Dear Snake-in-Disguise, Mr. “I Got The Fire,” Sir Knows-a-Lot, Professor Pick-Up Artist, aka The Guy Who Raped My Mouth Last Night,
I knew what you were from the start but I ignored my gut.
“Excuse me, haven’t we met before?”
You were so handsome, but I could see you wanted to use me, and that pick-up line was staler than the bread I left sitting on the second shelf of my pantry. I made an excuse to avoid your attention and went to sit by myself on the patio of my favorite bar.
People kept looking at me like they tend to do, wondering why I was alone. But probably none of them understood that I need time to myself. I like to be around people when the mood strikes, but I don’t need to interact with anyone to have a good time. A few friendly patrons tried to catch my eye, but I wasn’t feeling like talking. The air was refreshing. I didn’t even want to smoke a cigarette. It was a beautiful night, and I wanted to savor it. Solo. I’ll never understand why people feel sorry for the ones who dine alone at restaurants. I have more pity for the couples who sit across from each other, don’t speak a word throughout the entire meal, and avoid eye contact. What’s the point of eating together if you don’t enjoy each other’s company?
Anyway, after finishing my drink, I saw you again, handsome guy, so I ducked into the restroom. I figured you’d lose interest after a few minutes and move on to your next target. It’s not that I thought you were a bad person – I just knew you were looking for pussy, and I knew you wouldn’t get it from me.
When I went back outside, you followed; then approached me. You were with a group of people and asked if I wanted to join you. I’ve never been adept at rejecting friendliness (fake or genuine); after a moment’s hesitation, I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt.
Highlights of the night before disaster struck:
– You asked me if I was transgendered….LMAO! I actually took it as a compliment but I couldn’t stop laughing, because finally! Somebody asked. I’ve thought I could pass as a man or a woman or both my whole life and that one lady thought I was a boy when I was little, so I was tickled that you had asked me that. Transgendered people are so brave and I admire their courage to show themselves as they are in a predominately unnacepting society.
– Even funnier: when you tried to guess my profession and said “real estate agent.” LAUGHING FOREVER!!!
– We were having a stimulating conversation about writing. You kept hitting on me; I redirected the topic back to writing and ignored your flirtations, possibly because you insisted on plying me with shitty wine and I was nervous enough to drink it.
– You talked about your books and then I saw the price and nearly spit out my drink. $100+ per book?!?! WTF. Not even Trump could charge that much and get away with it.
– You suggested we hang with your writer cousin who had a poorly-written author bio displayed on her profile page. I considered accepting, though not seriously. I don’t think I could have faked any interest in reading more badly-written blurbs.
– We spoke of astrological signs and you surmised that I have always been attracted to Leos. It’s true, I have – but usually not in a sexual way. Usually they’re the friends who end up burning me so badly, I have retreat into my underwater cave (with one or two exceptions).
– You kept telling me how into me your sweet friend with the freckles was, and subtly throwing shade at him for not being more aggressive. I mentioned I was married at least twice.
– Several times I tried speaking to your quiet Capricorn friend from Florida because I liked his vibe and you kept interrupting our conversation. Rude.
– Your Aries-Pisces cusp friend compared me to Marilyn Monroe and you jumped on that bandwagon as if you had come up with the idea. No, it did not change my mind about not wanting to sleep with you.
– You “read” me based on our prior conversation about intuitive abilities and expected me to be impressed with your demonstration of psychic powers. And then you made me read you. I probably did a bad job, but you told me it was, “100% accurate.” That comment alone stoked my suspicion.
– Remember how you put your hand on my leg and asked if it was okay? “You have such sexy legs,” you drawled in that appealing (fake?) British accent. Still, I didn’t want you to touch me there. I fidgeted and grimaced in obvious discomfort, so you took the hint. I grinned at you, pleased that you understood the boundaries.
Later, when you escorted me to my car, you said something witty again and I laughed. We were walking arm-in-arm because I felt safe holding onto your strong bicep. You had been so charming and chivalrous that I let my guard down and forgot about how some men take friendliness as an invitation for sex.
While I was still giggling, you took the opportunity to jam your slimy tongue inside my mouth so close to my gag reflex, I almost puked on you.
I wish I had puked on you.
When you text me again and realize your number is blocked, just remember that you’re lucky I didn’t flip open my pocketknife and slice off that protrusion you called your “muscle of wit.” Actually, I came up with that. 😉
Keep your organ to yourself, or you might find it missing the next time you try to slip it into some friendly girl’s mouth. It’s people like you who stir my almost non-existent hatred. I don’t like feeling hate, so I let it go after I acknowledge its presence. But I do keep imagining how amazing it would feel to kick you in the teeth. In the balls, too. Of course I would feel bad as soon as I did it, but the image in my mind is (almost) more satisfying than the orgasm I had without you.
The “Sensual” Lady Whose Legs Will Never Spread For You, Leo
PS – I forgive you, though I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t tell your mama about what a douche you really are (especially since you claimed to be a “chivalrous” gent). And you probably wouldn’t want me to tell the bartenders to keep an eye out for you, predator — especially since I know them all, and they know me. Blessings!
Oh, and please learn your lesson. I hope I’ve learned mine (again). Sometimes it takes repeated mistakes for it to stick.
PPS – My name is Katie Jane. Thankfully, I don’t remember yours; though it just might start with a J…
Originally penned in September 2016, the day after the violation. Ah, memories. And that face. Hard to forget. Especially since I’ve seen it more than once.