Dear Critic...

Dear Critic...

Dear Critic,

I just hope he reads this. To the boy I slept with at Hyde: I have Chlamydia. I’m sorry. You had brown hair, a fade, and were wearing a vest and button-up combo as part of your Peaky Blinders fit. You were drinking Major Major. I think your name was James? I’m not sure. I’m really sorry. You should get tested. Critic, I don’t have this guy’s name, number, or even a memory of him besides the smell, but I know I shared more than just a hot thirty minutes. What do I do?


Bareback Rider


Kia ora Ms. Bareback,

We’ve all been there. Had a case of a highly-transmissible sexually transmitted infection and decided to raw-dog it anyway? Classic! Happens to the best of us. Usually it’s the man at fault, but hey, nobody’s perfect. Girls will be girls, right? Can’t help it.

Just kidding dude. That’s fucked up. I hope he sees this too so he can sort his shit out. I’d say “fuck you” but I like to keep my genitals cleaner than your nasty ass does. Go fuck yourself. Anyone who does this is gross.

A lukewarm cheers,

Willy Wonka


This article first appeared in Issue 9, 2021.
Posted 8:27pm Sunday 2nd May 2021 by Critic.