A real letter.

The final time we had sex you lasted about a minute and a half. I can’t say that I was disappointed.

I was nowhere close to being naked. You were too hasty to remove my panties. Just hiked up my jean skirt and shoved them over to the side. I only recall the way the bristly hair on your legs felt working between the smooth, silky skin of my own.

Did you kiss me on the mouth? If so, it was unremarkable. But, You never were much for kissing. I remember that first drunken one you bestowed upon me in that parking lot last summer. Back when I was resistant, before I’d decided to try you on. Before your persistence stuck to me, like the grass clinging to our wet feet and bodies the time we had sex in your backyard. Before I squandered all of my Summer Fridays in your bed, sleeping but not embracing, like two strangers required to be bedfellows by circumstance.

Before all that.

That first night, I loved the taste of beer on your lips, your tongue.

10 months later; I loved nothing about you. Nothing outside of your latest stint with expeditious climaxing, that is.

You finishing that quickly felt like a godsend. The soft hand of a higher being patting my shoulder and gently saying “There, there, now that wasn’t so bad. Was it?”

I guess what I’m trying to say here is: You mean nothing to me. And you never will.