Dear Ms. Lovato,
When this summer began we entered into a lucrative fuck-contract, under which we had negotiated the following conditions:
Condition A: Don’t tell our mothers
Condition B: Kiss one another
Condition C: Die for each other
I’m sure you are very familiar with this agreement. For the better part of three months we have been kissing one another regularly, not telling our mothers when, where, and how much we kissed one another, and you even took a large bite out of my cherry that one time, I certainly didn’t die from it but I was ready to.
Our incredible fuck-contract expires as of Wednesday, September 23rd, the first day of autumn, but I’m not ready for it to end. Just this past week as you took me down into your paradise, I realized that this had become so much more than just something we wanted to try. When you leave the apartment at the very prompt and consistent hour of 11pm to get your beauty rest, I find myself unable to fall asleep. I lay in bed for hours not just with your body on my mind, but your mind on my mind. When all this started you asked if I could keep a secret and I promise I have (believe me, my mother knows nothing about the complicated sex swing I had installed in the pantry). However, as this contract inches to a close, I find myself wanting to tell my mother, not about the unadulterated kink-fest we spent the summer mutually engaged in, but about you and the way you make me feel when we’re rolling around naked in a kiddie pool full of macaroni and cheese.
Demi, I write this letter for you, God, and the whole world (mother’s included) to see because I’m not ready for this summer to end and I no longer care who I tell. Even though the top 40 DJs will be playing our song well into November, I want to play with you for the rest of my life. I know you’re hesitant, but don’t be scared just because we have similar body-types. Let’s head down to Dallas and tell your mother all about us.
Yours for (more than) the summer,