Let’s clear the acrid air. I’m tired of keeping this mess buried. Time to take out the trash.
No. It’s not what I wanted when you clinched my neck in your fat fingers, squeezing just enough to make me cough. I never wanted you to shove your sloppy tongue down my throat. It didn’t turn me on. It made me sick. It destroyed my platonic feelings for you. It made me lose all respect for you. It made me believe all the horrible things people said behind your back—that you groom women/strippers and make them depend on you, that you’re a pimp, that you’re a liar. I never needed to know the real you. The power-crazed lonely, empty husk. The psychic vampire on an eternal quest for attention. An aging sack of sausage shit. An insecure balding man with the cash flow to fix it. You can’t pay to fix your broken psyche, your depraved libido, or your ineptitude for humanity. You can’t bankroll your way out of your unquenchable, desperate need for validation and desire. The truth is, no one actually desires you, just your wallet. For the record, I rescind my naive forgiveness. I’ll never forgive you for violating my safety. For taking advantage of your status. For disappointing me and being everything I convinced others you were not.
And to the Coke-bottle glasses wearing freak who shouldn’t be anywhere near Disney or Nickelodeon, who shouldn’t have anything to do with hefty Hollywood charities for children—fuck you. How’s this for thinking for myself, Mr. Motherfucker? You’re the reason I’ll never let anyone walk behind me up the stairs when I ‘m in a dress. What kind of grown man tries to take a young woman into the men’s bathroom because “we’re holding hands, so it’s okay,” implying I am a child? Oh…the same guy who paid off the mother-daughter team he fucked for years, who in turn fucked him right back with a $100k deal for a decade—but I guess that’s what happens when you’re a rockstar who sleeps with a 12-year-old and her mom. No biggie. I’ll never forget your famous words, “I’m about to adopt a six-month old Chinese baby. Aren’t I a pervert?” Yes, you’re more perverted than Woody Allen and grosser than Gary Glitter. I hope you get caught the next time you try to get your bandmate’s girlfriend to make out with you when your wife and kids are on the way to the studio. Until then, I’m sure all the hipsters across the world will continue to laud your edgy art and brilliant movie soundtracks. Meanwhile, I’ll be here waiting for your ship to burn down with the truth of your hideous actions. Because, yes, you are a pervert. The worst kind. The kind that hides in Hollywood and works with kids.
And to the weak asshole who date raped me when I was passed out at his house. Did you feel powerful when I couldn’t move my arms and legs because you knew me well enough that had you not got me that wasted—probably drugging me since I was completely immobile—I would’ve peeled your entire face off and wore it like a mask a la Ed Gein? Which was better? Fucking me when we were temporary lovers? Or raping me in my intoxicated blackout? Did you need me to be motionless to feel more dominant? What you did to me scarred me for life. You called me crying and said you were sorry a thousand times. But a sorry person doesn’t stalk someone online, go to a benefit show to intimidate the person they’re sorry for raping. A sorry person wouldn’t come around anymore. A sorry person wouldn’t make me run the other direction every time I see him; he’d leave out of courtesy without any prompting. A sorry person doesn’t deny the same accusations he already apologized for with deep regret and sorrow. Take your sorry and shove it up your dubstep ass.
For the finale, I shout out to my coworker who still has his job even though I reported him for physically assaulting me because due process means we’re gonna do this long ass process until you either go crazy, quit, or pacify yourself into forgetting all about it. Good work on cajoling me into, at first, believing maybe you were right, maybe it was my fault you grabbed your crotch in front of me inside a parked car when no one else was around. You almost had me convinced it was my fault you were turned on, which you so unabashedly told me, because, after incessant prodding I told you the magazine I write for is an adult magazine—I love you, Exotic—and that I’ll never tell you which one. Somehow me saying that meant I wanted to arouse you. You must have some serious cognitive issues to arrive at that erroneous conclusion. What was even more disturbing was when you told me I was younger than your daughter, directly after proclaiming your unwarranted arousal, in a work setting when you were training me. I didn’t report you at first because I was too scared I’d get fired. I was new and you had been there for years. I regret not saying something sooner, but I’m not so stupid as to blame myself. I reported you when your inappropriate remarks escalated to physical assault. No one was around. No one was in the entire building. You pressed hard on the back of my neck when I sat at the computer, as if trying to force me to the ground. Last time I checked, I did not work as an MMA fighter at the UFC, bro. People tell me not to be a hater, but I hate your broom-mustache face. I want to sweep it out of existence.
I’ll go ahead a give Horrible Mentions to the basement-dweller who will never admit to strangling me because I refused to kiss him. You chased after me after I threw your leather jacket on your doorstep in the freezing cold night, and told me “Is it wrong for me to be in love with you?” I wish I had said, “If you think strangling me when I won’t kiss you is your best option, then, yes, it is totally wrong, dude.” And to the several adult dudes who fucked me when I was underage, thanks for teaching me that interests aren’t enough to have intimacy, and that age is definitely more than just a number—invaluable.
I want to believe life has a way of biting you all in the ass because you’ve all been a perpetual pain in mine. Until then, I’ll just wait with a bag of popcorn, praying for you eternal demise.
With utter disgust and the most vile abhorrence,
This letter originally appeared in Exotic magazine, January 2018.