Sure, I think you’re cute. I think you’ve got a great personality. We’ve been on several dates. I could probably see myself loving you, but… you look at me, 6′ 230 lbs. with the build of a power lifter and expect me to automatically be a top.

No, I’m not. In fact, I’m a requisite bottom. I don’t stay hard during s** because it’s not enough sensation to keep me going. I’m not even like the p*** stars who bottom and get off at the same time. It feels wonderful, it really does, but if you’re looking to watch me get off to it, it’s not going to happen.

I’ve been clear about myself and my bedroom position from when we met. You say you’re a top, but when the clothes come off, you’re on all fours begging me to go at you.

I’ve tried that in the past. It leads to shame, inadequacy, and hurt. The pill? Yeah, I can do that, and I’d be willing to. As long as you’re ok with me not getting off, because the pill doesn’t fix that. I am absolutely willing to put in the effort to make my lover happy. Want me to keep you on edge with a BJ for an hour? I’m a master of that. Find all of the spots on your body that turn you on and make you beg me to get you off? I’ll find em all right away, I know how to listen to your breathing, feel your pulse, watch your eyes… I know what I’m doing.

But eventually, perhaps 6 years down the road like my ex-fiance, you’ll find me boring in bed. You’ll feel like me not getting off is your fault. You’ll tell me “I have to hate myself to have s** with you.” And then you’ll lose all interest in me while having s** with guys who are much more satisfying in bed than I.

And I’ll once again be alone, having failed to live up to your expectations.

And mine.