Dear Bedtime

[CONTENT ADVISORY: Don’t ask, just move along.]

In privately relating her deepest sexual desire, a woman recently apologized for boring me with something “too tame”, and I thought it would be nice to publicly (albeit anonymously) reassure her that I found it far from tame. Like so many before her, she underestimates my ability to appreciate the special little depravities of others.

The way I see it, I’m not sure there could be anything technically hotter than making a girl sit down and write a “thank you” card to her rapist, admitting that —while he wrecked her life and left her a cracked little shell in a moment of profoundly evil selfishness— the memory of his cock inside her is still what makes her cum the hardest. There are probably many things equally as hot, but surely not much that could truly surpass such an act.

There would just be something so hypnotically, beautifully horrific about watching her scratch the words on to the card stock in a halting, tear-sodden scrawl, sinking in the realization that she’s conveying her most damning secret to the man who forced it inside her in the first place. Giving him, in effect, a gift; something tangible that he can hold, a surface for his fingers to play upon, as they once played upon her. Introducing him at last to the truest, darkest offspring of their vile coupling, for him to nurture quietly in the shadows of his mind. Knowing in her heart and cunt that she’s sending her pain home to meet its Daddy.

And later, there would obviously be the intense satisfaction of pushing her up against the street-corner mailbox, my hand in her panties and teeth on her neck, as she slowly, torturously slid the envelope into the slot…

Seriously, girls: never forget that you’re all equally fucked-up in my eyes.