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Subject: Performance Quality.
Dear Thoreau,
I’m sure that right now you’re in the middle of f**king yet another conquest, and are seconds away from giving her your infamous “One dinner. One night. No repeats.” line, but I was just thinking about something and HAD to email you…
If you enjoy sex as much as you claim you do, why do you only insist on one night? Why not a strictly friends with benefits relationship so you won’t have so many dry spells? (I mean, this is day thirty of “Operation: Still No Pussy” for you, correct?)
I’m actually starting to wonder if the only reason you give one night is because you already know that your performance won’t be good enough to warrant another...
Having a subpar dick isn’t the end of the world.
—Alyssa.
I shook my head and typed a response.
Subject: Re: Performance Quality.
Dear Alyssa,
Unfortunately, I am not in the middle of f**king another conquest. Instead I’m busy typing a response to your latest ridiculous email.
This is indeed day thirty of your appropriately named, “Operation: Still No Pussy,” but since I’ve f**ked you over the phone and made you cum, it hasn’t been a complete failure…
I do in fact enjoy sex—my c**k has an insatiable appetite for it, but I’ve told you countless times that I don’t do relationships. Ever.
I refuse to even address your last paragraph, as I’ve never received a single complaint about my “performance” and my c**k is far from being subpar.
You are quite correct in your closing statement though: Having a subpar dick really isn’t the end of the world.
Having an un-fucked pu**y is.
—Thoreau.
My phone rang immediately.
“Seriously?” Alyssa blurted out when I answered. “Does your message really say what I think it says?”
“Have you suddenly forgotten how to read?”
“You are ridiculous!” She laughed. “What happened to your date tonight?”
“It was another f**king liar…”
“Aww. Poor Thoreau. I was really hoping the thirtieth day would be the charm.”
I rolled my eyes and made another drink. “Is living vicariously through my sex life your newfound hobby?”
“Of course not.” Her light laughter drifted over the line, and I could hear the sound of papers shuffling in the background. “I’ve been meaning to ask you: Where are you from?”
“What do you mean, where am I from?”
“Exactly what I asked,” she said. “You can’t be from the South. There’s no drawl or even a hint of an accent in your voice.”
I hesitated. “I’m from New York City.”
“New York?” Her voice rose an octave. “Why would you ever leave there to come to Durham?”
“It’s personal.”
