Hey, Stud. Yeah, you. Remember you told me to smile and I didn't? You said, "It's not that bad! Smile, why dontcha?" Then I told you that what would make me smile would be to see you slam your head into the bar until your nose bled? You're right, I am a dyke. Or more accurately, I WAS a dyke, just then. You see, my sudden vagitarianism came upon me like a fever at your approach. Your wreaking man-pungency filled my pores, and I panicked. So I backed into the safest corner I could. You called me on it, and I was embarrassed...so I cowered at the altar of Sappho until you were long gone. I'm sorry.

And a big YO to the white guy with the corn rows and a cool rap name (that I forgot...something like T-Bag...) A shout-out to Bih-zeaverton, Yo. Remember you hung around me like an oily fart mumbling your lines at me? You spoke in an urban vernacular so thick that I just couldn't get it. I'm not up on my MTVisms...I suck, I know. You were trying so hard and got so upset; I was, after all, dressed-up and OUT. Leading you on like a sweet hunk of apple pie cooling on a rack to tempt you. Standing there with my epidermis showing, in YOUR sites, askin' for it. You're right--I'm a bitch and I'm sorry.

To the gentlemen on the bridge passing a bottle back and forth between yourselves as you walked. You called to me, "Girl! HEY GIRL! SSSSSSSSSS! HEY!!" It was a cold day and you were shuffling along home from your long, hard day of harassing people on Burnside for beer money. I spotted you a ways off, and you saw me, too. You boys were only walking, drinking, and talking, probably about how you both were unselfish lovers and would love to orally please a woman. And who comes along but stupid me on my bicycle...how many bridges are over the dang river? Plenty, and I picked yours. Here I come, pumping my pedals suggestively, causing my hips to roll around in a false promise. I heard the call, but as I got closer I saw right away that you were both too good for me, and it would've killed me to see your eyes go dim in disappointment. I lowered my head and pushed my bike past you in shame. You were so kind in continuing your kissing and sucking noises at me as I passed. I should've stopped and knelt in acceptance to a meaty swordfight in my mouth...but I didn't, and I am sorry.

And at last to my sweet one. The one who made me feel so vulnerable. You caressed and pushed my buttons like a true pro and threw my switches into overload that night. I have no excuse for my behavior, but hear me out. I was cocktailing, so I was distracted. Plus, it was so very busy, I just wasn't on my game. I was actually burning uncontrollably for a wall-eyed butthole with a mullet that night, and when you lurched toward me, I wanted to take your thick hand and shove it up my ass through my pants....but you beat me to it. Somehow you felt my ass calling your hand, and your hand heeded that call. All I can say is, sometimes a woman likes to be the one who makes the first move, and when her bluff is called, she needs to dramatically deny her attraction to save face. Ah, what a strange game of hard-to-get I played with you! A game that I ultimately lost. You were so much bigger than me, I thought you'd think it was cute how hard I hit you. I envisioned you would grab my wrists and smile, we'd kiss and then have a good laugh at our love games. But you didn't stop me--you just bled and bled. I went a little overboard on you, Sweetie, and when they pulled you out of the club, I got a big shot of whiskey...I pulled bits of your skin off my trembling and sore hands and hoped you would forgive me one day. Baby, I'm sorry, I was on the rag.

This is an open letter of apology to all the men who have only wanted to love me, but I was unworthy of their affections. Merry Christmas, boys. Don't give up on me--I'm sure I'll come around. I'll keep trying if you do!