I know this looks bad, but I’m telling you the God-honest truth here. I am breaking up with you after four dates, yes, but it’s not because you just told me you’re impotent. It’s because, John, you are a fucking asshole.
I know the timing is awkward here, but honestly, my decision to stop dating you has nothing to do with your hereditary medical condition. I might have preferred to learn about it under different circumstances, but that’s neither here nor there.
It was a really low blow for you to say that the reason I didn’t respond to your booty-call texts last night was because you can’t achieve an erection. I’m not going to get into details here, John, but suffice it to say that I am not picky when it comes to the booty. I do not mind getting creative with the booty—in fact, I enjoy it. Booty outside the box is still good booty. No, the reason I didn’t respond to your 32 texts was because I had to work today, it was 3:30 in the morning, and you’re a fucking asshole.
Sure, all my previous boyfriends have been able to have intercourse in a conventional manner, but complications downstairs are not a dealbreaker for me. You know who I think is hot? Stephen Hawking. Stephen fucking Hawking. And you know why he’s hot? Not because he has six-pack abs or a hot throbbing cock, but because he’s smart and sophisticated and, unlike you, asshole, he would never leave the server at the Red Dragon a one-cent tip.
I know, I didn’t look happy when you told me about your condition. But here’s the thing, John. When I surprise you at your cubicle with a beer from the break room fridge and I find Kirsten from accounting sitting on your lap, the best way to handle that situation is not by saying, “We’re not doing anything! I’m impotent.”
However you want to do it, John, you can go fuck yourself.