Mr. Mayer:

I would like to start by stating for the record that I did once enjoy your music.  I heard “No Such Thing” on the radio one day in high school and as a repressed, straight-laced teen, the lyrics “They love to tell you ‘Stay inside the lines’/But something better’s on the other side” resonated with me more than all the WB shows running that season (even early One Tree Hill!).

For a long time afterwards, I was a very vocal fan.  It would be difficult to find a moment in the car when I wasn’t singing along to something from Room for Squares or Heavier Things.  I was a total romantic and it was that quality in your songs that drew me to them.  When the majority of songs on the radio were about one night stands and nameless women, I heard words about love and heartbreak that clicked for me.

Yes, I even liked “Your Body is a Wonderland.”

Then I read about your personal life and it seemed replete with those things your songs hadn’t been about, those one night stands and nameless women.  It was enough to make me yell “Hypocrite!” with finger pointed.  It was enough to make me stop singing to your songs.  It was enough to stop me from listening.

But that’s not why I’m writing to you today.  No, that’s just background, for the interest of the people.  That was teen Jerome.  Twenty-something Jerome doesn’t care about your duality – no.

I just want you to not have sex with everyone.

Taylor Swift then Miley Cyrus? Look, man – I’ll be the first to give you a high five (it is awesome), but taking this in the wider context of all the other women you’ve had relations with whose hair I’ll never even be able to smell, it’s more than a little disconcerting.

The bottom line is that, more than likely, your penis doesn’t necessarily discriminate between a famous vagina and a non-famous vagina.

I just figure it, you know, finds a vagina and goes to town, net worth be damned.  And with the wide swath you seem to be cutting through the female population, my once paranoid delusion is quickly becoming a reasonable concern: every woman on earth will eventually have had sex with John Mayer.

Let me get this straight: I’m not some guy with Victorian attitudes about two-backed beasts.  But Mr. Mayer, I implore you: stop having sex now. Please.

Your staggering number of conquests places a psychic burden on mere mortals like myself, affecting our intrinsic self-worth.  Honestly, you’ve probably had more sex at this point than most people ever will.

I’m entirely certain you can subsist on your countless memories of sexual encounters.  I just don’t want to continue ending my first dates by asking, “Have you had sex with John Mayer?” because it always ends with either a splash of water on my face or a “Yes.”

I would really appreciate it if you could do me this solid because you’re a funny guy and I’d like to be friends.

And maybe you could hook a brother up if you know what I mean.

Yours sincerely,

Jerome

P.S. I was referring to sex.