Dear Pretend Girlfriend:

You knew this day was coming, so I don’t know why you act so surprised when it finally happens.

I’m not a prude, Pretend Girlfriend. I’m a Catholic and a southerner and a child of Teh Internets, all of which points to a fun-loving collector of filthy pornography. That’s just the way things are; I won’t apologize for it.

“But it’s disgusting,” you say as you continue flicking your way through the files on my Linux machine. (You have to admit that was as good a place as any to hide them.) “They’re just…gross!”

I can’t disagree with you there. All the video files, illegally downloaded and sorted by subject matter into carefully labeled folders, are absolutely revolting. One folder in particular seems to turn your stomach. You give a shriek of indignation at its little label.

“You have GOT to be joking.”

I shrug. There is no defending this.

You keep clicking. “This is just– How can you call yourself a feminist!?”

I scratch my head and sort of shuffle my shoes against the edge of the area rug.

“These women are just…this is sick!”

I wish I could say you brought this upon yourself, as the folder is clearly marked Pornography: Please Do Not Open, Pretty Please. I wish I could say you must feel attracted to this stuff on some level, as you are scanning the thumbnails at an alarming pace. I wish I could say that this is a healthy hobby in which plenty of people indulge, because this is America, and unless you want to invest in a bridle and a jackhammer (for example), you should be glad I’m indulging in it alone and not foisting it on you against your will and better, clearer judgment.

I raise a single finger in the air academically and open my mouth to say all those things I want to say. But you don’t even turn around in the kitchen chair to look at me; your hand snaps in the air, an instinctive SHUT IT gesture.

“I am going to look through all of these,” you declare. “And I am going to delete all the ones that are stupid.”

I make a proto-whine-noise. (Goodbye, sweet Helga of Austria! You of the ridiculous latex outfit and too-large coif!)

“BUT.” This is you, cutting me off. “But I will keep the ones that are okay.” You give me that funny little schoolmarm look over your shoulder. “And we can watch them together, I guess.”

I tamp down on the urge to punch the air in jubilation. “I’ll make popcorn,” I say instead, and skip to the cupboard while grinning like a loon.

“Seriously, though, a bridle?”

“Oh, darling, can’t we keep it?” I ask as I rip open the plastic wrap.

You sigh and, because I love you, you say, in a very put-upon voice, “Fine. Just the one.”