You’re a writer for Cosmo. Ordinarily you spout tips so absurd, unnecessary and frankly unhelpful that it’s perfectly clear to everyone who has ever read a single article you’ve authored that you’ve never been near anyone else’s genitals. What’s more apparent is that you’re an anti-social narcissist who believes that their unsolicited advice is something that people not only want, but something that people should pay for.
Were it not for the incredibly misguided people at Cosmo you would’ve long since been relegated to a mental ward in some remote mental hospital, where visitors are strictly prohibited for the safety of all patients and armed guards watch and wait for someone to try and make a break for it so they can shoot them in the skull with a high powered rifle from afar and remove one more threat from the face of the earth. But because of some family connections and a tradition of ruining sex for Americans by giving them horrible advice you have a job telling people who could be happy and satisfied just going with their instincts how to have sex in completely retarded ways.
Today your career will be ruined when a group of activists from the Stop Being Such a Fucking Retard Foundation, a fine institution with many esteemed members, are going to hire you a prostitute and finally get you laid, ending a thirty-three year hot streak. When you wake up in the morning and find your prostitute dressing themselves you’ll sigh and look at them.
“So that’s what it’s like,” you’ll say, devouring their body with your eyes.
“Yep,” your prostitute will say, dressing as quickly as they can. They’ll deposit a card on your nightstand with their phone number and a brief, scrawled message reading please shower first next time and leave without saying another word.
You’ll lie in bed staring at your ceiling, marveling at what sex really is. You’ll look at your laptop and suddenly realize that you couldn’t possibly write another word about the erotic power of ice cubes or the shit about people’s thighs you thought up in a dream a few weeks ago. You’ll sex as something to be cherished, something unique to each person and incapable of being distilled into an overarching, oversimplified single idea.
You’ll consider picking up the phone and letting your editor know you won’t be turning in this week’s article, but your phone will be all the way on the other side of the bed with the prostitute’s card. Better to lay here and enjoy the glow, you’ll think to yourself, turning on your back and watching sunlight creep up the walls from your new vantage point.
Better just to let it happen.
Congratulations Cosmo Writer!
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