As you know, tonight is a milestone in our young relationship, baby. Now that we’ve reached the fourth date, it’s finally time for us to consummate our budding love for each other, and begin to navigate the inevitable sexual incompatibility that will haunt us in the morning.  

But I want to confess something first, lover. From the time we saw Transformers:Revenge of the Fallen at the dollar theater last month, I could already tell that you were different from every lady I’ve ever been with, so I want to do this in a very special way that we’ll never forget. I’m talking about some next-level shit. Tonight I want us to make love like we’re a couple that’s been married for 30 years and can barely stand to be around each other any more.

That may sound a little bold, but I think we’re ready. I want to get a head start on acheiving that zen-like state of communicating where we no longer even feel it necessary to speak to one another until the cat does something cute. Most couples take as many as five or six years to stop feigning interest after having heard each other’s complete collection of amusing anecdotes thrice over, but we can get there now if you’ll just take hold of my hand and trust me on this.

Tonight I want to harness the raw energy of the resentment that comes from a lifetime of my having deferred your decades-long dream of going to grad school. I want to put on a pair of comfortable cotton slacks of a cut so unflattering as to make it impossible for you to imagine a set of working sex organs underneath them. When we get down to business, the emotions will be as intense as looking into an eclipse, so don’t stay in the moment too long. Give yourself a mental break periodically during the act of love and let your mind wander; maybe think about what you’re gonna have for lunch tomorrow.

See those young couples here in the park with us, walking hand in hand? Those people are fucking dead inside, man! They’re living in a fantasy world! Girl, I love you so much that I want to spare you the pain of crushing your spirit once the facade fades away and you realize that I’ll be late coming home again. Not because I’m having an affair. No, no. You’ll only wish it were that simple. I’ll actually be sitting in my office listening to the soothing, hypnotic sound of the cleaning lady vacumming long after the lights are off in the building, because I can’t bring myself to come home and face you another day. So let’s bypass all that superficial bullshit and get straight to the good stuff. I’m ready to shout it from the mountaintops: I am a selfish prick that you will grow to truly regret having bought adjoining burial plots with!

Perhaps this gift will help set the mood. Here, open that bag marked “Frederick’s of Hollywood”. It’s a vest from Coldwater Creek. You like?


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December 2009
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