I did everything I could to make you happy--even told some little white lies. You are a sexually repressed white girl from the suburbs, so I neglected to mention that I'd been to a few orgies. You said you "needed time," so I pretended I didn't need sex every day (sometimes twice), and I masturbated in the shower every morning after sleeping next to your sexy but lifeless body.

But even I have my limits. When I broke up with you, I told you that I needed more "quality time" with you, more "commitment," more love. But here is the real confession, something you will never know unless you read this: I broke up with you because of my birthday B.J. You spent all of an hour with me on my birthday before going out with another man--and no B.J. As my father always said, "If you don't get a B.J., what good is a b-day anyway?" So the next morning, I told you never to call me again. After you got off work, you came to me to apologize... and I still didn't get a blow job.

So to all the women reading this column: If you don't put out on your man's birthday, don't be surprised if you don't have a man afterward.

--Anonymous