This is my version of “I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell.”
I really do hope they serve beer in hell. And I hope there's weed there. And hot girls.
All names below have been changed to enhance the reading experience and protect the confidentiality of this article’s participants. Here's some real sh*t for all my homies, a letter to all my sexual exploits in New York City.
To the pretty lesbian on my basketball team,
You must know I’m hitting on you by now since I asked you to have drinks with me last night and we’re in a gay basketball league together.
I didn’t eat any nuts today in case I got to kiss you (you may have a fatal nut allergy), but I didn’t get to kiss you. The only reason I sent you pictures of my face when I was in Florida was because I wanted you to see me in something besides basketball clothes.
I promise I can be pretty when I try.
It was adorable when you told me you were bipolar and looked at the ground when you said it. I wanted to grab your hand and kiss you or at least reach up and touch your hair but I didn’t want everyone in Central Park to know we were lesbians.
[anad]
To the girl who used to work with me,
I had fun making out with you in the bathroom when our boss took us out to dinner, but I think the fact that we did that is proof that we’re both psychopaths.
It confused me when your friends told me that you spoke so highly of me, they thought we knew each other for years. I don’t know why you annoy me so much.
Actually, I do. It’s because some days you show up to work at 11 a.m. in a dress that only stretches to the middle of your thighs and a pair of stiletto heels that are obviously more club attire than business, with eyeliner smeared down your cheek.
You texted me I’m on a walk of shame, and I’m like, duh. And you always take the swivel chair and the foldout chairs make my back hurt a lot.
I don’t care that you go to Columbia, it doesn’t make you awesome, and that lesbian you tried to set me up with was way less pretty than me, even though I did have fun making out with her.
I tried to make out with you outside our office building while you were smoking a cigarette and you said, “Uh-uh, drunk me is different than sober me.” You’ve been hitting me up a lot lately, though, so maybe you changed your mind.
,To the girl I only knew for a summer,
I don’t understand why you kissed me at Brooklyn Bowl. I’ve relived it so many times in my head it’s hard to be sure it actually happened.
Also, it was pretty audacious of you to come into my apartment at 1 o'clock in the morning and bang on the door, then get in my bed-- to assume I’d want you.
You let me get with you, even though you had your period. And then you literally waited until the last moment possible to tell me you had a boyfriend.
You messed with me most of the summer. When I asked you how you knew I was gay, you said, “You’re gay?”
I definitely love you though. You have great white teeth, and you throw off light, and you have a smile that makes me shudder. You haven’t called me back lately, so maybe you’re dating someone else.
That’d be fine-- I just wouldn’t be able to use you as an emotional crutch anymore when I need to feel like I matter.
[anad]
To the girl I still want to see naked,
You’re afflicted by daddy problems. One night we were naked in my bed and you played a video of your dad playing guitar on YouTube. If that’s not an Electra complex, I don’t know what is.
The night before we graduated you sent me a text that said, If I was going to cheat on my boyfriend with anyone, it’d be you. In the bathroom you said, “Did you get my text?” I looked at my phone and said, “What the F?” You replied, “Don’t be mad. I thought you’d think it was a good thing?”
I think I was attracted to you because I try to self-sabotage everything. All my friends hate you because you told on our sorority for hazing, went on the record saying you felt “belittled, degraded, and traumatized,” and got five girls expelled.
I did love giving you orgasms. You’re so sexy when you’re shaking.
“Everyone is worried about us,” you said, your green eyes blazing, literally on fire. Your freckles consecrated themselves by your nose. The light in the room was all concentrated in your eyes, and spreading outwards.
We were lying on top of my bed with our clothes on. When we were first texting, you were worried I was reading your messages aloud to a merciless, laughing group of my friends. I wasn’t.
You see, no one cared nearly as much about the fact that I was giving you orgasms as we wanted them to.
If you enjoyed this article, check out 7 Dead Giveaways Your Hookup Is Bullsh*tting You!