Sehr geehrter Herr Grey,
Those of us with even a semblance of credible life experience know that if there’s one thing in this world worse than genocide, infanticide, mass suicide, cyanide, Chernobyl, water snakes, gas chambers, intestinal worms, being impaled, genital gangrene, microwaved kittens, catastrophic decompression at 35,000ft, internal haemorrhaging or getting left to die in outer space, it’s someone you slept with and got rejected by becoming really successful. Following on from that there is no greater earthly delight than meeting someone incredibly successful who wants to fuck you every which way possible. What a tragedy for that bright young thing Anastasia to have let the elevator door close on you, she didn’t know better. While she holds out for her wish to cuddle you after sex, I wish you realised how close to tiring you are of her limp pony tail, shitty printed t-shirts from the GAP and her job at the hardware store (precious upper-middle class literature majors work at concept stores not hardware stores, so she is clearly an idiot) and that you’ll consider me, Mossy Brackets, as your new submissive.
After years of living in Berlin and countless sojourns with emotionally-crippled sociopaths, it feels not only inevitable our paths should become inextricably intertwined, but that my life until now has been training me for the task. Your potent eroticism first vaulted through me when, just for a moment, I allowed myself to imagine being encouraged to eat refined carbohydrates by you. The way your virility asserts itself when turning up uninvited to meet the parents. I could barely muffle my soft, palliative moans when the thought of dying with you in an amateur pilot Playboy plane crash, à la John F. Kennedy Jr., crossed my mind. But it was the vision of you gaining access to my apartment only to fill it with Apple products that really brought me to climax. No guy in Berlin has ever done that to me before.
So Anastasia isn’t sure if she enjoys being stalked or actually being violently assaulted. I for one am more than sympathetic when it comes stalking. And I’m most accustomed to being abandoned post-coital in the middle of the night. Your playroom looks like my local bar, the one I start my night at. Your toys do not even rival the innards of my cosmetic bag. There is seriously nothing you could do to me that hasn’t been done before.
I would never allow the blush of my cheeks to turn the “color of the communist manifesto” in your presence, like that Anastasia would. Not when I have the chance of being anally fisted by the malevolent incarnation of the capitalist dream boat that is you.
In fact so painful were it for me to endure two hours of your erroneous coupling with Anastastia that I spent the entire film waiting for the Beyoncé song to come on – and then the rest hoping it would be replayed. I felt so empty and despondant to the world afterwards that I sunk to a new Berlin low: spending Friday night eating a Döner mit allen Soßen totally sober alone in the park updating my apps.
I hope you find me Christian, so that they don’t do a sequel.