Dear Connie,
I know the counselor said we shouldn't contact each other during our
"cooling off" period, but I couldn't wait anymore. The day you left, I
swore
I'd never talk to you again. But that was just the wounded little boy in
me
talking. Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In
my
fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess
my
pride needed that. But now I see that my pride has cost me a lot of
things.
I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you. I don't care about looking bad
anymore. I don't care who makes the first move as long as one of us
does.
Maybe it's time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. And this
is
what my heart says "There's no one like you, Connie." I look for you in
the
eyes and breasts of every woman I see, but they're not you. They're not
even
close. Two weeks ago, I met this girl at Flamingos and brought her home
with
me. I don't say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my
desperation.
She was young, maybe 19, with one of those perfect bodies that only
youth
and maybe a childhood spent ice skating can give you. I mean, just a
perfect
body. Tits like you wouldn't believe and an ass that just wouldn't quit.
Every man's dream, right? But as I sat on the couch being blown by this
stunner, I thought, look at the stuff we've made important in our lives.
It's all so superficial.
What does a perfect body mean? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in
this
case, yes, but you see what I'm getting at. Does it make her a better
person? Does she have a better heart than my moderately attractive
Connie? I
doubt it. And I'm never really thought of that before.
I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up a little. Later, after I'm
tossed
her about a half a pint of throat yogurt, I found myself thinking, "Why
do I
feel so drained and empty?" It wasn't just her flawless technique or her
slutty, shameless hunger, but something else. Some nagging feeling of
loss.
Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn't feel the
same
because you weren't there to watch. Do you know what I mean? Nothing
feels
the same without you. Jesus, Connie, I'm just going crazy without you.
And
everything I do just reminds me of you.
Do you remember Carol, that single mom we met at the Holiday Inn lounge
last
year? Well, she dropped by last week with a pan of lasagna. She said she
figured I wasn't eating right without a woman around. I didn't know what
she
meant till later, but that's not the real story.
Anyway, we had a few glasses of wine and the next thing you know, we're
banging away in our old bedroom. And this tart's a total monster in the
sack. She's giving me everything, you know, like a real woman does when
she's not hung up about her weight or her career and whether the kids
can
hear us. And all of a sudden, she spots that tilting mirror on your
grandmother's old vanity. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle
it,
right, so we can watch ourselves. And it's totally hot, but it makes me
sad,
too. Cause I can't help thinking, "Why didn't Connie ever put the mirror
on
the floor? We've had this old vanity for what, 14 years, and we never
used
it as a sex toy."
Saturday, your sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I
mean, Vicky's just a kid and all, but she's got a pretty good head on
her
shoulders and she's been a real friend to me during this painful time.
She's
given me lots of good advice about you and about women in general. She's
pulling for us to get back together, Connie, she really is. So we're
doing
Jell-O shots in a hot bubble bath and talking about happier times.
Here's
this teenage girl with the same DNA as you and all I can do is think of
how
much she looked like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me
cry.
And then it turns out Vicky's really into the whole anal thing, that
gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how that probably fuelled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see
how even then, when I'm thrusting inside your baby sister's cinnamon ring,
all I can do is think of you. It's true, Connie. In your heart you must know
it. Don't you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances
away
and start fresh? I think we can.
If you feel the same please, please, please let me know.
Otherwise, can you let me know where the f*cking remote is.
Love, Dan
I know the counselor said we shouldn't contact each other during our
"cooling off" period, but I couldn't wait anymore. The day you left, I
swore
I'd never talk to you again. But that was just the wounded little boy in
me
talking. Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In
my
fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess
my
pride needed that. But now I see that my pride has cost me a lot of
things.
I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you. I don't care about looking bad
anymore. I don't care who makes the first move as long as one of us
does.
Maybe it's time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. And this
is
what my heart says "There's no one like you, Connie." I look for you in
the
eyes and breasts of every woman I see, but they're not you. They're not
even
close. Two weeks ago, I met this girl at Flamingos and brought her home
with
me. I don't say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my
desperation.
She was young, maybe 19, with one of those perfect bodies that only
youth
and maybe a childhood spent ice skating can give you. I mean, just a
perfect
body. Tits like you wouldn't believe and an ass that just wouldn't quit.
Every man's dream, right? But as I sat on the couch being blown by this
stunner, I thought, look at the stuff we've made important in our lives.
It's all so superficial.
What does a perfect body mean? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in
this
case, yes, but you see what I'm getting at. Does it make her a better
person? Does she have a better heart than my moderately attractive
Connie? I
doubt it. And I'm never really thought of that before.
I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up a little. Later, after I'm
tossed
her about a half a pint of throat yogurt, I found myself thinking, "Why
do I
feel so drained and empty?" It wasn't just her flawless technique or her
slutty, shameless hunger, but something else. Some nagging feeling of
loss.
Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn't feel the
same
because you weren't there to watch. Do you know what I mean? Nothing
feels
the same without you. Jesus, Connie, I'm just going crazy without you.
And
everything I do just reminds me of you.
Do you remember Carol, that single mom we met at the Holiday Inn lounge
last
year? Well, she dropped by last week with a pan of lasagna. She said she
figured I wasn't eating right without a woman around. I didn't know what
she
meant till later, but that's not the real story.
Anyway, we had a few glasses of wine and the next thing you know, we're
banging away in our old bedroom. And this tart's a total monster in the
sack. She's giving me everything, you know, like a real woman does when
she's not hung up about her weight or her career and whether the kids
can
hear us. And all of a sudden, she spots that tilting mirror on your
grandmother's old vanity. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle
it,
right, so we can watch ourselves. And it's totally hot, but it makes me
sad,
too. Cause I can't help thinking, "Why didn't Connie ever put the mirror
on
the floor? We've had this old vanity for what, 14 years, and we never
used
it as a sex toy."
Saturday, your sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I
mean, Vicky's just a kid and all, but she's got a pretty good head on
her
shoulders and she's been a real friend to me during this painful time.
She's
given me lots of good advice about you and about women in general. She's
pulling for us to get back together, Connie, she really is. So we're
doing
Jell-O shots in a hot bubble bath and talking about happier times.
Here's
this teenage girl with the same DNA as you and all I can do is think of
how
much she looked like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me
cry.
And then it turns out Vicky's really into the whole anal thing, that
gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how that probably fuelled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see
how even then, when I'm thrusting inside your baby sister's cinnamon ring,
all I can do is think of you. It's true, Connie. In your heart you must know
it. Don't you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances
away
and start fresh? I think we can.
If you feel the same please, please, please let me know.
Otherwise, can you let me know where the f*cking remote is.
Love, Dan
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