Dear V,
I drove to the woods to watch the sunset from deep inside them. Last night, you wrote a letter on a ripped paper towel and taped it to the refrigerator. “I am so tired of having sex with you! I wish you were more sadistic. I need someone to hurt me! We repeat the same four or five positions every night! I’ve told you I want BDSM stuff, but what do you fucking do about it? Are you some kind of idiot?” All those exclamation points after one half-hearted blowjob. I once watched you stab yourself while arguing over laundry. A safety pin stuck out of your thigh like no big deal. Your eyes became redder. Five seconds later, you screamed, ripping the pin out quick. Blood stained our bed sheets. In the woods, those memories drowned under the sound of a far-off river rushing with rain. Squirrels startled me, squirming loud upon dead leaves. I walked between the trees to build up a sweat. Then, I reread your text apology. “I love you so dearly and I love having sex with you. There are times I wish it felt more sadistic or that we had sex in more positions (I know height plays into it). But that’s it. With no anger in it that’s the only real issue. I don’t think you’re some limpdick hippie queer or ugly.” The apology was nice, I thought. As I walked, I googled “unique sex positions” and “how to be sadistic in the bedroom.” I googled “partner unhappy with vanilla sex” and “gay BDSM tips,” which led to a porn site. Ads for sexual enhancement pills popped up at the top of the browser. When night fell, I googled “fish with the light bulb” because sometimes your anger reminds me of a deep-sea angular fish. It draws people in (me), and you fill your belly. Googling so much, I didn’t get far through the woods. I barely noticed the sunset. That part isn’t your fault, though. At least I learned enough to ask relevant questions. Do you want to be pissed on? Should I draw blood? Is knife play too edgy? Do you ever wish you lived in the woods, far away, with no one around? You’d become another memory. I could hurt you how you hope to be hurt, then. The sex dungeon in my head has many rooms, only some involve smiling. Isn’t it weird that, for most people, happiness can’t exist without a bit of pain? I’m not only talking about burning your thighs with candle wax.
Sincerely,
Coleman
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Coleman Bomar is a writer from Middle Tennessee.
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image: MM Kaufman
Rejection Letters 