Dear slut:
I’m sorry. When I was 18 you made an offer to an immature boy, not at peace with who he was on the inside, and he never followed through. The man he’s become regrets that, in many ways, and if you’d met me even one year later things would have been very different. I want to let you know that I wish things had been different and we both could have had a lot more fun that year you lived in the apartment above me.
I remember the first time we met. It was the week I moved in to my first apartment and we were both hanging out with the paroled felon, his pregnant wife, and his addict buddy who lived on the first floor. It was your day off and you’d been drinking since you woke up, unshowered and still wearing your pajama pants and a stained and almost see through threadbare white t-shirt, clearly with no bra. I couldn’t stop staring at your nipples. You caught my eyes and I pretended not to look. You kept engaging me and I tried to seem disinterested. You were my “type”, with dark hair, dark eyes, but you weren’t that pretty or in particularly good shape, what you did have was a raw and open sexuality, probably combined with the inhibition of the alcohol, and I found that far more attractive than your looks.