(Author's note: Oh good, you've found them, then: the letters you've been waiting for (...or maybe not!). It took me a while to persuade him to let me publish them, but he came around in the end. Now, if you haven't read the start of my autobiography - 'Some Day, All This Will Be Yours' - you won't have a clue what I'm talking about. But never mind; all you really need to know is that after we'd been together for about six months, the man I love was suddenly posted overseas to Paris, France: an offer he couldn't refuse. These are the letters and emails we exchanged immediately after that awful, wrenching separation. If you want to get to know me a little better before reading the letters, I suggest you read 'Some Day, All This Will Be Yours'. It's up to you.
Oh, and if you're expecting a story about condoms (though I can't imagine why you should be!), this isn't it.)
***
Virginia,
Sunday, May 7th, 2017.
My dear darling love,
Oh, where have you gone? I have never felt so bereft in my entire life! I watched your plane take off (at least, I think it was your plane, but it's hard to be sure these days) and then I drove back home with tears in my eyes (not recommended by the highway patrol!). I immediately stripped off all my clothes (you know my taste for nudity) and went through every room in the house looking for you. Not there, of course. You were at 35,000 feet above Newfoundland or some other godforsaken place, probably eating plastic chicken and watching a crummy movie. And - worst of all - leaving me at 500 miles an hour! I tried to remember all the times we'd made love in each room, but that just made me miss you all the more keenly.
But then (Oh, you lovely man!) there came a knock at the front door (I must get that doorbell fixed). Not really thinking too clearly - my mind was overflowing with thoughts of you - I grabbed a tea-towel to cover my nakedness (Don't laugh! I was in the kitchen) and opened the door. There stood a florist's delivery guy (on a Sunday, no less! What did that cost you?) holding a beautiful big bunch of red roses! (You know I like alliteration...and flowers!) I knew at once they must be from you, sent from the airport before you left. Oh, you lovely man! Overcome with delight and still not thinking too clearly, I dropped my tea-towel, threw my arms around the poor boy's neck and kissed him. I don't think he was used to having a naked woman throw herself into his arms on the doorstep in broad daylight. I thought to myself: 'Delivering flowers is a tough job, but somebody has to do it'. But in case you're wondering... No, I didn't invite him in for a quickie (which I might have done before I met you). He was only a lad and, blushing furiously, he beat a hasty retreat. I gave him a full frontal "Sorry!" and waved my roses at him from the doorstep.
And now I'm sitting up in bed, writing this to you. Your roses are beside our mirror, where I can see them every time I look up, and - thanks to you - I'm feeling much less miserable. As soon as you let me know where to send this letter, I'll get it in the mail. We can get through this...well, we have to, don't we?
All my love (and I mean that).
***
Paris
Monday, May 8th, 2017.
My love,
God... I hate flying these days! And particularly flying away from you. I was flying on Virgin Airlines - I've always liked the name. Did I ever tell you that I once worked as an advertising copywriter, and I still tend to think in slogans: 'Virgin Airlines: We won't go all the way!' Hmm... Maybe that's why I was fired; what d'you think?
The dinner tasted like plastic - I wonder what it might have been when it was alive?... if it ever was. I knew that no in-flight movie could possibly compete with my memories of you, so instead I closed my eyes and re-ran my favorite images from that afternoon we spent on Intimacy Island. The sight of your gushing cunt splashing my face is forever burned into my memory, along with your outrageous shouts of "FUCK ME! FUCK ME!" and the answering echoes from the lakeshore. When you stuck your finger into my... (well, you know where!), making me promptly ejaculate deep inside you, the delicious combination of sensations simply blew my mind. I have never felt anything like that! You now know that I have a fetish for intimacy; well, what could possibly be more intimate - or more passionate - than the things we did together that afternoon? Thank you thank you thank you! (Incidentally, my shoulder is healing nicely, but I'm hoping your tooth-marks will leave a permanent scar.)
It was gray and drizzling when we landed at Charles de Gaulle this morning, which suited my mood perfectly. To my surprise, the company had sent a car to meet me, and when I eventually exited immigration I found the driver holding up my name (misspelled, of course... Unless it wasn't me he was supposed to meet... Now, there's a thought!). The early morning drive into Paris was dreary, and the city seemed deserted. In my dreams I'd imagined living near the Bois de Boulogne (you know why!), but instead he took me to a company apartment in the
Cinquième arrondissement
(That's the Latin Quarter to you. See? I'm learning my way around already!). It's an ancient fourth floor walk-up, but with a lovely view over the rooftops of Paris. Apparently this is the student quarter, so maybe life won't be so bad after all. Now, if they'd only pay me what I'm worth...The address, if you want to google it...or maybe even write to me, is [address deleted to maintain privacy - Ed.].
Now I'm going to nip out in the rain, mail this letter, buy a few essentials, and then come back here and go to bed: early, sober, and alone. I know we agreed that holding ourselves (or each other) to celibacy would be unreasonable ("cruel and unusual", I think you said), but at this moment the only person I want is you: you and you alone. If there were another woman waiting naked and panting for me in my bed, I think I'd opt to sleep on the couch. So instead I'm going to masturbate (unless I fall asleep first). And yes...I'll be thinking of you - only you - as I do it. It will take away some of the loneliness.
I love you.
PS. I'll send you my new email address as soon as it's set up.
PPS. I hope you liked the flowers.
***
Virginia,
Sunday, May 14th, 2017.
My dearest darling,
Your letter arrived yesterday, and immediately lifted me from the deepest depths of depression. I've been wallowing in self-pity ever since you left (I know...that doesn't sound a bit like me, does it?), and not even Paul Simon could lift my mood (neither his music nor his 'music' - nudge nudge, wink wink!). But thinking of you looking out across the rooftops of Paris reminded me of Henry Miller's classic erotic novel 'Under the Roofs of Paris', which I think you might enjoy. I re-read it last night and promptly decided to write my own erotic autobiography. You know I've already published a few stories online, but now I want to write about myself, and include that afternoon we spent on Intimacy Island. Are you okay with that? I'll let you see it first, of course, once it's written.
***
Now it's a few hours later and the most amazing thing has just happened! You may not realize this, but you sent me another present! (Oh, you lovely man!) I was sitting up in bed, laptop on midriff as usual, wearing that old skimpy nightie you like so much, and writing this letter to you. (You know I've had that nightie for five years? Time flies when you're having fun!) Anyway, there came a knock at the front door (still no doorbell) and when I opened it, my heart leapt: it was you!... But no, it wasn't. Maybe five years younger, slightly taller, but with your face and hair and the same smiling eyes. You know how much I like dialogue; ours went something like this:
Him (blushing): "Er...Excuse me, miss...Is my brother here?"
Me (shocked): "Who?"
Him (looking sideways): "My brother...Er...He gave me this address..."
Me (catching on: 'God! This must be the little brother he told me about!'): "God! You must be the li... the younger brother he told me about!" ('Just imagine if God had a younger brother', I thought, irreverently).
Him (struggling to keep his eyes away from my all-too-obvious tits): "Er...yes, miss. He said I should look him up when I arrived. Is he here?"
Me (thinking 'He looks just like you, only younger... nice, very nice!'): "No, he's in Paris."
Him (looking worried): "Paris, Virginia? Will he be back this evening, ma'am?"
Me (I preferred 'miss'): "No. Paris, France; and no, he won't. But come on in. Come on, I don't bite!" (except sometimes, I thought). "Here, I'll slip on a robe if that makes you feel any better...There! Now, have a seat and tell me what brings you to my doorstep."
Well, as you probably know, he's just graduating from High School and is here to look at local colleges for next fall, once he's taken a gap year as they call it nowadays. I remember that you'd asked me to take care of him if he ever showed up, and here he is, needing a bed for the night!
We got talking...mostly about you, of course...Well, I got talking. Getting him to talk was like getting blood out of a proverb. You'd told me he was shy, but not that he was Olympic-quality shy! Fleeting eye contact (at best), stammered half-sentences, constant blushing: the whole nine yards! Poor lad; my heart went out to him as I remembered what it felt like to be terrified of talking to people.
