Letters to a Girl
Okay, forget dating. I'm giving up women because they're too high-maintenance; if I freed the brainpower I use avoiding their eyes I could probably cure cancer. I still need an outlet for my sexual energy though so I'm becoming a transvestite. I'm not turned on by cross-dressing per se but I do have a frotteurist fetish which makes cross-dressing erotic if I anthropomorphize clothes.
Speaking of anthropomorphized clothes, last night I had a weird dream. I was throwing my dress in the McDonald's dumpster because it made my butt look big when suddenly it came alive. It grew arms and legs of lace, floated above the dumpster, and pirouetted down a lamp pole. It begged me not to throw it out because it wanted to go with me to the prom. I said my prom was ten years ago. It said the prom could be anytime anywhere if you believed. Then the parking lot became a dance floor: the streetlights turned to disco balls, the drive-thru panel played Cher, the dumpster rats turned to promgoers and the dress and I started dancing. I was having a good time; the dress even said a cute girl in the corner was looking at me, so I turned my head. A second later something smashed into my face.
When I came to I was lying on the ground. The dress was standing over me holding a brick speckled with blood. It said I'm a creep and cross-dressing is clothing molestation. I asked if it was going to kill me and it said no, it was just going to look pretty and ignore me for the rest of my life. Then we rode a dickbus through a flesh canal of nipplemouths and vagicles. Or maybe that was a later dream and I spliced them together.
Drunk on Rumune (a mix of rum and Ramune) so I'll be honest: I'm attracted to you. I've concealed it so far because you have boyfriends, but I'm getting lonely, which is The Worst Thing in the World (sorry about the capitalization; I sort of broke my keyboard masturbating). So now that that's out in the open, I'm hoping we can have sex. It doesn't have to mean anything, although I sort of want it to since the songs I've heard about meaningless sex make it sound terrible. Even worse than being a virgin, which isn't that bad actually, except when I see Victoria's Secret commercials and suspect there isn't a secret at all, but can't be sure.
I thought of some sexy things I'd like you to say while doing it. Hopefully I can type them before my Enter key shorts out and sends th
You never returned my message. I hope you aren't mad, but if you are I understand. I got mad too, which is why I unfriended you on Facebook. I suffer from all-or-nothing thinking because I'm a technosexualist now and see everything binarily, so when my sex request returned a zero I responded in kind.
In hindsight I'm glad you turned me down. Sex isn't worth destroying our friendship over, since friendship is more erotic anyway; it's like foreplay that lasts forever. I wonder if there are friendship dominatrixes - you pay them to dominate you but instead they want to get coffee and talk about feelings and then stop returning your texts and ignore you in public until you're an empty crater of a person. If there aren't you should be one; you'd be good at it.
Sometimes I think I was meant to be a legless astronaut, the ones NASA clones to man tiny spacecraft. I might meet an alien girl with multiple arms of breasts and we'd fall in love. My lack of limbs and her surplus of them would complete each other, like fleshy tetris blocks.
Being born with parts missing, except for a reason.
So you ignored me at book club last night so I assume you don't want to be friends anymore. That's fine, since I was feeling trapped in this friendship anyway. I'm a free spirit like a unicorn or trashbear and you can put a bear in the circus but you can't make him wear stilts. I'm not sure what that last part means but I say it to all the girls who want to tame me by putting it in my Gothspace profile, which I assume is read by a lot of girls who want to tame me, either figuratively or because they're equestrian fetishists.
Anyway, I hope we can still be acquaintances.
This is my last message.
Last night while listening to the radio on the way to work I heard "Eighteen" by Alice Cooper and remembered how I had once been that age and happy, briefly, when I took ecstasy at an Alice Cooper concert until I was arrested by Cooper's evocative lyrics and then, because I let my guard down, a police officer whose pat-down is the only time another hand has touched my genitals, which reminded me of how lonely I am so I decided to commit suicide.
I went into McDonald's and stuck the grease hose up my nose to siphon out my brains, but the hose sucked that night (or actually it didn't suck - HA!) so I only got a nosebleed. I decided to kill myself after work, but midway through my shift something funny happened: I thought of you, how I'd never hold you, never kiss you, never caress that part of your neck above your tattoo-removal scar. It was awful, and by awful I mean great, because it gave me something to look forward to: once I was dead, I'd never have to think of you again! I was so happy, my heart almost blew up.
Ironically, that happiness saved me. I decided any world where you can be so happy, even once, isn't worth leaving. I won't write you again. I owe you that much. You saved my life.
PS: Don't be alarmed by the mental-ward stamp on this letter. I did slash my throat last night, but only as an ad-hoc chondrolaryngoplasty. I've decided to be a transwoman now.