Dear Dickhead

Dear Dickhead,

I wanted to write you this letter of thanks for the most memorable; if not the most unique blind date experience I have had in my entire socially depressed life.

The wonderment of it all began the moment you drove up in your rent-a-wreck car??? {I'm sorry, but I'm not familiar with recognizing the models the car manufacturers deemed "losers" and discontinued after their first year's assembly line run}. Pulling up to the curb with the exhaust spewing enough pollution into the air to kill off all plant life in the neighborhood didn't help me recognize what you were driving, either. I couldn't see clearly through the fallout, but I DID manage to find it as I followed the sound of the horn you incessantly were leaning on. I thank you, as do all the neighbors within a three block radius, for the air raid alert. FIRST IMPRESSIONS LAST –yours certainly will be branded into my memory banks well beyond my retirement years.

I truly believe our date started off "with a bang" {or was that the tailpipe problem again?} as you tromped on the accelerator and peeled away leaving half the rubber of the tires embedded in the street for miles. That was very clever of you actually. In that way, if I was to get drunk {as were your intentions from the start}, and I couldn't direct us back to my house after our night on the town, you would be able to retrace your steps – like Hansel and Gretel dropping the trail of breadcrumbs in the forest- and safely and politely dump me at my front door. ALWAYS THINK AHEAD – that's my motto!

As you drove warp speed through the rush hour traffic – weaving – no, more like crocheting – in, out, around, and almost through eighteen wheelers, I must confess to you I was not paying attention to your futile efforts at conversation. I wasn't hanging onto your every word, but onto the dashboard for precious life, since not only were you obviously trying out for your stealth pilot license in your let's play make believe world, but having the top down on the car??? with the wind roaring through my hair at cyclonic speeds and the radio cranked at upper atmospheric decibels, made it just a tad bit difficult to hear you. I apologize for my ineptness to do several things at once - keeping a vise-like grip onto the dash, gulping air down into my lungs for survival, and savoring the Rhode's scholar level of oral exchange I am positive you attempted with me. For these brash acts of selfishness in my will to live, I am truly sorry.

I have to admit, though, it was very thoughtful of you to have gone to all the trouble getting advance-seating movie tickets for what I know was a well thought out choice for our mutual visual enjoyment: "Mean People Suck - Nice People Swallow". I can't begin to tell you how much I learned from that triple X flick! The film was produced as an educational tool, I gather, judging from all the men in the theater mimicking what the porno hunks were doing on the screen. I still had some audio difficulties, though, since I missed some of the dialogue through the moans and groans of the male patrons. I take the confident liberty to say "male", as I remember distinctly I was the only woman in the entire theater – imagine that! And, once again, I have YOU to thank for making me feel like one in a million – well, at least one in 15 or so.

Your obvious enthusiasm for the back alley epic left a lasting impression on me, too. I stole a glance to my left and saw you diligent in the pursuit of happiness in your own perverse way. Nice going – or should I say, nice CUMming!!! If I were grading your cumshots {and actually, I was} and "10" was the highest score, I would give you a "9" – taking off one point for poor aim {you really should have cleaned up the back of the seat in front of you before we left}. Remember to FOCUS ON THE TASK AT HAND – or, should I say, IN hand, next time to earn a perfect score. Anyway, congrats on a {hand} job well done!!!

Our dream date continued as we climbed back into your car??? and headed off to dinner – a grimy, greasy spoon that hadn't seen a mop, dust rag, or window cleaner in as many years as was the owner of the dive- a crusty, musty old codger that was, naturally, the cook and bottle washer – no, nix the bottle washer title; we've already established there was nothing washed in the dump. To be honest, I had pictured in my mind a quiet, romantic dinner by candlelight; some wine, maybe a little dancing to live entertainment. As it were, we conceded to a naked light bulb hanging dangerously close to the top of our heads, beer that was so flat it rivaled the terrain of The Great Plains, and music? Well...the music MAY have been alright; if not for the static emitting from the plastic radio that sat precariously on a shelf above a single door marked, "The Shitter" – let's not even go there.

As I choked down something that vaguely resembled – uh, uhmm, well, let's call it "Mystery Misery" – my intestines will vouch for the nickname – I felt something crawling up my skirt. For a second, I thought it may be a thousand legged pet the owner kept to guard the place from unwanted guests - like the health inspector, for instance. Then I realized it was your hand – the hand you hadn't washed since its rendezvous with your cock - groping up the inside of my thigh; hangnails snagging my pantyhose every inch of the way.

My reaction to your suave and sophisticated moves was to leap out of my crumb-laden seat and bolt for the door marked – well, let's not even go there.

Once I recovered from my vomiting session, { and the shocking horror of what lay behind door " number one"}, I staggered back to our table, threw some money down on it to pay for the privilege of the food poisoning assault, and hurried out the rusty, fly inhabited screen door - out to your car??? where I didn't bother to take the time to open its door. I simply dove over it; bouncing my face off the back seat that was filled with dirty clothes {heading to the laundromat were we?}- cigarette butts, hard core porn magazines, and... condoms...condoms that were – thank the good Lord and all the Saints above! - unused.

You were right on my heels {or up my skirt} by that time, coming to the rescue of your damsel in distress – with a rumpled, soiled tissue that you pulled out of your pocket to wipe away the soot of the charcoal filters of your tobacco-strewn car???- grunge that now highlighted my face. As I slowly recuperated from the back seat trauma, I settled down once more in the passenger seat of the car??? – attempting to regain my composure- and my sanity – before offering you my first-born child in exchange for taking me immediately – if not sooner than that – HOME – and cremating my number with your overused lighter on the way back there as well.

You started the car??? engine up; the sludge-like substance again shot out of the tailpipe, and you put the pedal to the metal – leaving the remainder of the rubber of the tires in the culinary nightmare's dirt parking lot.

Nothing short of a total colostomy – without anesthesia – could make me feel worse than I felt at that very moment – I was dead-on sure of that. NOTHING.

I was dead-on wrong. TOTALLY.

It was at that moment you put your arm tenderly around me; gently leaning me toward you so that my wracked and tortured body rested up against your side, and as you so carefully leaned into me, I heard you softly say,

"How about a blow job?"

That was it!!! I had, in just one evening, been in a life threatening heap of a car??? , been embarrassed and humiliated to the hilt as the sole female at a self cock stroking commune at a porno flick, been exposed to dysentery, pinworms {judging from the toilet seat in the let's- not- go- there- room}, heartburn, wind burn, sunburn, and last, but certainly not least – subjected to this degrading, perverted, debased, sick twist request!!! One thing's for sure, dude – you have some balls! – HUGE ones at that!

Rather than going for the jugular and pleading temporary insanity, I surprised both you AND me – remember? - by turning to you and calmly saying what had always been so logical to me:

"Why do people call it a blow job? I have yet to "blow" on, in, over, under, or around anything in the southern regions of a man's body, and if I ever considered it a "job", I would resign my position – NOT give two week's notice, and let the requesting party find himself a person that truly enjoyed "giving head". I always found that term to be user friendly – because I always gave of my own free will, and I gave that erotic pleasure to his "lower" head – allowing his "upper" head to enjoy it, too. Soooo, in reply to your filthy, obscene, disgusting question, the answer is NO. NOPE. NEVER. NADA. UH UH. NOT A CHANCE."

After listening to my polite decline of your gracious invitation to explore your genitals with my tongue, I was surprised you didn't leave me off at the curb. But you actually walked me to my front door; waiting there long enough for me to rifle through my purse to find my key. I appreciate the fact you did that,{actually shocked} and that you made no attempt to do more than just kiss me on my cheek, and tell me you had a wonderful time, and even mention you would be honored to have the pleasure of my company on another evening.

I close this "thank you for all you've done" letter now, trusting I have made myself perfectly clear in that I do not give "blow jobs", and certainly not on the first date – or the second. But... if you can promise me we can go to a movie I select, and dinner at MY favorite little hangout, I will be honored to have the pleasure of YOUR company on another evening. I think.

Never Forever Yours,

Me

PS. Give me a call – you still have my number. Oh, and I'll pick you up in MY car.