Reasonable Doubt: Volume 3 (Reasonable Doubt 3)

“Daddyyyy! Dadddyyy!” She shouted, but she was picked up before she made it any closer. She was taken away and put inside a car just as she started to cry.

Fuck…

I immediately sat up in bed, realizing that I wasn’t in New York City’s Central Park. I was in Durham, North Carolina, and I was having another nightmare.

Glancing at the clock on my wall, I saw that it was just past one o’clock. The calendar hanging directly above it only confirmed that I’d been living here for far too long.

All the research I’d done six years ago—weighing the pros and cons, checking the records of all the top firms, and scouring the make-up of women on Date-Match, was now seemingly invalid: The condo I purchased was a mere remnant of what had been advertised, there was only one firm worthy of my time, and the pool of f**k-worthy women was dwindling by the day.

Just hours ago, I’d gone on a date with a woman who told me she was a kindergarten teacher with a penchant for the color red and history books. In reality, she was twice my age, color blind, and she just wanted to “remember what some good c**k felt like.”

Frustrated, I slipped out of bed and walked down the hallway—straightening the “E” and “H” frames that hung on the wall while trying not to look too hard.

I was going to need more than my usual few shots to get through tonight, and I was starting to become extremely annoyed that I hadn’t f**ked someone in what felt like forever.

I poured two shots of bourbon and tossed them down back to back. Before I could pour another, my phone vibrated. An email.

Alyssa.

Subject: Performance Quality.

Dear Thoreau,

I’m sure that right now you’re in the middle of f**king yet another conquest, and are seconds away from giving her your infamous “One dinner. One night. No repeats.” line, but I was just thinking about something and HAD to email you…

If you enjoy sex as much as you claim you do, why do you only insist on one night? Why not a strictly friends with benefits relationship so you won’t have so many dry spells? (I mean, this is day thirty of “Operation: Still No Pussy” for you, correct?)

I’m actually starting to wonder if the only reason you give one night is because you already know that your performance won’t be good enough to warrant another...

Having a subpar dick isn’t the end of the world.

—Alyssa.

I shook my head and typed a response.

Subject: Re: Performance Quality.

Dear Alyssa,

Unfortunately, I am not in the middle of f**king another conquest. Instead I’m busy typing a response to your latest ridiculous email.

This is indeed day thirty of your appropriately named, “Operation: Still No Pussy,” but since I’ve f**ked you over the phone and made you cum, it hasn’t been a complete failure…

I do in fact enjoy sex—my c**k has an insatiable appetite for it, but I’ve told you countless times that I don’t do relationships. Ever.

I refuse to even address your last paragraph, as I’ve never received a single complaint about my “performance” and my c**k is far from being subpar.

You are quite correct in your closing statement though: Having a subpar dick really isn’t the end of the world.

Having an un-fucked pu**y is.

—Thoreau.

My phone rang immediately.

“Seriously?” Alyssa blurted out when I answered. “Does your message really say what I think it says?”