Guarantee of Foreplay

B. Hoota


To whom it may concern,

To all the boys who fuck me in the future, here is a contract you must fulfill in order to slip your penis into my body. I’m not a sex maniac or an intercourse queen; quite frankly, I’m asexual, aside from spontaneous makeout sessions at Grog. I don’t know what glands I like stroked nor what demure voice to adopt. My attraction to others is wildly random; I adore arms, eyes, and dicks like any sane girl, but it’s the voice of one or the brain of another that shoots me. However, below are a few surefire acts I need done to my body to part the lips and coax the orgasm. I say “body,” but it’s more of an intellectual, artistic sentiment that will get me to suck your dick. Also, I’m a virgin so this list will mutate as the lovers rack up and the bodily satisfaction diminishes. As of 1/28/17, I need someone who:

  • Mention classical composers to me (i.e. Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov) to me, and my Star Wars panties will drop.
  • Don’t be a fucking dick and assume having sex with you is a privilege, not my personal choice.
  • Take control of me when we’re making out or doing anything else sexual. I’m submissive to the hilt.
  • Geek out as much as possible and talk about relativity and space time with me.
  • You have to play an instrument to touch me.
  • Don’t be a pussy and dance around attraction until the friendzone is the final destination. But don’t be too clingy and pushy; I’ll sprint the other direction before you can catch your breath.
  • Grab my hair and suck my lips like they’re a hoppy IPA.
  • Finger me until a groan escapes these thin, German lips. And don’t stop. Keep going until the pain is too much to handle. The good thing about Brazilian Waxes: your pain tolerance is off the charts.
  • Buy me alcohol and don’t judge my extracurricular drug activities. If you want to fuck me, accept my psychedelic side and don’t make lame references to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. That’s trite. That’s overrated. LSD isn’t about kaleidoscopic clouds. Trip with me (if you want) and experience the sweaty fullness of connected clarity and insanity.
  • If you’re into girls with body hair, I’m your lingeried motherfucker.
  • Kiss me slowly, from the collarbone to the ab-less torso to the clitoris, with a pseudo-hesitation that doesn’t fool me. My body is your plaything and your prerogative. But respect it, like one of your video game boy toys that you worship.
  • Fuck me in unusual places: the baseball stadium, top floor of Rawlings Garage, the parking lot of Midnight Cookies. Fornication isn’t jailed in TJMax sheets but rather in our conservative minds.
  • If your name is Matt, I will not fuck you.

Speaking of fucking, that’s truly an exquisite word. Fuck. It’s loaded with every emotion you could want to express: dismay, aggression, love, inquiry, dissatisfaction, confusion, pleasure…it’s a fucking chameleon of diction. If you’re a guy that spews fuck like a broken spicket, you’ll be getting some from me. I loathe guys with morals. Well, morals that are developed and hardened like a boob job from a second rate cosmetologist. I need Tame Impala psychedelia mixed with Elon Musk ambition: in short, the male replicate of myself.  Kindly sign the above agreement and our evenings will be fire with a Starbucks dawn. I’m not crazy, I promise. I just adore the crackles and the pops, the commonplace at 5 a.m. and the local breweries when I’m under 21. I won’t be a stellar physical lover. But you’ll never get bored of me.




Social Security Number

Dowry for dating me (check payable to 17035 Co Rd 234, Micanopy, FL 32667)


Your future girl


P.S. The idea for this ditty was from That 70s Show, a chummy sitcom of angst and Mary Jane that I find too relatable.

P.P.S I know you’re a man and “not always proud of what you choose.” And you have “a conscious that is always full, but it’s prone to be overruled.” So don’t fuck me over. Or I will kick your “don’t always think before I do” ass.


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