Oh, take me, John Mayer! Lead me into your lair of tell-all romance and cheesy pop songwriting and show me what it means to be alive. Your sensuous lips, your earnest attempts at artistry, your lover man rep have failed as yet to pique my curiosity. Until now, when I can no longer turn the rest of the world up loud enough to drown out reports of your manic, ex-girlfriend dissing Tweets or your face harassing me from magazine covers. You have wanted to imprint your name into the nation’s psyche and you have succeeded, by God. You have seeped into my brain. You are in my soul.
First, you were generous enough to spread your luscious seed among the most magnificent females our culture has on offer: Jennifer Love Hewitt, Jessica Simpson, Lindsay Lohan. Goddesses all! Next, you charmed the Queen of Broken Hearts, the unfortunate Jennifer Aniston. And we have been lucky to have you share with us every detail of the affair, including its tragic end brought on by your valiant quest to find the “Joshua Tree of vaginas” and your “tweeting too much.” Indeed, dear John, the world is a cruel place for lovers.
And now, the admiration you have garnered for your records, your multitude of talents, even your philanthropic gestures has been buried by your douche-baggery. In a Rolling Stone article from January, you admitted women have begun to consider “blowing me off [as] the new sucking me off.” You let us in on the relentlessness of your own masturbation, how the act is a “hot whirlpool for my brain” and that you’ve masturbated yourself “out of serious problems.”
In a recent issue of Playboy, you tell us how much you love porn and how the immensely gifted and unmistakably Venusian Jessica Simpson was your drug, a “sexual napalm” of a woman you say you wanted to “snort,” a celestial being for whom you would “start selling all my shit just to keep fucking.”
I can’t understand why any woman would repel your advances. You, John Mayer, are a dream.
But I must admit you’ve hurt me, dear friend. When asked about your affairs with black women, you said, “I don’t think I open myself to it. My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I’ve got a Benetton heart and a fuckin’ David Duke cock.”
I would call you an asshole but that might play into your self-aggrandizing need to be reviled. I would call you a racist, but I can only imagine how painful it must be for a soul as sensitive and good as yours to have a bigot living in your pants.
Unfortunately, I’ve been involved with men like you, most notably my very first boyfriend. Peter was also desperate for attention and desperate to rid himself of his own psychological chaos by thrusting his private thoughts into the world. Like you, he chipped away so masterfully at his own inner censor, he offended everyone in sight. In childhood, he’d been a nerdy, anxiety-ridden fatso no girl would kiss, until, like you, he miraculously turned into a swan. Thus, he became an insecure playboy who went through women like a chubby kid goes through soda pop. He was non-committal, he was lousy in bed, he was a jerk. And, like you, women adored him until he started to implode.
I suppose this letter is for you and all the men in the world like you. John, you are no ladies’ man. You are an awkward, insecure kid. You are still the sad boy who could only experience erotic pleasure all alone beneath his Star Wars bed sheets.
Perhaps you need friends instead of Twitter followers. Perhaps you need women who are intellectual powder kegs rather than “sexual napalm.” Perhaps you need to get your shit together so you can be the person you seem to want to be.
I offer you the same sympathy I offer Peter and all the men I’ve known who were stuck in their own angst. I’m glad you’ve found music as a receptacle for the frustration in your soul. But why must it be women who receive your bile?