Dear Yaoi Fangirls,
Listen, I need you to do me an enormous favor. Lay off the drugs for just, like, an hour. Yea, I’m talking to you—you with the ominous glitter in your eye! You with the suspicious grin! You with the notepad labeled “Yaoi Fic Ideas!” You with the “SemexSeme is Hot” t-shirt! (Hey… where’d you get that? Just… curious…) Enough already!
Oh, no, I don’t mean to dissuade you entirely from writing Yaoi. We all have our dirty little hobbies. I, for instance, Dr. Gregory House, stay up until the wee hours of the morning watching internet porn. My favorite one, actually, has four girls all going at it at once. I believe you call that “Yuri.” I also happen to know that, despite what her kind and gentle exterior might make you think, Cameron tortures puppies in her free time. Sickening, isn’t it?
All I’m asking is that you stop writing those fanfics about </i>me. Specifically the ones in which I’m having sex. Specifically the ones in which I’m having sex with Dr. Wilson. Specifically the ones in which I’m having sex with Dr. Wilson, and I’m on the bottom. I mean, seriously, do I look like I take it from behind? Actually, don’t answer that. I’m not interested in your opinion. And frankly, you all scare the hell out of me.
Now, you might be wondering why I’m asking such an unreasonable request of you, you perverts, you. Can you keep a secret? Can you tie a little string around your pinky finger so that you remember never to tell anyone? Alright, well, so long as Wilson never finds out the contents of this letter, I’ll tell you just why I want the madness to end.
I love him.
Yea, yea, shut the hell up.
No, seriously, stop the damn fangirl squealing this instant.
Anyway, allow me to explain. Try to hold onto your stomachs, because this is going to get pretty disgusting. It’ll probably sound like a yaoi fangirl wrote it, in fact, but that should in no way spark any sort of pride you may have. I mean it…
As I was saying, I love Dr. James Wilson. He is brilliant, he is witty, he is compassionate. He has always, always, always, always, always, always, always been there for me, no matter what I’ve done or said to him. And, who am I kidding? He’s gorgeous.
Besides, who else would put up with me for this long?
So yes, I’ve fallen in love with my best friend. With the man who moves in with me every time his trophy wives give him the boot. With the man who I go to with all my problems. With the man who comes to me with all his problems, no matter how often I turn him away and tell him he’s an idiot if he thinks I care. With the man who technically lost his job for me. With the man who calls me his “friend” every chance he gets.
He says it so often that I’m starting to get a little suspicious. I’ve realized that it must be because of one of two things. Either he’s trying to get me to figure out what “friendship” really is, or he’s suspicious of me. Maybe he’s trying to drill it into my skull that we won’t be more than friends. And that sucks for him, because I’ll never give up. I’ll chase him forever, if need be, even if I need to lie about my motives and express my love as indifference. It’s an art I’ve perfected—but still, I’m constantly nervous that he’s onto me.
After all, I leave him a lot of hints. For instance, every time we play poker, I cheat. I don’t mean that I hide cards up my sleeves or anything—I mean that I distract him by talking about penises. I may have talked about my own once or twice, just to gauge his expression. Once I made a pointed suggestion about his penis. He turned red and Chase called me a fag. I whacked him with my cane when Wilson wasn’t looking and told him I’d dock his pay if he said it again. I think it went pretty well.
I also tend to introduce myself as his lover whenever we’re in public. Oh, I love how annoyed he gets. The way his eyes round ever so slightly, and his mouth opens, and his face tenses up, and he turns away with a little hunch of his shoulders… Can you blame me? He’s irresistible.
But lately, my dear Yaoi fangirls, I have been making… I guess we could call it… “progress.” He invited me over to his house for dinner last night—he’s single now, by the way (finally)—and I accepted. Hey, that’s step one, alright? Shut the hell up. Anyway, when I got there, I told him I’d worn my Sunday Best, just for him. He gave me that look that just exudes sexual prowess—you might call it “exasperation”—and said something about it being Saturday, but I wasn’t listening. I was drinking in the way his white shirt hugged his waist, wondering what he’d do if I told him flatly that I fantasize about fucking him every once in awhile. I think he’d think I’m kidding. I’m not.
The night passed uneventfully—no, it did not happen the way it happens in 90% of your damn fanfiction. Yes, I’ve read them all. What do you think I do in my office all day? And so I can say with certainty that our dinner did not end up in sudden hot sex all over the table. By the way, fangirls, stop forgetting that I have a bum leg, alright? It won’t be miraculously cured, no matter how much you wish I could be healthy and able to have sex in any and all strange positions.
We had dinner, watched some television, and then I went home. Yes, we sat rather close together for two middle-aged, supposedly heterosexual men. But we were still pretty far apart for my tastes. We didn’t cast glances at each other and then start talking at the same time and embarrassedly smile. I didn’t slowly reach over and take his hand. He didn’t say anything that could be taken sexually and suddenly kiss me. Fantasies are fantasies, alright? If I have to accept it, then you have to accept it!
But it was our dinner conversation that prompted the writing of this letter to all of you. He happened to mention that he’d been browsing the internet the other day—I told him he was scintillating and he said “House…” in that warning tone of his that I get stuck in brain for hours after he uses it. Well, he went on to tell me that he’d found an “interesting story” about us.
My heart stopped, I kid you not. Tachycardia, at the very least. But even by my standards, it’s pretty gauche to die at someone else’s dinner table, so I just nodded really slowly as he told me that some crazy females out there were writing love stories about us.
My first thought was “How many Vicodin do I need to take to put myself out of my misery?” My next thought was “Maybe those stories will influence him into confessing his love for me.” And finally, I was left with the ugly truth that, in the end, my dearest friend James Wilson can be rather thick.
By the end of the night, I was neither dead nor lying on my back in his bed, contentedly smoking an aftermath cigarette while he curled up next to me, looking quite satisfied. By the end of the night, I was having sex with no one but myself. I didn’t even want to call for a hooker. I mean, what was the point? Every friggan hooker in this city knows who I am by now. I can’t just ask for a man this time, give my neighbor’s address, and hope they don’t put two and two together.
That’s not the point. The point is that I’m afraid of Wilson seeing something he shouldn’t. I don’t want him to be scared away by your frighteningly detailed accounts of our sexual exploits. I would rather tell him myself that I want to plunge my manhood into him—I’d rather it didn’t come from the hands of a sixteen year old girl. All it takes is for him to stumble onto the wrong story—to actually read what’s being written—and he’ll become awkward and uncomfortable around me, and trust me, I will hold each and every one of you personally responsible.
So do us all a favor.
Write Chase/Foreman Yaoi instead.
Dr. Gregory House