Performance Anxiety : Exotic Magazine Online : June 2002

Sweetie, honey-pie, my cute little spider monkey...I'm really glad we have this chance to talk about, in a rational manner, exactly what happened that night. I'm doing this because it's the least you deserve. I need to be responsible.
I need to make myself accountable. I need to come clean with the people I've hurt. You're worth it. We're worth it.
It's worth it. All the work I'm doing, all the fines I'm paying, and all the classes I'm attending...it's all worth it. My counselor said I need to talk about what happened. The other men in my group have given me the "green light" to talk about what
happened between us that night.

So this is it. This is my apology. This is me telling you I'm sorry. Now, since I can't remember what happened...since you were the one who TOLD me what happened...let me run it past you and see if I got it straight.

You know, people are always telling me I'm too selfish. They're always telling me I should share. No matter how painful the memory, no matter how embarrassing, no matter how it destroys any notions of my masculinity, or, indeed, my basic humanity, I should fucking share it with the world!

I've shared my warm loving, arterial-plaque-coated heart with you.

I've shared my smoky-bacon-scented body with you, nuzzling you up to my warm, hairy nips.

I've shared the stories, no matter how exaggerated or outright false, of my childhood sexual abuse at my father's hands.

I've shared everything with you that's sacred to me.

On the night in question, if your account is correct, I shared a special part of myself with you. And despite the fact that everyone's always barking at me about how I should share, share, share, apparently I shared too much that time.

You accept the fact that I've been in prison. That I sired a child out of wedlock. That I don't like black people. That I'm a compulsive masturbator, which is the reason I'm so frequently "not in the mood" around you. That I'm tormented by sexual fantasies about Jim Goad. That I often scream out, "Give it to me, Goadie!" while we're makin' whoopie.

The way I see it, I'm just a free spirit.

But you act like you're being a "big person" when you "accept" all these "bad things" about me.

So why can't you accept the fact that I once passed out drunk and pissed all over you?

"You were pleading with me not to sleep in a puddle of my own urine. Well, you know what? That's why it's called MY urine. And it was also MY bed."

Really, what's your problem?

And who's to say you didn't pee on yourself and blame it on me? As far as I remember, there were no surveillance cameras in my studio apartment! Nobody ran DNA tests on the urine in question! Who's to say one of the Trail Blazers didn't break into my apartment, pee all over us, and leave?

Are you sure it was piss? Maybe it was lemonade or a nice pipin'-hot cup of chicken broth.

You're really making me angry. I think I'M the one who deserves an apology.

To tell you the truth...for perhaps the first time...I don't remember what happened that night. I remember slamming down about five pitchers of PBR at The Matador. I remember we fought about the gas bill and your relatives. I remember you were miffed about stepping on that cat turd near my futon. I remember refusing to go down on you, which you didn't think was too cool. It's all about your pleasure, isn't it? Apparently, my feelings don't matter.

The last thing I remember was you yelling at me to wake up. You were pleading with me not to sleep in a puddle of my own urine. Well, you know what? That's why it's called MY urine. And it was also MY bed. And MY apartment. So if you don't want to be sprayed with my piss as if you were a joyful inner-city child playing under a fire hydrant in the summer heat, well, I hope the door doesn't slap you in the ass when you leave! I gave you something that no one else was willing to give you, and you have the gall to complain? Well, that's just perfect!

But there's no way the guys at group therapy are going to accept this letter unless I say I'm sorry. So even though I really don't mean it...and even though YOU'RE the one who should be saying "I'm sorry" to ME...here goes nothin'...

I'm sorry 'bout that whole peein'-on-you thing.

It was a total thinking error on my part.

I guess you're just too immature to let bygones be bygones. I guess you're just sadistic and controlling enough to demand an apology when your feelings
are hurt and your undergarments are stained
beyond repair.

I thought we were at the point in our relationship when I could use your body as a toilet and not have to face all that static and guff from you.

I was ready to make that step. I guess you weren't. We all move at different paces. So I'm really sorry that you weren't as advanced as I was. I'm sorry that you aren't in control of your emotions. I'm sorry that you're not as good a person as I am. I'm sorry that you cry at the drop of a hat. I'm sorry you can't accept me for who I am.

I'm sorry you can't accept a liquid version of me.

Come to think of it, I'm sorry I didn't shit on you, too.

This isn't about me. It's about us.

Friends?