|DEAR MR. X: OUR LADIES RIP THEIR EXES A NEW ONE ... OR SEVEN.|
|By Darci Ratliff, Erin Schulte, Jahnavi Goldstein, Nichelle Newsletter, Deidre Woolard, Jen Hubley, Kelly Mills, and Michelle Goodman||
Break-ups are the worst. You date a lady for an extended period of time, fall in love, fall out of love, then decide to go your separate ways (amicably, of course) and this is what you get: Unfiltered vitriol from a pack of deranged women ripping on your dick size on a website for all the world to see.
However, we at The Black Table encourage such misplaced anger and heartache. In fact, we live for it. Given this is chocolate heart season, we decided it was the right time for our gals to sharpen their knives and give some of their ex-beaus the verbal kick-in-the nuts.
Gentlemen, you have been warned.
Dear Boring Lay:
You know, if you wanted to break up, you should have just said something. If you think acting-like-a-dick-until-I-get-the-hint-and-leave is going to work, then there's a lot you don't know about me. I could teach a class on getting dicked over, and am not impressed with your feeble attempts.
But fine -- you win. You don't have the balls to do it, so allow me to break up with myself for you. I only wish you'd stop pretending to be asleep so I could let you off the hook verbally. But it's cool -- forcing me to write you this note is a perfectly acceptable alternative and in no way makes me feel like a retarded seventh-grader. Besides, what good is insult without a little injury?
Darci Ratliff is the editor of Kittenpants.org, and is really starting to get the hang of this relationship stuff. Her last boyfriend stole her car.
Dear Loved to Have Sex with Dudes,
Momma taught me there's only a two-week window for thank you notes, so I'm a bit late here but it'll have to do. See, after I found out you, the person I considered my soulmate, were actually a big flaming gay boy, I laid in bed for five days crying and didn't eat anything. I was a bit too weak to lift a pen. But you should have seen my fabulous cheekbones!
When you moved to New York to be with me, I thought you were following your heart's desire. Turns out, you were chasing your penis like a big, quivering divining rod straight to your new apartment near Christopher Street.
Thanks for that very special Valentine's Day where you-without a shred of irony -- took me to some cheesy-ass revolving restaurant in Times Square (aren't gays supposed to have good taste?) and later, during a raging blizzard, told me you needed to "be alone," forcing me to walk home by myself, freezing in my flimsy skirt.
How could I forget the time I dropped into your local coffee shop so we could catch up? I found you there, trading lustful glances and phone numbers with some guy named Trevor who looked like the Chiquita Banana lady.
Finally, thanks especially for messing around with our mutual (male) friend right before we got together. I found it heartwarming that he thought I'd find that information relevant only after you and I had been broken up for years.
Yep, I loved hearing about that about as much as I love savoring the bile from a meal I barfed up five years ago.
Hope you're having fun in the Hamptons. Send me more pictures of you palling around with Kelsey Grammer, I heart those.
Erin Schulte is freelance writer looking for a guy who hates Frasier Crane.
I struggle to write this, I just can't find the words. Even my handy swearword dictionary is not helping. There are just no words. How does one describe an impotent, drug addict utter loser? Oh wait - your name! So my dearest fuck up, in my world of losers, bad boys and pathetic excuses for men whom I have loved - you take the cake. You have truly aspired for and reached the upper echelon of assholeisnish. Maybe you should change your name to King of All Brown Starfish.
I just wanted to tell you that I am doing well. I'm only in therapy two days a week now and thanks to you I have an arsenal of fun prescriptions. I've almost made back all that money you owe me and my new path in life as a born-again virgin is actually less boring than expected. After your wanna-be porn star antics in the bedroom I just can't think of you, let alone sex, without laughing.
It was a real treat running into you and that Troll-like creature you call your new girlfriend. Who would have thought I'd get my own personal Jerry Springer moment with that Thing trying to fight me in the middle of the bar? Wherever did you find her, the dumpster or an "angry fat girls are easy" group meeting?
One last thing before you go rot in hell without me even telling you to. You know my pet name for you, how you always use to be my "Ichi" -- my number one in Japanese. Well, I did a little research and now you know what you are, not my "Ichi", no -- you are now "Rei." Because you are too stupid and lazy to figure out what that means -- it's ZERO in Japanese. Zero, zip, nada, nothing to me, to no one, except maybe to Troll-girl, 'cause Trolls like shit after all, and that's all you are.
Crap you later,
Jahnavi lives in La La Land and likes to eat fruit. On the weekends she goes hunting for brown starfish.
Dear White Anglo Saxon Pussy,
You have no style and you still dress like a college student or a BlockBuster employee, wearing Dockers with pleats and golf shirts. WTF?! You are 45 years old. Dress like a man with a little personal style. You are so weird. You don't eat fruits like pears or coconuts because of their "texture". You keep drinking glasses in your freezer so that you are guaranteed a cold drink. Have you ever heard of ice cubes?? You made me doubt my intelligence because I didn't read the New Yorker or Philip Roth, but who cares? You have an Ivy-League degree that you mention casually in conversation like tossing a football in the air, yet you pay way TOO much for a tiny and shitty apartment in the Village. You are jealous of Jeff Bezos; because in your twisted mind you should be just as successful as him because you both went to Princeton. You have no libido! One dance of the horizontal mambo every night is plenty for you and then you're fast asleep snoring like a buzzsaw. You would rather read the New York Times on a Sunday morning than get a little breakfast nookie. Last spring, you broke up with me only a month after asking me to get back together because you "couldn't handle a relationship". You insensitive jerk! The day after my birthday, you tell me that you just proposed to some random chick you met a wedding after only knowing her for three weeks. You even asked me if I wanted to have dinner with you to celebrate your crazy engagement. Hell Fuck No! If I wanted to celebrate anything, it would be that I never have to see your tiny wiener EVER again.
Nichelle Newsletter blogs like a little angel here, when she's not emasculating 45-year-old men.
Dear Eczema King:
Isn't it amazing how your flaking skin did not dissuade me from dating you? Those red patches of lizard skin were something I was willing to overlook because you were smart and allegedly so in love with me. Did it matter that you stank like goat piss? Nope, I could give up my life of strong drinks with strong men for a life of discount wine and a man with the social skills of a freshly-gelded llama. Perhaps I assumed somehow that because you were not the most attractive man in the world you would compensate by being reliable or perhaps at the very least not be a scum-sucking leech. Silly me. I'm so glad I took the time to introduce you to my family and see the looks of barely-concealed disgust on their faces. Not only were you ugly enough to make all my friends wonder "what the fuck?" you also somehow managed to convince me that I had to work hard to keep you, catch that you were. There I was doing your laundry and thinking how devoted you were to your work when you were probably playing yet another computer game on that white box that was the only friend you ever really had. I wish I could get back those months of sucking on your small, flake-ridden cock. I really appreciated how you managed to break my heart leaving me both completely bereft and poorer. Suddenly the phrase skinflint has a whole new meaning. Thanks for giving me a permanent distrust of men (and skin afflictions).
Deidre Woollard is a freelance writer that only dates men who use lotion and never scratch themselves.
Dear Oddly Pear-Shaped Man with the Teeny Little Dick,
It's been more than 10 years since you picked me up at the airport, your expression sheepish and your face smelling like another woman's pussy, and what a decade it's been. I hear you're married now, and have a couple kids. I remain single -- but don't blame yourself for that. I was immediately consoled by destroying much of your personal property directly after our breakup, and then later, by having years and years of therapy.
But I joke! Things are actually going pretty well for me these days. There's just one thing I still hold against you, due to a vestigial expression of maidenly modesty: The fact that you told all our mutual friends, without prompting, how much physical pain your penis caused me, on the occasion of my deflowering.
Now, I understand the psychological issue behind this sad and empty boasting. I know that you guys have a tough row to hoe in terms of the dick thing. There's really no equivalent for women: You can be completely flat-chested or have a cooch like a two-car garage, and regardless of what men might think about you privately, they'll most likely sleep with you anyway. But implying that I needed an episiotomy just to have sex with you is not only disturbing -- honestly, what does it say about a person that he thinks hurting his girlfriend makes him more sexually impressive? -- it was a lie. Lying is stupid, as any schoolchild will tell you, because sooner or later, you're bound to get caught. In your case, I'm pleased to report, it happened sooner.
Shortly after you and I broke up, one of our mutual friends had the misfortune to fool around with you. And shortly after that, she pulled me aside at a gathering to ask me a small, ha ha, question. She was confused, you see, by the rumors she'd heard about your penis. She had heard that it was rather large. So large, in fact, that it had caused me physical pain, etc. Now that she had seen the penis herself, she was wondering: How could this possibly be true?
Anyway, as I've said, I know that you are married now, and by all accounts
very happy. And because I am a grownup person, and very well-sorted out,
I wish you joy. Just one parting thought, before I go:
When Jen Hubley isn't scribbling away at her little stake of land on the web she runs a support group for pear-shaped men everywhere.
Kelly M. Mills
Dear Couldn't Find a Clitoris with a Compass,
Artist-boy, you were the lowest point in my dating career.
Remember when you broke up with me right before my birthday? And then, three days later, came into the coffee shop I worked at with a giant hickey on your neck? And still expected to get a free latte? It was the perfect ending to the perfect relationship.
Have you found a job yet? Oh, right, you can't get a job, because you need plenty of time to work on your "art." Of course, that translates to living off your parents' money, and spending eight hours a day on your nasty sofa watching Aeon Flux on VHS and beating off into a crusty sweat sock.
By the way, is the sweat sock going to be your new art piece? I'm assuming all that sitting around was the reason you grew that thick layer of hair on your ass. It looks especially freakish on such a hairless guy, like you have a piece of shag carpet stapled to your butt. Boy, a few hours on that couch and your ass smelled like a wet dog.
Oh, and speaking of wasting time on your sofa, I wanted to let you know that although your cock is average-sized, it felt like nothing. Weird, huh? You have a ghost dick. Every orgasm I had was in spite of you, not because of you, even after I drew all those diagrams and bought you that book. I've gotten more satisfaction from sitting on a tack.
When you get drunk, do you still cry about your miserable childhood and how your mother never showed you any affection? In your case, I think your mother didn't love you because you are, in fact, inherently unloveable. I know I got tired of hearing you wail, "Mommy..."
So, thanks for the memories. You'll always be the guy I think about when I feel nauseous and depressed.
Kelly Mills lives in Berkely, does that whole freelance thing, and gets easily spooked by ghost dicks.
Dear Skid Marks,
It's not that the e-mail incident proved how stupid and thoughtless you are. I mean, so what if the joke you forwarded me on my 30th birthday included at the bottom a note you'd neglected to snip from one of your (equally emotionally stunted) pals. And so what if said note from said brain-damaged cohort referred to me as "the big titty Jew girl" and gave you a cybernetic high-five for nailing that vapid blonde sorority girl you worked with-until then unbeknownst to me.
I'm not here to chastise you for that. Nor do I want to berate you for asking in all seriousness if I'd give you my sister's number after we broke up.
Instead, I want to kick where it hurts.
I want you to know it was nowhere near a turn-on that your anus frequently exhibited tufts of toilet paper poking from its pink, puckery entranceway when I'd go down on you. Ditto for your penchant for wearing my black stockings when we got it on. And your puny, pinky-sized pecker bound in black ribbon in a feeble attempt to make yourself more-well-present while inside me? Not in the least bit hot. In fact, I never really could tell whether you were "in." Neh-ver.
The nipple clamps, butt beads, silk scarves, handcuffs, shaved genitalia, and royal-blue paint-on latex didn't do much for me either. Same goes for fucking you in the ass with that ridiculously huge strap-on you bought, especially when you wouldn't stop moaning, "I feel so fu-huh-huh-hullll" as your perky little anus sent flecks of shit flying onto my thighs. (Although you did score a 10 for comedic effort that night.)
Alas, no matter how many props you brought home, you were still a shitty kisser, a royal prick, and a lousy lay.
I never knew geeky little turds who lost their virginity at like age 29 could be so, so, so adolescent. You'd think they'd be grateful that someone, anyone, would want to fuck them and maybe even spoon them afterward, despite the tufts of TP poking from their stretched-out asshole. But as they say, hindsight is a beautiful thing.
Big Titty Jew Girl
Michelle Goodman is a freelance writer who is still, to this day, picking off flecks of shit from her thighs.
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