Open Letter To Poetry Girl

Dear Poetry Girl,

Reading your comments in yesterday’s post pleased me. I’m happy to see that you still think about me, even in hateful terms, because it’s a testament to the strong bond we had going until you found out about my blog.

Do you remember the night we met? You were wearing a yamaka and dancing wildly with your friends in order to get attention from horny men. I leaned against the bar with my drink and watched from a distance, unsure if I wanted to make my presence known. I’ll be honest: I wasn’t struck by your beauty initially—probably not as much as other men in the club—but there was something indescribable about your presence, your vibe, that piqued my interest.

When you eventually came to the bar I made a comment, not one that can be found in my book Bang, which teaches men how to have sex with piles of female bodies, but a spur of the moment insight that related to what was happening in that particular moment of space-time. We went off to the side away from the disapproving stares of your friends, and sparks flew. You touched my beard and I casually placed my hand on your hip, bringing you to within inches of my face. How my loins longed for you! Your silky as shit black hair and your endearing freckles. Your sweet-smelling supple skin that only a 22-year-old of half-white and half-Asian descent could have. I told you that I was leaving in a month and I could see the crack develop in your heart, but the smile returned to your face when I said I’d be back soon in time for those snuggly winter nights where we would curl up next to each other by my dad’s fireplace to sip on fair-trade hot cocoa.

How many minutes passed until our lips first touched? It couldn’t have been more than fifteen. The passion was too great, the lust too wild. You told me about 58 times that you don’t make out with guys in bars, so imagine how special I felt to be slobbering all over your face, caressing your soft butterfly lips with mine. I wanted to pleasure you that night but alas it was not meant to be, for your friend couldn’t drive twenty minutes to her home and instead had to spend the night with you.

I think you’ll agree that our first date got off to a rough start when you dared challenge one of my views on life. I let it go as a glitch in the matrix, but you had the audacity to rebut me a second time within earshot of other human beings. I realized that you had a bit of trouble understanding how gender roles work. I poked and I prodded and out it comes that you have been utterly and hopelessly brainwashed by the feminist movement. What a waste of such a pretty little face! Do some research and you will find the only reason women get into feminism is because they can’t find a real man to properly ramrod them. Think about it for just one minute. If a woman was getting the good dick every night, would she waste time with other women who bitch and moan about other men? Of course not.

Then you dropped the bomb that you spend a significant portion of your life writing poetry. That’s when my heart cracked. I knew that even if I wasn’t going to Ethiopia to feed skeletal-like African children, the odds we’d make it past five dates would be extremely low. The reason is simply because your views and drama would come to be about as pleasurable as visits to the tooth removal doctor. But we had the unbridled, wanton passion! Unbridled! Wanton! It would last us as long as it took for us to make sweet love.

Or so I thought.

At the end of that first date I gently weaseled my way into your bedroom. I didn’t have to twist your arm. You wanted my masculine, hairy body pressed against yours, and what was it you said at the bar? Don’t be shy. You said I was irresistible. Yes, do you remember that? I was flattered and still am. In fact you made my ego so big that I have to walk into doorways sideways now.

You wouldn’t let me hit that night on your bed. You wouldn’t even stroke my dick through my boxers. You have little idea of its well-proportioned head to shaft ratio and the ridiculously strong bulging vein on the underside. I think it’s because you’re not a slut (snicker—just kidding!). I was ready to wait as long as it took to get to date three when I was certain to hit, but it never happened because you found out about my blog and jumped to conclusions. You hate Bang. I see that know, but the funny thing is, Poetry Girl, I didn’t use any game on you. Read my book to prove this to yourself. I didn’t have to. You gamed me and I just held on for the ride. Don’t deny it.

Look at what you’ve done to me. It’s Wednesday night and I’m typing out this hopelessly romantic missive! Oh Poetry Girl, I just don’t want to give up on you. Give me one more chance. Let’s go on a coffee shop date and reignite that spark. Then let me beat that pussy up.



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