Dear Chris Jones,
It was with great interest that I read your recent Esquire piece “Ladies: You’re Not as Good as You Think.” As a lady, who also thinks, who has also slept with you*, I learned so much from your fond reminiscences of our time together.
Your description of yourself as falling somewhere on the spectrum between “not totally unpleasant, but not totally pleasant, either” and “adequate.” Don’t sell yourself short! After all, your tendency to stop every five seconds and ask how you were doing indicated to me that you cared deeply about our shared experience.
Regarding your lothario friend, I could tell you two were close when you put him on speaker mere moments after you came and he congratulated you on a “job well done.” He did, in fact, have a sexy voice, which is why when I slipped out of your apartment at 4 a.m., I went straight to his, joining the long line of women (and cats! they all brought their cats, which I thought was weird) outside his door, all clamoring to have their turn. Don’t worry, though — he is well endowed, but I wouldn’t call his stamina “almost sociopathic,” just normal.
When I first read that you could say, with confidence, that there were women who “are worse in the sack than me,” I got nervous. You couldn’t possibly be talking about… me? Was I “unenthusiastic, uncomfortable, and uncommunicative, the human equivalent of the space between the couch cushions, only without the bonus possibility of my finding loose change in there,” while simultaneously thinking that I’m a “sexual Olympian,” one of those women who act “as though they’re doing the men in their lives the greatest of favors merely by presenting themselves like a downed deer strapped to the hood of a car”?
And you should know, Chris, that after reading that, I recalled the night of passion that we shared. Do you remember how it began? We had gone to dinner, and then to a bar afterwards, where you told me to “drink up or you won’t want to fuck me” and then bought us three rounds of tequila shots, and when I hailed a cab, you suggested that I give you a blow job in the backseat “just to make sure” we were compatible. When we got to your place, I noticed how well-read you were — you had not one, but TWO copies of The Game (one was autographed) — and you said that you had read the whole thing out loud to your ex, twice.
Also, I’m sorry if I treated your semen like it was battery acid, but you came on my face without asking. Survival instincts kicked in.
* Not really.