Hellhole

The Story So Far...

You got dolled up to go to a house party

You struck a Faustian bargain with Satan which (so far) hasn't led to any issues

You run a relationship advice blog called Fucklyf

Your housemate is addicted to Ice Road Truckers

You guys don't get on because he's been trying to covertly move his girlfriend into the house

You pitched your all-Asian porn studio at a house party

You were too much of a pussy to hit on Chen Li (a long time subject of your affection) and have gone home alone

You fell asleep by the light of your laptop and awoke, overwhelmed with self-disgust, elbow deep in an enormous bag of potato chips

You've ruined your housemate's relationship and now you've gone out to drink alone

Because of your bargain with Satan, you sit in your car across the road from the Stump Hotel waiting for 11pm.

Satan promised that you'd always be the smartest, funniest, most interesting girl at any party you go to - but in exchange you can't ever get to a party before 11pm by which point everyone is already drunk and immune to things like cleverness, so you receive no discernible performance enhancement. Even Satan isn't totally clear on how this deal is actually enforced on Earth: as soon as you decide to go to a party, do more beautiful/funny/smart women decide not to go? Do they all leave at 10:55pm before you cross the threshold? Do they lose points as you enter? Do you receive some kind of buff?

To seal the deal, Satan made you perform an elaborate and weirdly erotic blood oath routine with him which involved slicing the soles of your feet, licking the blood, spitting it into each others mouths, and then spitting the mingled blood and saliva back into the foot wound. He said he saw it on RedTub and found it hot but his girlfriend wouldn't try it out with him. For those not in the know, RedTub is the sister site to RedTube. RedTub's primary market is vampires and their content focuses almost exclusively on blood play, about which let us say no more because it is dark and unpleasant (yes, kinkshame).

Alone in your shitty sedan you neck a cocktail of your own invention: you call it a White Bronco Simpson because the recipe consists of orange juice and goon - and you're drinking it in a car. Other variations include: Bloody Simpson (in the case where you used red wine) and Brown Simpson (if you mix goon and chocolate milk). Really anything edgy and stupid to do with OJ Simpson. At 10:59pm you check your lipstick in the rear view mirror, hoik up your bra and get out of the car.

In the bar you order a martini so dirty that the bartender recoils in disgust and then serves you a jar of olives mixed with three shots of vodka. Drink in hand, you decide to do some work on FuckLyf.

Hey Lauria,

I am a prominent figure in the media. In the next week a story will be published about me revealing my sordid history of sexually assaulting and harrassing my delicious, nubile, lovely colleagues... even just thinking about them now... the way their eager, young faces crumpled into uncertainty and confusion every time I wiggled my finger through the gap between the buttons in their blouses, every time I - but enough about that.

As a member of the media, I want to release a well written mea culpa so as to impress my peers so that even though they might think, 'oh jeez it is terrible that so-and-so did that to those puffy-lipped, pouty interns - especially the buxom ones, luminous in the bloom of youth ahem uh yes very unprofessional what he did - I'm glad someone has brought him to justice', etc. they will also be quietly impressed by my prose, and, in a dusty corner of their mind, think, 'I can't wait to read what so-and-so writes next. What a powerful and unique voice. Yes, he mercilessly tweaked the nipples of those poor interns, but it's hard not to when their flesh is so firm in comparison to our droopy old wives, why I myself...', etc. You get the idea.

Needless to say, this means the phrase "I am very sorry for any hurt I may have caused" is totally out. Every Hollywood predator has said this. Though my crime is the same as theirs, I want my apology to ring out across the world as the apotheosis of apologetic writing. What would you advise?

Regards,
A Very Important Pervert

My man,

I'm sure we've all read enough thinkpieces on Slate and The Atlantic (or at least scanned the titles as we scrolled at record speed down our timelines) to know that what you did is wrong and that you should feel bad while we all get to feel superior because none of us has ever licked an intern's glossy neck as she crawled around under our desk trying to find the ethernet cable we hid up our trouser leg. We can all see that you are about to go down. The world is going to tear you apart like fresh bread. Your wife will turn to ash, LinkedIn will delete your profile so as not to be contaminated by your miasma, your kids will get plastic surgery to disguise any facial features that remind them of you, your car will become sentient and, through a series of escalating prank phone calls where it impugnes the honour of a pristine mob boss daughter (implying she fucked its tailpipe, if you must know), will provoke the mob into taking a hit out on it - your Lexus will commit suicide by mob just so your ass will never touch its plush leather seats again.

Given that there's nothing you can say to prevent this, you lean into it. Here's a sampler:

The stench of jism and whiskey wafts across the open plan office. Straighten your skirt. Fold your arms over your breasts. Look determinedly at your screen. Try not to think of me. For it is I, your boss, and I am come to sexually gratify myself at your expense.

Yes, I am drunk at work. Yes, I haven't shaved in four days. Yes, I slept in my car last night. Yes, my PA had to give me a bump of speed during a commercial break so that I could keep my eyes open during this morning's broadcast. And now you will let me put my hand on your knee.

Either way, your heart races. Either way, your toes curl in your shoes. Either way, you dream about me. Either way, you tremble when you remember what I did. Men: lock up your wives, sisters, mothers, daughters, and dogs - here's my updated resume:

- I'm 54
- I can fuck seven times in a night
- I'm not done yet

That's all I got. If you really wanna flame out, refer to the media - especially your erstwhile coworkers - as retards. If you really, really wanna flame out, refer to your poor, humiliated wife as a retard.

Pls update us - I'm keen to see how this shakes out. I know I'm not the only one who felt more attracted to Harvey Weinstein after the allegations: your career may be fucked but I predict that your sex life is gonna be on the ups after this.

Lauria