The rest must be distracted by my hypnotizing set of DD’s.

I’m only writing this as an opportunity to clear up a few fallacies in a Pulitzer nominated short story “Manface,” now that it is published on the author's personal website as well as collegestories.com.

My name is Emma, and I am the one and only Manface. It shames me to admit that ultimately his account is based on factual events, but I found it necessary to refute his outlandish interpretation of events with my (accurate) version of that fateful encounter…

It all began one fall evening while checking my heinously addicting Myspace account when I received a random email from a polite young gentleman in Arizona named “Theo Huxtable,” inquiring about some cool places to go in Seattle.

While under normal circumstances I would have deleted this email immediately, particularly after viewing his photos, his page happened to be blaring one of my favorite Bette Midler songs.

So I took a chance, read his info and decided that despite his lack of general attractiveness, I was impressed with his usage of appropriately clever analogies in his exaggerated life tales and would patronize this random Myspace loser. Thus began an innocent internet friendship that consisted of nothing more than comparing our weekend happenings, bonding over a shared love of alcohol, sarcasm, and basketball and planning our future wedding… not to mention he repeatedly complaining about his psycho cling-on ex-girlfriend.

After about 6 months of this silly courtship, he informed me that he would be visiting Seattle shortly and was looking forward to consummating the relationship once he arrived.

It was a Friday evening and I received the text that he and his friends would be patronizing a club I often frequented. Though I was a bit hesitant, I managed to convince my friend Mary to accompany me, somehow sparing myself the deep and burning shame I would feel if I had to admit I was meeting someone from the internet.

We arrived fairly late after drinking heavily in the cab, sucked down some shots, and took to befriending him and his cohorts. Despite being such a “gargantuan beast,” he seemed pleased to meet me and stayed at my side while a few of his friends tried spitting some game at Mary.

His assertion that 100 out of 100 guys would have run away at first sight of me is the first blaring fallacy in this tale, as I can assure you I have no problem receiving attention or getting laid should I choose to. I will be the first to admit this may have more to do with the fact that the “only decent aspect of my entire body” (i.e. my rack) does most of the negotiating for me, I would place this figure more around say, 46 out of 100, as those 46 are assuredly turned off by my irritating resemblance to the crack whore Courtney Love. The rest must be distracted by my hypnotizing set of DD’s.

Back to the story, the club was closing and I informed Theo that I was returning to Mary’s apartment. He invited himself and his friends over, so we grabbed a couple cabs and began our journey, which was indeed highlighted by an entertaining freestyle rap session between Frian, my pen pal, and our Arabian cab driver set to the background of some over-exposed rap song.

Once we arrived, I was the first to notice an intense lovemaking session in progress in the back of a car, which I would later discover would be the apex of any X-rated occurrences that evening. After the boys harassed our unwilling amateur porn stars for a few minutes, we headed upstairs.

We were barely settled in, when to offset the increasing awkwardness I felt I decided to double-fist a glass of Riesling and a beer. After 15 or 20 minutes of socializing, Mary went to bed and all of his friends simultaneously departed, without any mention as to how their dear visitor was to get home.

There I was, completely hammered and alone in the living room of my friend’s one-bedroom apartment with the odd-looking object of my internet desire. Before I could exclaim Holy Forehead Batman! my new friend had completely disrobed us both and was ready to embark on some sweet love-making.

While those who know him are fully familiar with his propensity for extreme exaggeration, it was at this time that I was wholly discouraged to discover that his repeated comparison of the size of his penis to a baby carrot rang clearly and unfortunately true.

As I was not in the most coherent state of mind, I did not let his shortcomings, per se, deter me and we started fornicating right there on the ivory-carpeted floor. Now up until this point, he and I had exchanged but few words.

However, it was at this moment that he decided to strike up some sort of perturbed conversation with me by asking me repeatedly “Yeah? Yeah? You like that baby? Yeah? Yeah? Yeah? Let go baby. Yeah? Yeah? Yeah?”

Normally in this condition of drunkenness my conversation skills are at their height, but being rammed with a baby carrot by a complete stranger while concurrently receiving abrasive rug burns on my entire backside left me with little to say in return. I then decided that maybe if I turned around it would inspire him to cease this unsettling line of questioning for me.

This is where his story takes a most inaccurate turn, as he claims that he was then met with an enormous dingleberry hanging from my asshole. Now I’m not sure how a dingleberry is defined down there in Arizona, but to my knowledge the definition is a shit-ridden chunk of toilet paper that becomes innocently entangled in one’s asshole hairs during improper wipage.

Seeing as how I was meeting my future husband that weekend, as any proud female would do I spent that Friday morning ensuring that every nook, cranny, and crevice of my genital area was properly Naired and/or shaven. Therefore, the mere assertion that my hair-free asshole might have latched on to some unsuspecting TP is scientifically impossible.

Regardless, we quickly gave up on that position after he realized that his lack of endowment could only be compensated by a good half hour of mercilessly finger-banging me, which he most obviously has become very skilled at out of necessity. I then proceeded to pass out on my dear friend’s now-soiled carpet with him affectionately spooning me from behind.

But a few hours later, I was awoken by a tiny prick in my back as he appeared to be ready for round two. The sun was rising but I was still intoxicated and feeling a tad groggy, so I agreed to endure a tad more poking. Little did I know I was about experience a horror I thought only occurred in underground fetish pornography, for as he removed his little guy from my love cave, he somehow managed to spew his man juice directly into my eyeball.

As if this was not bad enough, this freakish goo was about the consistency of month-old cream cheese. Being the extremely polite and caring young lady I am, I first attempted to blink it away and pretend like it didn’t happen, as to not make him feel guilty or uncomfortable.

Unfortunately, what I didn’t realize was that this thick substance would cause an intense burning sensation similar to one’s first experience with isopropyl alcohol on a freshly skinned knee. After a few minutes of itching and twitching, I realized the only way to quell the extreme discomfort was to go back to sleep, in turn ignoring his requests for a ride home.

I awoke a while later to his absence. However, I was more concerned with stopping by the drugstore to pick up an economy-sized tube of Visine and also arriving to work on time, where I shrugged off my inflamed, bloodshot eye and informed my co-workers I had mysteriously contracted a rampant case of conjunctivitis.

Luckily after this weekend, my vision returned to normal and he and I lost contact somewhat, except for a random text here and there concerning my optometric health, until one afternoon in June I happened upon his website. As soon as I began reading “Manface” I immediately realized it was about me and stared at my computer screen in shock as the insults and false embarrassments piled on.

Once I finished, I sat still, not knowing whether to laugh, cry, or hook a hose up to my exhaust pipe and spend the evening alone in my car. So I cried, and as any sane person would do, decided to comfort myself with my two very best friends; Vodka and Tequila. Six hours and a fifth and a half later, my liquid courage decided it was time to confront the source of this binge with a barrage of text messages declaring my heartbreak over becoming the subject of one of his hilarious adventures.

He then had the audacity to respond that no one would know who it’s about, despite meeting a dozen or so of his friends and acquaintances that evening, and that I “thought it was funny when it was about other girls” (for the record, finger-banging a retarded girl is very disturbing….) followed by multiple apologies and an assurance that the story would be taken off his website within a few days. Apparently he was not expecting the success and positive feedback that his night with me would provide.

After discovering this lovely story has now been read over 15,000 times, I figured I may as well tell my side, as my supposed dingle-berried ass is going down in infamy with the residents of the greater Phoenix area. All that I’m left with is an utter disdain for my favorite childhood movie, an incessant twitching in my right eye at the sight or smell of baby carrots, and a recently filled prescription for Prozac.

As you wish. As you wish.