Dear Fairy GodFucker,
I want to begin with praise. Thanks. Gratitude.
Yes, praise you is exactly right the right term for the last two nights– for the enormous gift you gave me of absolutely amazing fucking.
However, while I’d like to begin with praise, I can’t, because I must first begin with a confession.
We were both raised Catholic and went to Catholic schools– me in the US, you in Iran (or maybe Pakistan? I was so delighted when you described yourself as Persian and Pakastani and having family in Iran and Pakistan– I feel like you are a miracle simply by nature of your ethnicity), so I feel like you will understand that my first move is acknowledge my need to ask for absolution for a sin– an act of harm.
We had sex four times in 48 hours, and two of them, frankly, I don’t remember. You already know this, and I know it made you feel things, because I saw them in your face. Sadness, maybe? I don’t presume to know, because you– well, you’re a complex man.
What you don’t know, I’m fairly sure, is that while I have tried and tried and tried . . . I don’t remember your name.
It was not my intention to be this much of an asshole.
Sitting in the dimly lit hotel bar on those extremely comfortable plush cream leather seats, I paid attention when you introduced yourself to me and your single serving friend (I feel like you love Fight Club as much as I do).
Ironically, I remember his name, the SSF, but only because you’ve mentioned it so many times. You are so charming (and not just because you are handsome)– so skilled with people.
That first night, I asked your SSF questions as we sat in a line at the bar (me, you, him, you in between) and I was genuinely interested in his answers (I am charming and skilled too), but really because it was the best way I could see to engage you (I felt a little shy at how handsome you are), to keep sussing out if you were the answer to the silent prayer I had been offering up to God all day.
Do you want to know what I prayed for?
Dear God, Dear Jesus, Dear Angels . . . I really want to have sex tonight.
I walked into my gorgeous hotel room on Thursday afternoon, looked around, and here’s what I told God: I have a huge bed in a luxury hotel in a vibrant part of a fabulous city, and I want to use it.
Not in terms of taking a hot bath and then putting on the complimentary bathrobe and tucking myself between soft sheets with a good book.
God, I said, When I re-enter this room after drinking too many glasses of complimentary champagne, I want to cross this threshold with a really sexy man.
Here’s what I wanted, specifically: for us both to be blurred with too much alcohol, and to be kissing so hard I could bruise your lips (thank goodness you have a sturdy mouth) . . . the kind of kissing where we fumble and sort of blindly remove our own clothes at the same time because
- we don’t want to stop the luscious heady decadence of this, our extremely-extended first kiss we began at the bar (much to the delight of your co-workers and the bar staff and the SSF) and . . .
- to take this moment slow would be a mistake– and taking off someone else’s clothes is a slower seduction.
I want to wake up to clothes thrown/strewn all over this hotel room, I told God.
So let’s get back to praise: when you sat down next to me at the bar while I was swiping through Tinder, you were, very literally, the answer to my prayers.
As you know, I have a very important job, and I’m here at a conference and there is learning to engage in. So I have to stop writing for now.
More praise soon, my Fairy GodFucker.