Dear Guy from TI the other night, aka Mike, aka My Love, My Love, My Love,

What the hell happened? I’m so pissed at you that I can’t even talk to you about it face-to-face. Also, I can’t find you, which makes it harder to talk to you face-to-face. Isn’t this weird? I’m pissed at you, but I still love you. Look at that. So I’ve resorted to writing this letter in the hopes that you’re the one guy who goes to TI who also reads the Nass.

You know who you are. I don’t want to name names, and because I don’t actually know your name I can’t, but I think it might be Mike. I’ve tried to find you on Facebook, and I think I found someone who might be you. It’s hard to tell, because, as I said, I don’t actually know your name, and this profile is closed, and it doesn’t have a picture as the default. It has one of those question marks that Facebook uses when the person doesn’t have a picture. I feel like it could be you, though, because you’re as mysterious as a question mark to me. Have I found you over the internet, my darling?

Let me refresh your memory a little, Mike. I met you at TI on Thursday. You saw me on the dance floor, and I was doing my thing with my friends. You were wearing jeans and a polo shirt, but it was different than the sea of polo shirts in front of me. It was a soft, baby blue, like your brown eyes, like the night sky. I was dancing really hard. You came over to my little circle of friends and started dancing with all of us.

And that’s when we found each other. I subtly moved my body closer to yours, and I felt the rhythm of Rihanna. I know you felt her too. That’s our song, now, that TI song featuring her. Live Your Life. It’s so perfect: TI at TI. Our song. I’ve listened to it on repeat since Thursday. My iTunes says that I’ve listened to it 433 times. One for every fantasy I’ve had about you. One for every time I’ve explored my body while staring at your question mark on Facebook while imagining that it’s your real question mark, if you get my drift (your penis).

We danced together for almost the full song, and then you did something unexpected and wonderful. You kissed me. I felt like the world had stopped spinning, even though the room still was. Everything stood still for us in that moment as first our lips found each other, then our tongues, and then your hand so lovingly, so tenderly, felt my shoulders, my hands, the small of my back. You were comforting me with your hands, you were telling me everything was going to be okay with your big, strong arms as you held me and we kissed. Then you tried to finger me as we were still on the dance floor, but I said no. It wasn’t because I didn’t want you to love me like that. Lord knows you’ve done that tons in my dreams by now. No, that wasn’t why I shook my head. It was because all your friends were standing next to us cheering, and I wanted any moments of intimacy to be between just us. Just you and me.

After the song had basically ended, we parted. It was more beautiful that way, I think. Our connection was too strong to keep dancing like everything was casual, like we were just sharing a normal dance. Because that dance wasn’t normal. That dance made me wetter than a seal in a bathtub.

You started dancing with another girl, and I let you do that. A last night of freedom before we spent eternity together. I let you play with the silly girls around me knowing that the whole time, you were probably definitely thinking of me. It was like you were dancing with the other girls in order to say, “Tomorrow, baby. Tomorrow, it’s only you.”

So the next day, I prepared for you. I bought wax at CVS, and I used it, and it hurt, but a good hurt—it hurt for you, I bled for you. I brushed my teeth. I wore my sexiest underwear (hint: a thong). I practiced making out with my pillow, and I practiced giving hand jobs with my roommate’s stuffed animal, Simon the Snake. I tried to rent a porno from the LRC to get tips, but they didn’t have any. Instead, I watched part of “Backdoor Sluts” online but when it got to the actual sex it grossed me out, so I just read a lot of Cosmopolitan. I know some tricks now, my baby—tricks just for you. I practiced some of them on Simon the Snake and some on my bedpost. I took forty pictures of my vagina and hung them up above my bunk bed in order to create an erotic atmosphere. I also got fifteen condoms from my RCA’s room. I even got myself tested—I’m clean, except for the genital herpes.

The next day, I went to TI extra early. I snuck in at 8:30, before any bouncers were there, just so that I would be able to see you the moment you entered for the nightlife—for the Our Life. I drank a perfect amount of alcohol before I got there: enough that I would be loose (but not too loose, if you get my drift—my vagina) and drunk, but not too drunk that you would be taking advantage of me when we did it. I learned about this fine line from Sex on a Saturday night. That’s also where I learned about sex in general. I was so excited to try it with you. My first, my last, everything.

And I waited. I waited, and I waited, and still you didn’t come. You didn’t come—but I had come for you so many times before. I began to feel desperate. I called every Mike in my phone, even though I knew you weren’t any of them. I just wanted to hear a Mike’s voice, after thirsting for yours for so long. I tried to describe you to people around me, but I had been too drunk the other night to remember your face, so I couldn’t do it justice. I instead began to ask people at TI about the question mark Facebook Mike, but people seemed confused. I felt completely discombobulated. More than once, when a girl walked into the bathroom and I tried to ask about you, I realized that I wasn’t wearing any pants.

You never came. My love, my love—you never came.

What the F? I know that you were blackout, because your friend said so to another one of your friends. But still, Mike. I thought love could fight through blackouts. What the H-E-double-hockey-sticks happened there?

So I sit in TI, hiding, waiting for you. You know who you are. And when you are ready for true love, my dear, come find me. I will be here. I will be here.

Forever yours,

Sabrina Berkowitz

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