Letters from Last Night

Dear Mr. Last Night,

Please excuse the tone and content of this letter, but I think it would be silly to pretend that what happened last night was anything than what it was.  And by 'what it was' I mean 'awful.'  It was awful.  It was the worst sex I've ever had, and I have had years of bad sex.  I would like to thank you for making those years of bad sex seem amazing in comparison.  I now regret a significantly smaller portion of my life than I did before because of you.

I'm writing to you because I feel that perhaps I can prevent you from having the sex that we had last night again with someone else.  I'd give you these tips in person, but to be honest, I'm not sure I could look at you again without bursting out into laughter or experiencing some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder like that old veteran at the beginning of Saving Private Ryan.

First off, that thing you do at the beginning?  That's not cute.  I could see in your eyes that you think it's cute, and it's not.  It's not even a little bit cute.  I should have just stopped everything right there, but I wasn't sure if you were joking or not, so I let you keep going.

Secondly, the dirty talk.  You have got to be the worst dirty talker in the history of dirty talk.  It was like you were writing a Norman Mailer novel.  Where did all that stuff come from?  Were you even thinking about it or were you just letting stream of consciousness take over?  All that lip biting I was doing?  I was doing that because otherwise I was going to scream, SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!

Finally, the cuddling.  Or should I say--strangling.  As soon as you fell asleep, I thought you were going to roll over me and kill me like some sort of child that takes its puppy to bed only to wake up the next morning and find its tongue hanging out of its mouth like a bad cartoon.  Are you aware that you flail in your sleep?  Flail and thrash and yell things.  I didn't know what to do.  At one point, I considered calling an old priest and a young priest for fear you were going to start spitting out pea soup at me.  Next time, just ask the girl to leave.  She might think you're a jerk, but at least she won't fear for her life as soon as you pass out.

I hope you take what I've said under advisement.  Aside from all these things and the fact that you avoided eye contact with me, ripped my dress when you're taking it off, and called me three different names--none of them mine--it really wasn't anything that...can't be improved upon.  By the way, why do you date girls with such weird names?  Those three names were incredibly weird, and I'm desperately trying not to imagine what they must look like.

I wish you well, and I'm sure you're a nice person, but please, never try to contact me--ever.

Sincerely,
The Girl Who Snuck Out This Morning

. . . . .

Dear Girl from Last Night,

You probably don't remember this, but you gave me your e-mail address last night.  I wondered why you didn't give me a phone number, but I thought maybe you were one of those anti-technology people who don't believe in cell phones or running water.

It turns out, you're not one of those people.  You're the sort of person who sneaks out in the morning so that you don't have to make an actual connection with the person whose heart you just broke.

I saw the letter you left me on the table, but I threw it out, because I don't need to hear any of your lies about how you'd like to see me again.  I know what that would mean.  It would mean a purely sexual relationship, and I'm not interested in that.  Oh sure, what we had last night was amazing.  I'm sure you've never been with anybody who treated you the way I did.  I'm sure my tenderness and sensitivity was too much for an emotionally barren person to deal with, but you know what?  That's your problem, not mine.

Do you know all the dreams I had for us?  I couldn't even look at you last night, because it was like looking into my future, and the sight of it was so beautiful I had to look away.  I could see a wedding and babies and grandbabies and pets and you making me dinner every night while I smoke a cigar in a smoking jacket in the smoking room of our house.  Just the smell of your hair made me call out the names of the Greek muses--Calliope!  Thalia!  Euterpe!

Didn't any of that have an effect on you?  Have you ever been with a man who was so taken with you that he recited passages from Norman Mailer's The Executioner's Song to you or wrote stream-of-consciousness poetry while making love to you?  Has any man ever been so passionate as to rip your dress right off you?  Has any man ever held you as tight as I held you?  I could feel you struggling to get out of my grip, because clearly you're scared of commitment.  You're scared of love.

Remember the very beginning when I did that thing?  That thing that I could see cut to your very soul?  Has any man ever done that thing before?  I don't think so.  I really don't.

So I'm sorry.  I'm sorry that our lovemaking was so earth-shattering for you that you had to run away from it for fear of really letting someone in for, perhaps, the first time.  I'm sorry that we won't be sitting in a retirement home together one day hoping that we die at the very same time.  I'm sorry that I gave you a beautiful gift, and you returned it for store credit.

I'm sorry, but mostly, I'm sorry for you.

Sincerely,
Heartbroken, or Just Broken