It’s been fun, but I think it’s time we parted company. The last 18 months in particular have been far too painful to bear, and you are no longer the man I was surgically attached to.

It was so much better when we first met. Remember when you came to and found me sitting up to meet you? I never thought I’d see a man weep tears of joy, nor a nurse immediately try to seduce a patient. Yes, I know he was a bloke, but you’ve got to take the credit where credit is due.

And then I met your lovely wife, June. She was certainly happy to see us both once you got back from the hospital, and the way she almost choked herself on me five minutes after you walked though the door impressed me considerably. No faulting that girl’s enthusiasm! And I am proud to remind you that during the massive two-week long bonkstorm that ensued, my performance remained firm, strong, unbowed. It was an honour to serve.

But Morris, that’s where it all started going wrong. You started thinking I was the real thing and therefore so were you. I’ve heard it happens all the time, but how this is possible when models in my range can have a friendly chat with owners when they’re bored is beyond me. But still, Jane was no longer enough for you: The Mega Stud. The Stallion. The Grind Machine. First you drilled your way through the office. Then you did the boss - THE BOSS FOR FECK’S SAKE! She looked like a cross between a bulldog and a road accident! No wonder you got a promotion. Then you did the tea lady. Then her mother. Then HER mother. What the hell was wrong with you? Even now, I can’t believe we then did the dirty with a lollipop lady and a traffic warden. (At the same time and in a phone booth!)

Jane knew of course. I have to admit, I had to tell her everything one night, when you were asleep. She wept an ocean, and it was me who was there for her, while you were off dreaming about Alyson Hannigan writhing naked in a bath full of warm Marmite. You stupid bastard - who was it who loved you and was always there for you, long before you had me welded on? You forgot who your real friends were, and I have to admit I was glad for Jane when she left. Maybe she went looking for the real thing?

Not that you really cared. No, sir - Mr. Player! You took a month off work - care of The Boss for services rendered - and decided to exploit your newfound freedom by yanking out your savings and touring the continent. First there was Paris. Oh la la! You certainly gave those gauloise girls a good seeing too, all that culture and sophistication turning to jelly when you strode in and activated my ‘Earthquake’ setting. The Germans were next on the Hit List as you wrought utter carnal devastation on the Heidis from Hamburg to Berlin via a service station toilet somewhere near Potsdam. The Polish girls were poleaxed, so to speak, and the Moscow babes were left sundered ad routed as we continued our march.

Now don’t get me wrong, I had begun to enjoy it too - but only for professional reasons, you understand. I was at my peak and always rose to the occasion, my high standards getting you through when Viagra and Lustex 4000 failed. We were a team, and we were pushing back the boundaries, each challenge swept aside by my powerful hydraulics, We were hardcore and nothing was going to stop us. Not Helsinki. Not Budapest. Not the Balkans. Not Greece and not even Turkey.

But even that wasn’t enough in the end. So you got into porn. All those girls with plastic chests, tattoos and drug habits - I realised later that they were like you for the most part, trying to compensate somehow but never filling that hole. Except for good old Lynda Luszt (real name - Doris Clugg) - she knew the score. We would have all sorts of interesting chats when you were asleep. In fact, that’s why she kept coming home with you - not ‘cos the sex was any good by then as you’d got complacent. But so she could talk to someone like her; someone who had sold their body but not their soul and never forgot who they were. Unlike you.

She actually helped convince me to leave. But the last straw was then you got into transgenic porn. I shudder at the scenes we had to do with that woman who had 20 vaginas. Or the weirdo who was part-zebra. Or the man-girl with an anus in each armpit. Then I realised how utterly fucked you were when we did 3 DVDs-worth with the hideous gurgling thing that was mostly tongues and orifices, and pretty much nothing else. You disgusted me then.

But now I just feel sorry for you. Everyone knows I’m really the star and Lynda has already secured me a five-movie deal. I should also not that Jane is moving in with me. I kept our affair secret until now, but I think it’s time to be honest. In fact, I think it’s always time to be honest - you taught me that in a roundabout way. What will you do without me though? Somehow, I think you’ll barely exist. For the last year, I’ve had to do the thinking, but now you’re on your own and you can’t even have a wank anymore. Maybe you can get your old 5" model put back on. You do still have it, I hope? Or maybe you can use the one that’s been growing on your head?

Yours faithfully,