To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just Like Him Read Online Free PDF

carnival so you take her. You don’t wanna spend the gas to drive all across town but then you see her and she’s looking nice, so you say it’s all right. Borrow money from your dad. You’ll work extra next weekend.
    Pay for the parking, park in the mud, have to wash the truck tomorrow. She’s all happy so it’s all right. Need a new muffler. Maybe you’ll get some tonight, make this shit’s all worth it.
    Pay for the tickets. Ride the rides. Tacos. Drinks. Cotton candy.
    Stand in line for some big scary-ass roller coaster. She’s scared but she’s all giggling. You’re gonna hold her. It’s gonna be all right.
    Some fucker bumps into you and cuts in line. Big-ass redneck with all his friends. Fuck him. Keep cool. It’s all right.
    Motherfucker’s looking, laughing at you with all his friends. Now they’re looking at her. Checking her out. Looking all over her. She looks down. What’s she gonna do? Nothing? She looks back up. She says, “What the . . . ” You tell her to be quiet. You say, “It’s all right.”
    Fuck those sons of bitches making all their noise. She says, “C’mon, let’s go, I don’t want to ride that thing, anyway.”
    You say, “Fine.”
    Y’all walk away. You say, “ . . . if you’re scared.”
    Punk-ass says, “Wetback.” She acts like she didn’t hear but you’re not fucking stupid.
    Y’all keep on walking but she doesn’t say nothing.
    She says she’s tired. You say you wanna ride the rides. Get a goddamned candy apple. You’re not gonna leave ‘til you’re ready.
    Some fucker says, “Hey, man, get your girl a Tweety Bird.” Basketballs going in the hoop.
    Yeah, she’s your girl; you’ll get her the goddamned Tweety Bird. When he does it, the shit goes in the hoop. When you do it, the shit bounces off the wall.
    Fucked up shit. You do it again.
    “C’mon, man. Three more dollars for your girl.”
    Stupid fucking shit. You do it again.
    “C’mon, big man. If my girl was that pretty, I’d get her a prize.”
    This shit’s fucking rigged. Do it again.
    She says, “C’mon, baby, I’m tired. I don’t want a prize. Let’s go home.”
    You say, “Shut the fuck up. Just shut up and let me win.”

To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just Like Him
    A fter years of trying to fight it, I’ve decided that I want to look cheap. Blonde highlights, big earrings, red lipstick, too-tight skirts with cellulite rolling out underneath—that’s what I’ve had set my heart on and what I’ve come back to after all these years. There’s no use pretending to be any better by buying clothes from stores where the sales clerks shame me, by resisting the urges when glittery, not-gold displays catch my magpie eyes.
    I’m a cheap slut, if that means what I think it does. I don’t ask for diamonds before I have sex with you for free. You don’t have to buy the cow—you’re getting the milk for free. (But I’m not a cow, no matter how much I hear it when I put on that skirt.)
    And you ask me why I wanna look like all the other women you’ve known (even while you wonder what the hell I’m doing with you in the first place). And then you realize anew what you’ve known all along: all women are whores, and the best you can hope for is to save up enough money to own one who will only be a whore for you. And, actually, you haven’t spent any money on me at all, so I must be even worse than the whore that you know all women to be.
    So what’s left for me to do? I’m damned if I do and lonely if I don’t, right? So I’ll be damned.
    Bring on the cheap stuff. Glitter on my eyes, silver on my toes. Hard nipples through a tight t-shirt. My hair like I just dragged myself out of your bed and walked down the humid street to see who else was out there—not with the blank face of “I can’t hear you whistling at my body parts” but with the head-toss and smirk of, “Don’t be whistling, buddy, unless you’re sure you can last a night with me.”
    Spend the