written about on the internet is one of those you may have not thought of previously and so you might feel a bit blindsided now.

"This is the part where I pretend to care.

"But hey, we had fun, and I hate to end this with a threat, but don't ever believe that I would feel even the slightest pangs of guilt about editing this post at a later date and including every single one of your given names. What does that mean? That means that before you ever again try to tell me what I can and cannot do, think about the look that your Mother's face might wear upon Googling you and finding about about her perfect little Jewish Prince's sexual escapades in San Francisco with a twenty-seven year old black sex blogger. Sit on that for a minute.

"I know, I know. Now you're thinking: 'Who the hell does this bitch think she is?' The truth is that doesn't really matter who I think I am. You think I'm wrong? Think again. You meet a girl, she invites you out, and then fucks you in a matter of hours. I think we can all agree that if questions are to be directed, it's about high time for you to ask yourself who the hell you made yourself believe I could be.

"Here's a hint: I'm not her.
"Cheers."

--M

[p.s. to RCU/Hunts/Mark/Mark William/Huntsman--Please for the love of god listen to this if you have not alredy. We'll always have Rockapulco.]

[p.p.s. to Lisa--Yes, now we are clear. All of those people are the same person. Yes, he is even the balcony guy.]

[p.p.p.s. to Aaron--This is now the third time I've used this title for a post. I can never thank you enough.]

5 comments:

huntsmanic said...

i love it when you use all my names at once; i should feel as if you're about to chastise me, but then, you don't! and i like that.

i loved that tal episode: rockapulco will be ours for always.

huntsmanic said...

ps..you get major points for using quiver in your open letter. next challenge is to use it 2x in the same paragraph: first as in, damn you make me; and then as in, i proudly opened my.

huntsmanic said...

do you want me to slit hopparoo's throat? would that make you feel better, if i murdered my kid's kangaroo?

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