I was going to wait to do this until tomorrow, but I’m well into my refractory period right now and, well, I just noticed a couple dark hairs around your areolas. Honestly, I didn’t want to end this in person - I usually lean on the ancient and time-honored practice of “The Slow Fade” wherein I would continue to flirt and oblige you sexually if I saw you out at the bar, yet emotionally shut you out; never returning any communication until you’re finally driven to question me about what the hell I’m doing, at which point I can claim to my friends that you’re crazy and successfully wipe my conscious of any wrongdoing (I’ve often called this “Going Dark” which could be taken differently if a Chick said it). But we did that butt stuff tonight, and I’m nothing if not a gentleman. So I have to end it right here, right now; on my tee-shirt sheets; with a condom (looking appropriately like a deflated balloon from a party long over) still wrapped around my limp, thimble of a dick. C’est la vie.

And while I’m clearly at fault here, I’m forced to wonder: what the hell were YOU thinking? At least I have an excuse. I’m male; my evolutionary need for sex borders on sociopathy. I’ll say or do anything to make you believe I’m worth a Plan B. As men, we are - ironically - at our sweetest and most in love when we are trying to bang you. It’s a vicious trick of nature; but it IS nature, right? I could never CONSCIOUSLY do the things I did last night. The cum that inflates my balls also inflates the idea of who I want to be - and who I want to be with.  Last night I said I had a method for holding babies where they’ll never cry (I’ve held only one baby in my life - it was asleep), I mentioned a distinct possibility of adopting a rescue cat next week (I’m allergic), and I said I cried every time I see “Rent” (from boredom! AMIRITE?!...Actually that one’s true). My penis was, quite literally, controlling my thoughts and actions. But I’m not a bad person - actually, let me rephrase that: I AM a bad person, but only in the short term - only in the hours I’m trying to bed you; only in the way I subtly push your shoulders downward (hard enough for you to know; lightly enough that I still have an alibi).

You can’t possibly judge me - or any man - based on the shortened hyper-reality of bar interactions; you can’t look at the way I dress, or the drinks I buy, or the way I brush your back when I reach for things as a standard for who I really am. But you know that, right? You have to know that. Please tell me you know that. You’ve never seen me change a tire, or deal with an asshole boss, or even tell a joke. I’ve indicated nothing about me beyond my (rather weak) looks that would make it seem as if I was worth your time. So while my choice of format for this talk (why haven’t I taken off this condom yet?) isn’t ideal, it all feels so inevitable. Remember to about fifteen minutes ago when I told you I’d hold you and never let go? Of course I would have to let go - otherwise we’d get terrible bed sores. What were you thinking? I’m actually kind of mad at you for believing anything I’ve said or done. So I’m forced to amend my previous statement; I’m not at fault at all. This is ENTIRELY your fault. I sit here; j*zzless, pantless, and t-shirt still on - this is the man I truly am. Take it in, baby.

What’s that? You say you don’t care? Huh. This is not what I was expecting. You were just trying to get laid, too? Well, I think I’m just a little good looking, at least. And no, I don’t think “just a dick that sometimes gets me off a little” is an appropriate way of describing me. So, let me get this straight, you saw NO long term opportunity here? Really? Even after we talked about “Rent”? You thought I was kind of a pussy? Good Lord. Well listen, I’m seriously a pretty good guy when you get to know me - maybe can we meet up for a drink or something? O.K., well how about I buy you brunch? Well let me at least walk you out, hold on - I gotta get this condom off - oh whoops, it just slid right off. Note to self: clean my sheets, ha ha. O.K., you’re sure you can get a taxi yourself? Alright, well call me, I guess.

I love you.

Jared Freid is a New York City-based comedian. You can follow him on Twitter @jtrain56 for videos, columns, and plenty of penis jokes.