So I was digging through my old tweets in an attempt to delete anything that Rone could use as ammo against me in the future, and came across something interesting.

My memory of the incident is foggy, but I’m still going to attempt to jump out in front of this and piece together the main plot points that led to me sending such an embarrassing tweet.

Disclaimer: There was never a “Sexual Disasters: Part 1” but I figured the allure of a mysterious sequel would increase click percentages.

I had just moved to Youngstown, Ohio after graduating college, and before I even had enough time to get settled into my new apartment and contract lead poisoning, I was eagerly swiping through the local talent on Tinder. Since I was now in a city that’s kind of like a fun-size Cleveland that’s expired and cut with fentanyl, I didn’t even feel the need to lie in my bio about being a 5’11" anesthesiologist for once.

Like clockwork, within months, sparks were flying with one of my match and she was inviting me over to her place to watch bootleg Netflix movies on DVD and chill. She didn’t strike me as much of a cinephile, but I didn’t question her motives. After all, it had been a while since I experienced a good rising action and climax. Ha.

Next thing you know, I was sweating in her bedroom while she admitted to me between Camel-scented coughs that her portable DVD player and air conditioner were both malfunctioning. “I guess it could be worse,” I thought to myself as the bulge in my bootcut Wranglers reminded me of an apparatus that was functioning just fine. So, like a seasoned magician, I swiftly pulled the four inch iPod Touch out of my pocket and saved the date by queuing up The Ridiculous 6. If moans were toxic, she probably would’ve went to jail that night. For murdering me.

We were sitting close enough together on the edge of her air mattress that I could feel the heat of her syphilis rash without actually touching it. I could taste the cheddar jalapeño flavored Cheeto crumbs under her buttocks without actually eating them. I could hear her dad’s groan of disappointment, and smell the liquor on his breath, without actually being in the same room or time zone as him. She was igniting all my senses with the force of a thousand fire hoses. If sexual energy in the air was visible, the inches between our respective thighs would have been flashing neon.

Admittedly, the large audience of bed bugs watching our every move was giving me performance anxiety. But nevertheless, I persisted. To get hard. We were horizontal — half-dressed and damp from the heat and our nerves — before her Samsung Galaxy buzzed us back into reality. My heart sank as I realized she was receiving a call from someone named “Seth” followed by an assortment of multicolored heart emojis. Before I could even reflexively inquire about this Seth character, she loudly gasped and dismounted me with the athleticism of an Olympic gymnast to answer the phone call.

As their conversation went on, I gradually deduced a terrifying truth: The anonymous man she was talking to on the phone was her boyfriend. And he was informing her that he had returned home early to surprise her for the holidays after being deployed in Afghanistan for the past several months. In fact, he was going to be there within minutes. I was disgusted. So repulsed that I went completely limp before the conversation even ended. My mind was now filled with things like another dude and war and death and blood and debris. It was such a big turn off to me that I decided to abruptly leave without even giving her an excuse. I didn’t understand. I could've sworn she was "the one." Everything was going perfectly up until that point, and she just had to ruin our intimate moment by answering that irrelevant call. But I guess the one silver lining of the experience is that now, whenever I want to last longer while masturbating, I just think about some random douchebag named Seth fighting in a war with a bunch of other dudes.