P.S. You Can Keep the Vibrator. . . and the Pillow. . . and the Bed. Oh, Hell, Take the Whole Damn Apartment. I'm Moving Out

Dear Roommate,

I know you were expecting me to be gone for the day. I know that I don’t usually come back to the house 15 minutes after I’ve left, but I forgot the document I was proofing last night and although I do have an ecopy of it, I needed the notes I made on that copy while we watched a movie together last night. So, I had to come back home to get it.

It was in our living room that I noticed a familiar sound coming from my side of the house and figured I might have bumped it while getting something out of my drawer this morning and it turned itself on. I was not very prepared for what had really happened. . . .

When I got to my bedroom door and you were there, face buried in my pillow, on your knees, nude with my vibrator penetrating your anus and your hand feverishly rubbing your clit, I have to admit, the sight took my breath away . . .

I think it was the David Hasselhoff-on-the-Berlin Wall photograph beside the pillow, which you obviously used to warm up, that did it. No, no, on second thought, it was the totality of scene. My bad.

Anyway, I could see you were too busy to talk and I was already late for work, so I just gouged my eyes out and felt my way to the Metro.

I'm not upset. That's not what I wanted to talk about.

All I wanted to say is, "That 'mole,' near the top of your thigh, just beneath your left butt cheek -- yeah, that one -- you should have someone besides me look at that, because (and I'm no specialist) I don't think it should be that color or shape.

Whew! Glad I got that off my chest.


Kisses,

- Your Roomie