Yo Vinnie,
I went to this guy's house. He started playing the piano. And singing along while he played. Elton John tunes I believe. We engaged in some heavy frottage. He looked into my eyes. Deeply. It'd have been funny except he was so deadly serious. And Italian. We smoked a joint. And I really wanted to but I drew the line at fucking him though as I was having my period, but can I forgive the piano serenade on the outside chance that the sex will be good? And will it be worth it? Oh. After he played the piano he turned on some TV. Joan Baez concerts. -- R.N., (by email)

I CRIED. YES. I ACTUALLY CRIED WHEN I SAW YOU TODAY. YOU LOOKED BEAUTIFUL. LIKE JOAN BAEZ. I...I WROTE A SONG ABOUT IT WHICH I WILL NOW PLAY FOR YOU IMMEDIATELY PRIOR TO BONING YOU & NEVER CALLING YOU AGAIN.

Dear SEE JANE RUN, RUN JANE RUN: The hom-o-meter was redlining like there was nothing left but red and line upon being exposed to the raw unadulterated and flaming ass of faggotry brought to bear in your aforementioned scenarios. The Elton John. The Joan Baez. The singing. The joint. The Joan Baez. The dry humping (we can't bring ourselves to use the word frottage seriously without thinking of dairy products that go well with lettuce). The eye looking. The Joan Baez. The fact that he even owned a piano spells nothing but that which smells like man lover.

BUT WAIT....

You did say he was Italian didn't you? Hmmm...wait, wait, wait....You know, without that last little tidbit we'd be certain like curtains of the momoization of said seduction scenario but finding out he's one of the Sons of Fucking Napoli can mean one thing and one thing only: this is a highly, highly, HIGHLY sophisticated pussy getting ploy the likes of which you will only find in sub-chapter III of appendix 502 of the Pro Player's Handbook. Ahhhh, yessss...it's the ol' Decoyizing of the True Sausage Intent Through Progressively Higher Adoptions of Fagmatic Reality.

Genius. Bone him. You will not regret it.