Woman's leaked email chronicles her one-night stand with Quentin Tarantino

If you're a valued member of the Entertainment Industry, this might be old hat to you, but it's certainly news to the rest of us: a leaked email from a woman eager to share her alleged one-night stand with Quentin Tarantino has been circulating around Hollywood. Of course, like so many other salacious stories about regular people having sexual encounters with public personalities, the racy email (not to mention pictures of pictures taken in a photo booth that night, shown above) has fallen into Gawker's grubby, carpal-tunnel'd hands. In the future, retired bloggers will have the ugliest knuckles!

The email is full of awkward details and cringe-inducing scene-setting ("this party now presents a conundrum"), but because we know you don't come here to read amateur erotica, we've edited the tale down to make it at least somewhat bearable. We'll pick up about four paragraphs and 173 name-drops after our anonymous heroine tells us, "QT puts an arm around me and I'm acutely aware that Quentin Tarantino has an arm around me." 

After a lengthy film discussion, Quentin suggests we head to bed, which is the point where I really start panicking. [...] We make out some more, there's a little below the belt action that I try to avoid, as QT has the most unattractive penis I have ever seen (short. fat. nub-like. The chode of all chodes. Boys, those junior high pamphlets are lying when they say that all shapes and sizes are normal. Lying.) Just as I'm about to hyperventilate over the fact that he may try to put that horrific bodily implement anywhere near my Britney, he leans over and goes "Hey..."

I know this "Hey." This is the "Hey, should I get a condom?" hey that accompanies 20 minutes of ungratifying sex. As I'm trying to rapidly think of ways I can agent myself out of this deal, I hear what is without a doubt, the strangest question in the history of my life.

Quentin Tarantino asks, "Can I suck on your toes while I jerk off?"

What. The. Fuck.

"What. The. Fuck." indeed! Wait, what's that you say? You want more of this? Gross! But okay:

And thus began the weirdest ten minutes of my life - having my feet made out with by an Oscar winning filmmaker while he pleasured himself. Truth be told, it wasn't so bad. I didn't have to do anything (a nice bonus, since I am undoubtedly the laziest person in bed, which some of you can attest to), no bodily secretions were ejected anywhere near me or my feet (thank god, because I imagine it would feel like walking in sand with wet I fucking hate that), and just as I hoped, we went to bed right after.

If you must, feel free to head on over to Gawker and read the email in its (redacted) entirety. We'll be waiting right here, as we've already promised ourselves we'd never go back there again.