Dear Ignorant Prick,
When asked if you would consider going out, you said that you wanted to think about it, because you were looking for something serious.
You are a fucking liar.
Apparently in your twisted twilight zone world “serious” means a person that is willing to fuck-dance with you while playing tonsil hockey in the middle of the dance floor. And then I had the distinct displeasure of seeing you both arm in arm, just a day later. And then to add insult to injury I got to watch you leave. However, the worst part is that I know where you were going and my wonderfully active imagination refuses to spare me the agony of knowing exactly what the two of you are doing.
I’m thrilled to deliver to you the horrible news: When he is done fucking you (whether you are topping or bottoming makes no difference because in the end it WILL be YOU that gets fucked.) he’s going to leave. And these feelings you think are real, the ones that mean so much when your sweaty and naked and breathless… will mean shit.
Don’t worry, it gets worse. After he breaks you, tears you up into pieces and leaves you sticky and alone on the floor, I won’t be there. I will not be your second chance. I will not help you pick up your many pieces and move on. I will not help you to once again become whole and healed. Your happiness is not my job.
I hope you learn from this. I hope you abuse and berate yourself for ever giving me the chance to get away. You don’t deserve me.
The “Nice Guy”