The Cat Is Out Of The Bag

Dear Cat Woman,

It had been almost 2 months since our last encounter. The night I never expected turned into a footjob and me walking away with my pants down my ankles. J-Wunder and The CREW to this very day, will not let me live that night down. But I'm not going to lie, I was digging it. So much that I will confess, I was tugging my goods here and there while listening to Lionel Richie on those nights I was lonely.

I parted ways with you for a reason. You took things to a whole new level. Not a kinky one. Just one that gives me nightmares but at the same time, turns me on. I needed to seek help. So I went to my mom's therapist. What a goddamn waste. What I thought was patient to doctor confidentiality turned into my mom finding out and telling the whole fucking neighborhood what I had done with you. Do you know what it feels like having a bunch of members from the Red Hat Society questioning you about blow jobs from a woman who smells like cat shit, potpourri and mayo? I'll tell you...it's ridiculous, fucking awful and a reason for a woman who is 70 years old to hit on you while informing you that they can still get wet. That's right, a geriatric made a pass at me and wants to bone down. For that, I have no reason to live. Please, kill me now.

Depressed and confused, I was almost at the point that I was going to contact you again. But I didn't. You know what I did? I contacted my ex. My fine, fine, very fine ex-girlfriend who was planning to be in town Valentine’s Day when we spoke. We made plans for a date and I was on my way to heal all my wounds in one magical night.

Valentine’s Day arrives and the ex and I headed to a cool little restaurant that never gets too crowded. We ordered some wine, had a few good laughs, flirted a little and was well on our way to riding the PTE back at my pad. Then it happened...

You showed up. With one of your girlfriends. One who was not only bigger than you, but much uglier. If looks could kill, every mother fucker in that goddamn restaurant would have been dead. Slaughtered to death. That's straight up, truth.

I had to scratch my head for a moment and contemplate if you were following me because 1) This was some tiny, romantic bistro on the outskirts of town, perfect for setting the stage for pounding ass later and 2) HOW THE FUCK DID YOU FIND ME???

I was scared shitless, and my brain was still reeling at the sight of you, so I didn't make eye contact. But, you did what I thought you wouldn't do. You approached my table and started talking all loud like we were best buds. It went downhill from there...

Ex: "Who's that?"

Me: "Just some Special Ed student I tutored for a few months."

Ex: "Special Ed?"

Me: "Yes, woman. As in 'has fucking needs and shit.'"

Ex: "She didn't seem like a Special Ed student to me."

Me: "You're fucking crazy."

Ex: "Why so defensive? Wait...noooooo...did you? Please for the love of God, tell me you didn't?"

Me: "Didn't what? Tutor her?"

Ex: "Oh my God. You fucked her. You had sex with that girl, didn't you?"

It was at that point that I realized the way I was acting and turning beet red in the face that I was caught because of my own wrong doing. To this day, I have never had a drink thrown in my face, and I swear if my ex wasn’t such a booze-hag she would have dumped that shit on my head and cackled out of the restaurant. Instead, she chugged that shit like the boss bitch she is and told me to go fuck myself and stormed off.

She came back a second later and I thought she was going to forgive me and we were going to have a glorious, hate-filled fuckfest, but instead she said, "Better yet, go fuck that fat she-bitch you are so obviously into." And then she left, for good this time.

As this was a tiny little restaurant, everyone was able to see what had just gone down. Including you. Especially you. You looked at me with such lust in your eyes, I thought you were going to walk over barefoot and start foot-jobbing me right at the goddamn table. I swear to god you mouthed the words "meow" to me, before you walked over to me and whispered in my ear with breath that smelled like Fancy Feast and Dr. Pepper, "Ready to make my kitty purrrrrrrrrrr?"

You grabbed my hand and led me out of the restaurant and before we left you looked at your friend and said, "Handle my business, so I can go handle THIS business." I cannot lie, you acting like a kitty thug got me turned on. And you were wearing open-toe shoes, so I could see your feet in all their hideous, pterodactyl clawed, glory. To my own disgust, when I looked at your feet, I got a baby chub.

We got into your car and were off to your house. You told me that you would bring me back to my car when you were done with me. I shivered in terror at what you had just said, just as I heard the click of the automatic door locks. You obviously saw the terror and dread in my face because you said, "Don’t bother, the locks and windows have child safety locks and I have them turned on." Then you licked your lips and I watched in horror as your tongue ran across your chapped lips and faint moustache. Two words: Nair. Please.

We got to your house and you let me get in the door before circling back behind me and locking what must have been 9 different locks. Trapped and scared, I just tried to go to a place where I would hopefully not remember what was about to happen. I was not even tipsy, so I knew I was going to have to rely on my own sheer force of will to block out everything that was going on around me.

The sight of your cats, everywhere, licking themselves like you were about to lick me. The smell of musty cat litter, sadness and broken promises that permeated the house, the sight of you, so fat and disgusting, with so many rolls you're like the illegitimate love child of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man and the Pillsbury Doughboy. I was trying not to soak all this in, but it was getting to me. Then it happened.

You walked out of your bedroom (when had you gone in there, I didn’t even hear the sound of your cankles crushing the newspaper strewn all over the floor) in a sheer babydoll nightie and a thong. That poor, poor thong. I could hear the elastic screaming, shrieking and trying not to snap like a #2 pencil on SAT test day. You took me by the hand and led me through the cats, newspaper, and what I thought was a cat carcass to your bedroom. It had to have been the worst 20-30 feet I've ever walked in my life. You sat me down on the bed and then jumped on top of me, almost crushing the boner that I shockingly still had.

You ripped my clothes off with such abandon, with the strength and agility of a much tinier person. I didn’t think those sausage fingers would be able to navigate the buttons of my shirt or the zipper on my pants so quickly, but within seconds I was in nothing but my socks and you were on me, grinding and riding me like a desperate cat in heat. I don’t know how, but at some point in time you even managed to slip a rubber on me because as you put it, "I am not ready for my own litter of kittens." It was like you were teaching the art of sex as I was Daniel-San and you were Mr. Meow-gi.

From there, I think I did black out, but not from pain, but ecstacy. If I thought you had the best mouth ever, well I was wrong. It was like my schlong was wrapped in the softest of blankets and being milked by the gentlest of milk-maids. I closed my eyes and imagined I was with my smoking hot ex, and not your Chewbacca ass, but then you started moaning and mewling in what could only be described as a feral kitten being drowned in a vat of hot oil. It was the most awful sound ever. I knew I had to get off, to get you off me. So that’s just what I did.

The more I tried to stay in the zone, the sound of drowning tigers and slaughter goats kept me off focus. Knowing that I had to bust one and bust one fast, I just couldn't. So I did what any other man would do in this situation...I channeled my inner J-Wunder and The RINGER. I faked my o-face, used all my fight or flight energy to throw you off my dong, then with the quickness, ripped off the condom and tried to spit in it because knowing how crazy you are, you would probably want to check how much of a load I blew. But to fool someone crazy like you is out of the question. So as all that went down within a few short seconds, the only thing I could do was...RUN. And run I did. Naked and exhausted from what felt like a 12 round sumo wrestling match, I gathered my shit and peaced the fuck out. No solid goodbye, no hug, no awkward conversation to end the night. Just me, clothes and shoes in hand, running out the door so I could finally close a chapter to a story that has not only left me questioning who I am as a man, but as a man who loves women.

I don't know why and I don't know how...but what I do know is that after having sex with you, I could possibly become a priest...or just get really wasted and jump off a very high building.

What you have accomplished is something that will go down in the books. David vs. Goliath. The tortoise vs. the hare. The Road Runner vs. Wile E. Coyote. You were the underdog that shocked the world. Not once, not twice...but five times. For that, I applaud you as well as need psychiatric help.

Please go audition for the Biggest Loser because after our sexual encounter, I know for a fact, you don't weigh 230 pounds. Maybe your heart weighs that much, not you.

The cat is out of the bag,

Anonymous