Dear Chloé, An Apology

My Dear Chloé,

Regarding the matter of my lack of self control, I can only offer you my full and unreserved apology. Of course, there can be no excuse for my aberrant behaviour. All I have in my defence would be an explanation of how in my state of tiredness I perhaps misconstrued and misread your signals.

As you knew, it had been my misfortune to have been decorating all day. Such physical toil is quite outside a gentleman's charter and I fear such labour was a shock to the system. It left me quite dizzy with tiredness. It is possible that in this state, my judgement was clouded.

I was so pleased to receive your invitation for supper and I journeyed to your shire with a light heart and raised spirit.

I am, I fear, a slave to beauty. Beauty devastates and lays waste all reason. When I disembarked from the carriage and saw you standing there in the doorway, with my defences already weakened by tiredness, I quite forgot myself. Your charming form had all manner razed and etiquette relinquished. If you were not so beautiful, I would not have been be so wounded. For this, you must see that you struck the first blow. How could I not kiss you?

Dearest Chloé, how many French Francs have changed hands for haute couture that will fall on frame not one thousandth as delightful as yours? But you know this. Only you would wear a fifty Franc scrap of summer, found on a market stall in Paris and knowingly mock and undo Channel, Gaultier and Dior.

Did God and angels conspire in the creation of your form? Did God instruct angels to collect the paths swallows trace in the sky? Did he then throw away all but the most graceful and fashion those left with the sole intention of undoing kind man?

Who called for the setting sun on that terrace, and who asked for it to dance on your cheeks and fall asleep in your lap? Who asked it to fall down your slender arms, roll down your golden thighs and kiss your dainty feet. Did you ask for those highlights of distraction stealing my gaze.

You knew all along as you sat there with your coltish legs playing across my lap, you knew that my mind had slipped its reins and I was unharnessed from reason and you did nothing but sip your wine and stretch and curl against me. It was not really my fault that my fingers had to walk in the path of my sight. Tracing the swallow's path from ankle to thigh. You never asked me to stop, when my hand found itself twisted in your hair, for you had implicitly invited it there.

-o-

Why did you arch and sigh when I pulled your hair tight?

Why did your thighs fall open with no sign of a fight?

Why did your eyes close as if lost in your dreams?

And why did you gush all over my jeans?

-o-

I implore you to consider what we consider as fair.

I think you were at fault as much as me there.

In my arms I bore you to your maiden bed,

And fucked your arse, as surely as you fucked my head.

-o-

(It was most uncomfortable dining with the wet patch)

My dearest dearest Chloé, You do spoil me my dear, really you do. The terrace, the sounds of Johann Sebastian Bach. A table of candles under the canopy of the night sky and the perfect Niçoise salad and accompanying wine. But why did your conversation have to be so gay? And why did your eyes sparkle so, did you [b]want[/b] to cause such dismay? Once again my pretty one, surely you can see, surely you'll concede, It's your fucking fault and not mine that I had to fuck you indeed.

Well at this stage I'm beginning to realise that I have been duped and placed under a spell. The more I give consideration to this matter, the less I am of the opinion that it is I that needs to apologise. Did I not help remove plates to the kitchen? Was that not the act of a kind gentle man? And once again upon our return, it was [b]you[/b] that fell to your knees when all I did was caress your neck. and it was [b]your mouth[/b] that opened when I pressed the back of your head.

Oh I am lost! I really do not understand! Perhaps my mother was right that women are devious things and nothing has changed since Adam was offered that apple by Eve.

So I can only conclude you asked for this all. I came to you last night with thoughts of supper and no more. It was you that tricked me into such play, It was you that asked me to stay. And me in my tired and much wretched state, I was powerless to resist the architect of my fate.

-o-

The woman was cruel and did not give a damn.

You agree she was unkind to this compromised man?

But no, no quarter shown from this whore.

This little slut creature woke me at four.

-o-

She told me she longed to feel passion and pain.

My weakened state she scorned with disdain.

She begged and she pleaded and did not give up.

So I fisted her hard to make her shut up.

-o-

Still she continued to whine and protest,

So with free hand I lay into her face and her breasts.

"the fair sex"?, I think not, its really a farce.

So I finished her off with a dose in her arse.

-o-

Reader you are with me are you not? You do understand that I am the injured party? And would you not think that by 5:30am a cup of reviving tea to send me on my way would all be that was called for? But no, she took advantage of me in my vulnerable state once more. You see, I have a terribly sad affliction, an illness you might say, I often rise when I awake at the break of day.

-o-

Her fingers were quick to discover my plight.

She cared not a jot for my long hard day's night.

She wriggled and giggled and pushed herself back.

What else could I do, but go on the attack?

-o-

Well now I have had time to order my thoughts and the distance to gain some perspective, I feel it appropriate to review the issue of an unreserved apology to Chloé and I find that that unreserved really ought to go into reverse.

-o-

On consideration of her crimes and mine,

Beauty outguns reason ev'ery time.

It was all the girl's fault, that's quite plain to see.

The trollop should surely say sorry to me!

-o-