A Letter to the Guy with the Socially Accepted Sperm

 Hey. I know it’s been ages, but before you fuck your lunch back up I just wanted to tell you that I’m not preggers. Yes, you put it on the right way, you pulled out before you came, you moaned in all the right places, for fuck’s sake you did everything right.

No- I actually wanted to say thanks for the experience. I thought I’d be a virgin the rest of my life. To be honest, I thought it even more after I met you than before. Even if you had shit high testosterone levels. I mean, why would someone who looks that fucking perfect want to screw someone like me? You must have had a line. A fucking line. And you chose me. So thanks. Really.

It feels somehow different now. I feel like you know some random secret that even I don’t about what’s actually down there. What if your penis was a periscope? (What’s down there, Richard? What’s really fucking down there? Is it like some sort of tunnel with spider legs? Shit loads of pubic hair that got lost during my period or something? Or maybe while we were actually at it?)

I could feel your heartbeat, you know. Like, I never knew you could feel it down there but you really fucking can. Your penis has a heartbeat, Richard. Congratulations. I wanted to tell you about this one moment, the moment when it happened, when I could hear mine and yours kind of beating together. I kind of get why they call it making love.  I mean, its not like some quantifiable measure of love: “we made 50 pounds of love, Richard.” Nah. Its like lots of little moments together like lights on a Christmas tree (did I just fucking say that?)

Anyways, moving on from your genital heartbeat, I wanted to tell you that having sex with you validated my existence. Your socially accepted sperm travelled down my social pariah vagina to reach my anthropromorphic eggs.They say sperm can survive in the vaginal tract for up to forty eight hours. I wonder if that means I still exist?

I’m sorry I’m frigging up this letter with all this touchy-feely shit. I know you’d much rather have fucked someone who would describe the process scientifically (I dunno, like calculate the torque of yours inside mine. The angle of refraction of that ray of light that the lamp cast on your left thigh when I came (God, I actually remember this stuff)? Or maybe something about the evolutionary relevance of the fact that we actually had sex? Is that how you justify this, Richard? Animal passion? God, you are so sexy. I would know.

But then what if you were gay? What then? Would you consider yourself a scientific anomaly? Would you still be the person you are?

Holy mother of God, that was deep. Shitting fuck, Richard, I’m stopping right there.

No, wait. Just one more moment. Please don’t stop swimming in the river of horse shit I just tossed you into. Please just listen to a bit more. Fuck, ignore that tear spot. I think this horseshit actually means something to me.

I just wanted to tell you that I’m not going to become one of those emotionally dependent, needy fools. Im not going to be a liability, Richard. In fact, I fully license you to dump me now and carry on with your promiscuous (or not?) life. Seriously, I wouldn’t give a shitting fuck. Really. Try doing it with Bridget or Jessie or God, I dunno, someone with a heart? Actually get intimate. With someone who whispers your name into your neck and tells you all the stuff you want to hear. A woman.

So I guess I go back to pariah-hood, then? My eggs say thanks, by the way. They are pleased to make the acquaintance of your jock sperms, but are happy to return to a life of isolation and monkhood and celibacy (do you think the eggs that never get used are celibate? Or maybe I screwed it up for all of them… ha...)

Last piece of the horse shit….

Ever been in love? Maybe not the kind in books, doesn’t have to be the kind where you look at the girl and then you kiss her like you mean it. Maybe just the kind where her face kind of keeps popping up in your head and everything hurts so much you just want hell to fuck over so you can die, die, die… and you wonder if god made this person specifically to torture you and your innards and your privates and you think that maybe, maybe it hurts so much because somehwere you know it will never be enough? And that, at the end, of the day, you never got to mean it after all?

That’s all for now, Richard.  Have fun torqueing about your next hundred. I’m sure you’ll do a great job. Tell me if ever you need a reference.

Yours in fucking perfection and pariah-hood,

The Pariah