To the young man who wants to read my novel and then fuck me:
Put the book down. I can think of at least four reasons why you should skip the pre-sex reading, and I feel rather passionately about them.
I enjoyed our sniff-and-grope the other night. It was thrilling and unexpected, and I wonder what surprises our next encounter will bring. You should know, though, that reading can be the death of everything good, that it can kill a perfectly planned orgasm in a matter of seconds.
I’ve spent years fictionalizing my life and living my fiction, blurring the lines to be postmodern and to make a point. I thought it was healthy for people to believe that fiction and reality could not be separated without tearing the fabric of the universe. Look who’s sorry now. Let me explain.
For starters, based on page 128 of my novel, you might think that sex with me will be good.
Sure. It will be good if you like conversation more than physical contact, if you like being trapped in endless dialogue about your body and its development, about the glory of armpits and the evils of antiperspirant. I’m a talker, but you should know something about how I construct dialogue. It takes me ten edits to produce something coherent. I’ll probably end up drowning you in irritating non sequiturs that will make you wish your eardrums would burst.
You might have false expectations about my cock.
The size may be no exaggeration, but do you know how much work it takes to keep a softie hard? My dick is the kind that requires constant manipulation to stay erect, so if you don’t have arthritis yet, you will after a few hours with me (maybe you got a taste of this the other night). And if you think that giving me a verbal book review in the sack is going to help things out, you’d better run out and get some tiger balm and a wrist sling right away.
You might think that I’ll spend the entire night with you.
Let’s get real. Keep in mind that at home, my hot musician boyfriend, the one writing songs on a vintage organ and pumping the foot pedals with legs sexier than Tina Turner’s, will be waiting to hear the details. There will also be a warm ball of kitty fur purring on the sofa, and a freezer full of mint chocolate frozen yogurt. Shall I go on?
And lastly, according to insidious innuendo in the author bio, you might believe that you’re having sex with Daniel Allen Cox.
Technically, that would be incorrect. I’m not exactly who I say I am. After heated discussion between my mom and aunt a few months ago about the details surrounding the night of my birth — the blinding snowstorm, the closed highways, how we rode to the hospital in the back of a paddy wagon — I found out that my name is actually Daniel Allan Cox. Apparently, it’s even on my birth certificate; I just never bothered to look. I could be anybody, as far as you know.
I can think of only one advantage to reading my novel before we have sex: According to suggestions planted on pages 9, 11, 17, 40, 56, 68, 72, 90, 111, and 112, you might think that I get naked for money.
Not anymore, but if you decide to give me the cash anyways, I’ll gladly donate it to Stella, a Montreal-based sex worker community group, and then we will both have done a good thing.
I realize that it might be too late. Maybe we’ve already hooked up, and you’ve already been hit by crushing disappointment. If, however, this letter has caught you in time, then stand forewarned.
And fucking call me already.
Daniel Allan Cox