An Open Letter to an Asshole

Hey, do you believe in witchcraft?

It’s okay, I don’t mean the warty-nosed, pointy-hatted, hubble-bubble-toil-and-trouble type. I mean, the harnessing of natural powers and energies, and directing them where you want them to go. Well, if you do, then I think we’re going to have some fun. And, if you don’t… well, you don’t have anything to worry about, do you?

There’s three cardinal laws. First – never use the craft to obtain something you don’t deserve. Second – never use it to inflict pain or suffering upon another living being. And third – never fuck with a witch. And, if those last two sound like they might not be completely compatible, then that’s just another of life’s rich paradoxes.

I think you know me, don’t you? I’m the girl down the street, the woman on the bus, the chick you see at the diner every morning and, though you’ve never passed more than a nod or a “hi” with me in real life, we’ve done a lot more than that in your daydreams, haven’t we?

Do you remember the one where I bumped into you on the bus? It was raining, so the bus was packed, and I was pressed up against you for half a dozen stops. Gave you quite the hard-on, didn’t it. Especially when you realized that it wasn’t my purse that was rubbing your cock, it was my hand. And that wasn’t the hiss of the tires you could hear, but my attempts to muffle the orgasm that was bearing down upon me like a freight train.

Or the one where you looked out your window one morning, and caught me skinny dipping in next door’s pool? You waved and I called you over, and I was teasing you because you wouldn’t take off your pants. You asked why it was such a big deal, and I said if you remove them, I’d show you. So you did… and I did.

Go on, close your eyes. You can still feel my lips around you, can’t you? The suction as I draw you in, the flick of my tongue as it lathers your shaft, and the look in my eyes as you push yourself forward, till the tip of your prick is tapping my tonsils. And I’m holding your hips and guiding your movements…. Yeah, you like that, don’t you? And you know what? So do I.

But you don’t want to hear about your dreams, do you? You know them all already. (Oh, but that one where you fucked me up the ass and I couldn’t sit down for two days? Next time, try and make it three, yeah?) Let me tell you about one of mine. Except, I’m not sure whether it still counts as a dream, if it’s already happened. But I’ll let you decide that for yourself.

So I write these verses, I post them online, and then I sit back and wait for the readers to respond, which is probably my favorite part of the entire exercise. You hear from everybody - the shy ones who drop the odd compliment, the cute ones you wind up thinking of as friends, and the fun ones who’ll take a line from the verse (or a thought about my photo) and they’ll run with it.

Do you even know what a turn-on it is to sign into your mailbox, open a letter from a complete and utter stranger, and it’s like opening the door to a sauna, the heat and passion just leap out at you. Sucking and fucking and licking and flicking, and it’s better than porn because it’s personal. So you do your best to send some back to them, by word, by thought, by Harry Potter owl, whatever comes to hand.

But then there’s those mean-spirited little people who don’t write letters, and don’t have anything constructive to say, but they’ll send you a note that’s as low as they dare – why? To register their dislike of your verse, that’s fine. But is it just me, or does it start to look suspicious when you find a cluster of three or four in your mailbox, all sent within ten or 15 minutes of each other? It’s almost as if someone has marshaled a bunch of different screen names and set out to knock me down. In fact, it’s exactly like that, so here’s what I’ll do. I’ll weave a little charm around the verses I write, and we’ll see what happens. You write with your heart (or your dick or your pussy) – great. Nothing to worry about. But write out of spite or nastiness, and the next cock you see, whether it’s your own in the mirror, or the one in your hand, will be the same length in inches as you gave me in kindness.

Which will be great if you find yourself needing a paper-punch in a hurry. But it won’t be much use for anything else.