Dear Boundary-Pushing Internet Crush,

Holy hothouse orchid!

For someone who gets off thinking about licking the dirt from my feet and the sweat from my armpits, you sure are delicate when it comes to sitting in front of your damn computer. I know you're tired from looking at a screen all weekend, but you got this engine revved, Andretti, and she's awfully eager to take a few spins around the track every day. So don't tell me how excited you are going to be to IM with me the next day and then leave no messages for me to wake up to, forcing me to have to email you at midday with a "where you at?" only to find out you're "getting out of the house in a minute" because you're "burnt out." That shit is disempowering as hell, and I thought I was the goddess here! I would never have agreed to get quite so sexperimental in my conversations with you if I thought you'd turn into Flaky McBailer, so sack the fuck up, Jack! Would you rather I shop those nasty foot pics I took just for you to the highest bidder? Because mama needs a new pair of everything, and as I'm learning from you and your reactions, that shit has currency.

But it also occurs to me that you do sometimes just want to be naughty and uncooperative so that I'll punish you, because that's part of your deal. I'd throw my drink in your face but you've already told me you'd like that. Your fetishes can be so hot, but so confusing sometimes. Alas, hotness wins every time.

Still not even sure if I want to bone you (but stoked for you to pay for my pedicures),

xo RG

(PS: Sorry I haven't DearLife'd in a while, y'all - hope this makes up for it!)

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