Dear Sebastian, I think we both know this has been coming for a long time. You’re dumped, mate. I know that’s a very harsh way to put it, so let me re-iterate: I’m dropping you, like an unwanted child down a well; we’re over, like your grandmother’s life (sorry I couldn’t make the funeral btw, had to go to SportsNite); I don’t love you anymore, because you’re a cunt.
I write this, my hands warmed by the burning remains of the 2 pairs of burgundy chinos you left here last time you visited. To be honest, this letter was in part spurred by finding those while cleaning my room. Ever since you dragged me to the Henley regatta, I’ve fantasized about destroying your beloved red trousers, and you would not believe how fucking good this feels. I only wish you could be here, so I could see you begging and weeping inconsolably as the flames consume them. When you left, you were wearing an additional pair of those same red trousers, and I would be immensely grateful if you could send them to me so they can meet the same fate as their brethren.
Talking of that visit, let me run down a quick list of complaints which arose from the time:
• Despite “really getting into rugby”, you’ve put on a lot of weight, so that now you physically repulse me past the point where I can hide my disgust. This was confirmed by the attempted tryst in the shower, which clearly didn’t have enough room for you, me, and your beer gut.
• Somehow, your proficiency as a lover has degraded even more. To describe your ministrations as ‘awkward rutting’ would be to imply skill and passion magnitudes greater than what you manage to produce. I would have thought your indiscretion with Melanie from your halls might have taught you something. Apparently she is even more forgiving than me of your habit to clumsily swat at your part- ner’s clit in a way that no sane person could conceive of as pleasurable.
• Your banter is stale.
I know you’ll think this is just another rough patch, just another road bump in the under-maintained country road of our relationship. But it’s not. I’m leaving you behind. I have an exciting life in London now. I’ve been to Fabric, I’ve tried ket, I got off with a graphic design student. You just can’t compare to that.
To be totally honest, after the affair you had with Mel, I also took the opportunity to spread my wings a little, and I slept with Miguel, the Portuguese guy whose accent you kept making fun of. It was a revelation, he was actually hot! I didn’t have to concentrate on picturing Bradley Cooper the whole way through just to remain minimally aroused. He performed oral on me, and didn’t once complain that it meant he was gay. It was then, in that moment, I think, with my cum dribbling down his chin, that I realised I was unhappy with our relationship.
Goodbye, Seb. Let’s not stay friends.
Yours,
Claire