So you found my Gentle Glide tampons under the sink whilst looking for another roll of toilet paper. You might reasonably be thinking, “Guess I should be super gentle when we do the nasty, because if she needs a little bit of cotton to go easy on her love tunnel then she’s probably not a fan of rough sex.”
Wrong. I only buy the tender blood plug rockets because they’re what my mother always used pre-menopause, and it’s the best way for me to feel connected to her ever since she died of stage IV mesothelioma.
I want you, Chad, to absolutely destroy me in bed.
Pull my hair, knee me in the spleen, gimme a wet willy – all of the things my elementary school bullies subjected me to while my teachers ignored my constant cries for help.
Place your hands on my love handles and muse out loud that I could stand to lose a few pounds, just as my pediatrician did when I had just started puberty and was at the absolute height of body consciousness.
Tell me I’m a bad, bad girl… promptly pulling out a ruler from a desk and slapping my wrist just as the nuns at my Catholic high school attacked me whenever I implied any sort of vaguely liberal belief.
Just fucking walk out, reminiscent of my dad when I was twelve.
Get me pregnant and refuse to split the cost of the abortion, like my college boyfriend who was a trust fund baby whose parents transferred $5,000 into his account every month; he obviously could have helped me pay for it, especially since his dick milk is the whole reason we were in that mess in the first place. Jesus Christ, Stephen, I had to sell all my underwear to the frat house and play the part of the harassed secretary in a workplace sexual harassment video to pay for the uterine version of a ctrl+alt+del.
I don’t trust men!
But I trust that you’ll be absolutely rough while we make sweet, sweet coitus, rougher than the emotional impact of any tampon or my father’s new girlfriend being exactly my age. Like, we have the same birthday and everything.
Perhaps even more rough than the sidewalk I was ejected onto through the shattered car window of my Uber because my driver’s wife had just divorced him and won full custody of the kids and I had forgotten to put on my seatbelt.
(Father, please forgive me, I am an unrepentant sinner, just as I am an unrepentant non-gentle sex haver.)
Lastly, I kindly suggest that you choke me like that piece of PF Chang’s orange chicken did in the middle of the mall food court while a douchebag Hollister patron felt compelled to film the ordeal and post it to Twitter, instantly going viral.
Oh, what’s that? No, I don’t have a therapist, but that’s only because my uncle went on this really convincing Facebook rant about how my generation needs to stop victimizing ourselves and just get a job, which I had until I got fired from my bar mitzvah DJing gig for talking too much about my personal life to awkward young teens. Now I just make my financial ends meet through a GoFundMe for my parrot’s chronic fatigue syndrome.
You’re leaving? Fine, I completely understand. Rough sex isn’t for everyone. I’ll just buy a non-smooth gliding tampon to get fucked by.
