I met you at Manray and we had a couple of drinks. All you could do was talk about yourself and your BMW. You really were not even my type, but I was drunk and decided to go fuck anyway. In retrospect, I should have left it at that, or just gone home and beat myself off.

We got back to your place on Beacon Hill, and all you could do was bitch about your ex. You talked about how big your dick was at the bar; it might be bigger than average, but not by much... and for fuck's sake, learn how to use it!

Your lies made me feel as though you were my knight in shining armor. Despite all the discouragement from my friends, I fell into your deceptions. Now I'm left here with so much confusion.

I could have dealt with your lies, but the next day as I was washing my car, I got an old familiar itch. YOU FUCKING FREAK, YOU GAVE ME CRABS. Not only do I have to deal with the humiliation of having slept with you, now I also have to deal with your nasty little present.

--Anonymous