Dear Chris

Oh, you naughty exhibitionist you.

I'm betting that driver is going to get a good tip.

I smile back at my date and bite my lip.

Again I have to really search my brain for words in Farsi. "You know, I am...loud."

Huge grin from my date.

He says something back to me in Farsi, rapid fire. I have no idea what he said but my guess is it's something like, 'hell yeah, if I do my job right.'

And then, it's magic. My hand is on his cock and his mouth is suckling my nipple. I remember reading that Middle Eastern men are the best lovers and that Mediterraneans do it more frequently than any population on earth.

And now I now why.

As in holy cow, don't stop.

I start moaning and grinding against him. His fingers find my core, and, what do you know, his fingers are magic too. I start shaking immediately. I stop moaning as my mouth forms one big 'O' and I'm already onto silent shakes.

After I come he slides into me, pumping in a perfect fury. Just when I'm sure he's going to come he stops. Turns me around, rolls down the window just enough that I see outside. We drive through a rotunda and he takes me hard from behind. His grunts mix with mine and we come together, watching the city.

I collapse, he collapses on top of me. I start to laugh.

I should pay him. He's fucking fantastic.

He knocks on the partition.

Pulls out of me.

Hands me a bottle of water.

Fixes my petticoats, dress, my hair. Kisses me softly.

The car stops. We're back at the party.

"I don't speak Farsi," I say in Farsi. It's the only thing I can think of to say because my mind is so boggled I don't have any words left.

We crack up.

He says something in Farsi. I have no idea what. I assume it's, 'Then my job is done here.'

He slips a card into my little dress purse.

The driver helps me out of the car. He manages to keep a straight face. A true professional.

My date says something to me in French. Thank God it's not Farsi, I've exhausted my vocabulary. It takes me a minute to translate it because my mind is still not working properly.

Ah, 'The white limo is not back yet. Do you want to wait? Do you want me to get you that taxi?'

I feel like I should get while the getting is good.

"Taxi."

He walks me over, kissed the back of my hand.

Says something to me in English. Fuck if I know what.

Pays the taxi driver, puts me in the cab.

"I'll make sure your friend knows you are safely on your way home."

I nod.

"To the finest start of the New Year a man could possibly ask for, mademoiselle."

"Right back at ya."

I fall asleep in the cab and wake up at my place.

I let myself in and plop onto the bed, still in costume.

I realize I never got paid.

Whatever.

Giselle will probably catch me up.

It's an adventure for my diary for sure.

Of course, I can never tell anyone.

-DJ

*From Chris1970*

Dear DJ,

I must meet you. Tell me where and when and I will come to you. I'll drive or fly to wherever you are. Tell me where. I'm begging you.

-- C.

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

I take this to mean you like my stories?

-DJ

*From Chris1970*

Dear DJ,

Groan.

-- C.

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

I find every morning the first thing I do is look in my inbox, and when I see a note from you I smile. To be writing again, even if it is only for one is such a blessing. (You do realize I'm writing these stories exclusively just for one person, right?) I have not wanted to say this before, but things have not been all peaches and roses here. Some hollyhock with hemlock on the horizon.

So you are a breath of fresh air that cannot be underestimated.

Thank you.

And, regarding meeting.

No.

Bad idea.

But I am so flattered.

-DJ

*From Chris1970*

Tell me about the bad that is making you frown. You don't have to just entertain me with tales that entice. Let me know the truth that is casting such a long shadow.

--C.

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

A friend of mine is very sick. It's a long road. Remission gives hope and then snatches it away. A swift end would be a blessing but that is not in the cards. Being a caretaker sometimes seems harder than being struck with the disease.

I spend a lot of time praying, and staring at the ocean, when I'm not riding the mental rollercoaster. I don't really talk about what it's like, the kind of day-to-day drain that dealing with... both the nuts and bolts the endless river of medical crap and the nebulous psychological toll of being a constant cheery support in the face of... blech.

If you carry a big purse around long enough you get used to it, adding, adding, adding slowly; then the weight bearing is your new normal. So you forget when it turns into luggage. Usually it doesn't get me down. Sometimes, however, it makes you question everything.

-DJ

*From Chris1970*

Dear DJ,

If only I had your gift with words, I would soothe you. I would take this burden from you if I could, know that I mean that in all honesty. I can only tell you that you've given me something that have made my days so much brighter. Your friend is lucky to have you. I am sure you are cherishing every moment. Sometimes that is all you can do. I will keep you both in my prayers.

Know, as always that I am always here. If there is anything I can do, let me know.

I'm including my phone number. Feel free to call, 24/7.

-- C.

DJ

I didn't write Chris, or write anything for that matter, for a few days. My boyfriend took a turn for the worse. He had blinding headaches. He wanted me to spoon feed him his meals, put compresses on his head, rub his neck. Nothing helped. He whined, a constant low-pitched keening. He threw up. A lot. His skin looked grey. I had a feeling the medicines were doing most of the damage.

The doctors said this was a normal reaction and sometimes "just happened". The advice was 'to ride it out.'

His skin was hot to the touch, and for nights on end, I held him while he had the shivers. His hair looked brittle and he looked small and frail curled up under our patchwork quilt. His eyes were flat, a look that said more than anything, that he'd give up.

Then one day he woke up and he was better. A lot better. He had a huge breakfast, went to work, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

We had gone through five steady years of watching his blood results get worse, and the hope get less, and the medicines need change, and scares and crises. But somehow this week seemed like the worst. Not someone managing a disease but someone defeated by it.

I wanted a week in Aruba, I really did.

I stared out the big glass windows onto my back patio and lawn. My herb and vegetable garden had shriveled up and died. We had had a heat wave one day and I was too preoccupied to notice.

I was hydrating my boyfriend and I forgot the tomatoes.

I decided I needed, NEEDED, to get back to writing Chris.

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

I hitchhiked through Europe and South America for a year between high school and college when I was too dumb to know better. I sold a short story to an English magazine. I thought I'd become a great novelist. It's years later and only you know my name. Do you think that's enough?

-DJ

*From Chris1970*

Dear DJ,

I'm so glad you wrote. I was going through serious withdrawal. It's enough for me. More than enough for me. Was the year abroad where you honed your language skills? Sell any other short stories? Ever write a not great novel?

-- C.

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

1.Yes, honed languages. Found I had a great ear for it. Thought about being a translator but then realized I'd have to listen to people.

2.Wrote two novels, haven't been able to sell them, maybe they suck.

3.Sold a few short stories over the years. Horror genre. The erotica thing is new, just these past months. How'm I doin'?

-DJ

*From Chris1970*

Dear DJ,

I'm not going to flatter you unless I think I'm going to get something out of it.

More please.

-- C.

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

Here's a story. I forget what city, Boca Raton?

I've always wanted to go to a sex club. I'm not sure what kind, or what I thought it would be like. How would I find one, who would I go with? Would it be dark, mysterious? A sensual den of hooka smoking hotties in heat?

Anyway, it was one of those fantasies in the back of my mind that I guess I sort of wished would come true, but who knew if it ever would. Who knew if those places even existed anymore in this day and age? If they did, it was probably only people in the know who could find where to go and how to get in.

Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.

Surely it would never happen.

I was working at a gym and one of the other personal trainers and I got to talking and somehow in passing it came up, I don't remember how.

And he said, sure, he could find a place and he'd be glad to be my wingman.

Well, what do you know.

I bought a flowing, short fire-engine red mini-dress with a plunging neckline and little cut-outs at the waist, and thick wavy brown hair extentions down to my ass, which I clipped in row by row until I had the most gorgeous hair you've ever seen, and off we went.

It was a plain, dingy bar with a few people sitting around on bar stools against the walls looking bored. Not a single person talking to another.

What?

I sat on a stool next to my wingman, ordered a drink and got bored.

After a while, I got up on the bar, turned my back to the room, and very gracefully stepped out of my underwear. I handed them to my wingman. Verrrrry carefully got down off the bar.

Everyone came over and started talking.

A few minutes later we all went downstairs to a private room that looked like a sultan's den. I wasn't interested in joining in, but it was fun to watch.

-DJ

*From Chris1970*

I. HAVE. TO. MEET. YOU.

-- C.

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

Laughter.

Still not a good idea.

-DJ

DJ

My boyfriend actually picked me up and carried me to bed when he got home. We hadn't had sex in... I don't know, what month is it? And we didn't then, but that he had the feistiness to pick me up and throw me down had us both smiling and giggling like we hadn't in a long, long time. We rented a small cottage right on the beach, a ridiculous expense considering we could drive back and forth in no time, but waking up to an ocean view fed our souls.

Maybe the tomatoes weren't the only thing I forgot to water.

I went back to writing Chris, but didn't include any of the 'did this really happen to me' stories, or any fiction or quasi fiction at all. I just emailed him a few times a day about my normal life things: Having trouble changing a flat tire, finding a dress on sale for $7.99 that I really wanted, and had passed up buying the year before, running into an old nemesis at the local coffee shop and trying to sound classy when she showed me a engagement ring the size of a hubcap.

Then I took a break from the computer for a while, it was if my eyes had stared so long at the shades of white on grey on the computer screen that my brain was only thinking in zeros and ones.

And I realized that I missed Chris in a weird way.

This was not good.

But on the other hand, it was so human.

*From Chris1970*

DJ,

Where are you? Haven't heard from you today.

-- C.

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

I've told you all my stories that are interesting. Pretty soon I'm gonna have to start makin' shit up. I'm basically boring. I live with my boyfriend who's sick. I write blogs for money. I teach a yoga class. I volunteer in a soup kitchen once a month. I don't have a lot of friends. I used to, but over the last few years, the caretaker thing has sort of taken over. I spend a lot of my day with fantasy characters, thinking that I'll write them down, but I don't.

I'm lazy, boring, average. I have a quick wit and a weakness for peanut M & Ms so I don't keep them in the house.

Now you know everything.

What else is there to say?

By the way, did you like Darkly Stranger?

-DJ

*From Chris1970*

First. Yeah, I loved Darkly Stranger. Have I said thank you yet?

Next, you couldn't be boring if you tried. If you were blind, mute, lost use of your arms and had to type with your mouth, you still would be the most interesting woman I know by far. Hands down, no contest.

And, oh, regarding the sex club story, so, you used to work in a gym? Now that part is fiction right?

Tell me about all your characters. Tell me about your blog posts. Tell me about your walks on the beach. Tell me about the stuff where you make shit up.

Anything. I'll eat it all up.

-- C.

P.S. -- Where do you want to meet?

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

You're a guy, right?

-DJ

*From Chris1970*

Picture a tail coming out and waving at you.

-- C.

DJ

I get the reference immediately. It's from my story, Darkly Stranger, where Donna realizes the creature is male when he raises her tail and waves it at her, in answer to the same question.

Meeting any fan, under any circumstances, isn't too smart. Meeting Chris, who I almost felt I was emotionally cheating with, was out of the question. Maybe part of the reason I could send the stories I didn't know anything about Chris. Chris could have been a 65 year-old woman from Alaska for all I knew.

But now that I knew he was a him, it was obviously impossible.

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

As I have a boyfriend, meeting my pen pal is a bad idea. So, no, I don't think I can see you.

-DJ

DJ

I didn't hear from Chris for a day and half. Which might not seem like long, except I was at my computer, writing very boring posts about lauding the benefits of leasing European cars rather than buying, and checking my email every half hour. Chris usual responded within a few minutes, so the "radio silence" seemed long. I wondered if it was in response to my last email, or if he was just busy.

*From Chris1970*

DJ,

Let me come be with you and not see you. We'll gather at a restaurant and I promise to keep my eyes closed the whole time. Like the blind gathering solace from a voice, it will be well and good, company without temptation.

-- C.

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

Laughter.

You're a sick man. Which probably explains why you like my stories. In your imaginary scenario, would you wear dark glasses and carry a thin cane?

-DJ

*From Chris1970*

DJ,

I'm trying here, throw a guy a bone. You said you didn't want me to see you. This would work.

-- C.

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

I could be mistaken, but I think I wrote, or meant, that I shouldn't see you. Not the other way around.

-DJ

P.S.: And if you're thinking about suggesting blindfolding me in a restaurant, I can already tell you the answer to that is no.

*From Chris1970*

You'll think of something. You need a friend now more than I do.

-- C.

DJ

The last note pissed me off. Not just because it was presumptuous, but because it was true. I was frazzled, beat down, at the end of my rope. The emails from Chris were what were keeping me going. The idea of meeting him was exciting and filled me with hope.

But what I didn't want was to cheat. I wasn't the kind of person who would have an affair. Not that I had judgment against those that did, I got it. But I didn't want to slowly fall into a pattern that became an irresistible trap and then feel like I was a shit.

It had been over a year since I'd had sex. I was, in a way, a walking ball of need. And as much as I didn't like to admit it, I'd already developed somewhat of an emotional attachment to Chris.

Yet, I needed more from Chris. More support, more connection, more everything.

But I was afraid. Deeply troubled about being further naked in front of someone with whom I'd already taken so many protective layers off.

I wanted to meet him; I was worried I'd touch him.

I needed a fail-safe.

Chris was right. I'd think of something.

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

It's a beautiful day here, a gorgeous 78 degrees. I'm working outside. Today I am praising the value of an alarm clock that walks away from you after you hit the snooze button, so that you have to get out of bed to smack it to shut it up when the second snooze alarm goes off. After that I get to write about the wonder of turquoise print dresses for the spring, and weed fertilizer.

-DJ

*From Chris1970*

Thank you for the update. To reiterate from my last message, I know you'll think of something.

-- C.

DJ

It was later that day that I did think of something. It was a perfect idea. And like a separate part of me had taken over, a lemming drawn to the water, or an addict sleepwalking toward a pill, I went to put the pieces in motion.

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

I thought of something.

-DJ

*From Chris1970*

D,

Are you going to tell me?

-- C.

*From DJtruewriter*

Dear Chris,

At some point, I suppose.

-DJ

*From Chris1970*

Dear DJ,

Do any of your stories feature discipline?

-- C.

DJ

A shiver of pleasure went through me at that one. You're a bad girl, DJ. I left that email alone; it obviously didn't warrant a response.

I had made all the arrangements. I dressed with care, a brown and green A-line dress and brown knee-high boots, right out of the 70s, even though he would never see me. Then it was time.

I walked into the cathedral and was immediately struck by the sense of the sacred. Shafts of blue and red light filtered down through the stained glass, mounted high up between the buttresses. I smelled a lemony smell of wood polish and a smoky smell that was probably snuffed candles.

My heels made a loud clicking sound on the tile. I walked to the confession booths and stared. Which one would he be in, the confessor's or the priest's? I decided he'd be in the latter. I opened the one on the right a crack. Empty.

I stepped in and sat down. The brown lattice between the booths was intricate. A shadow, clearly indicating a large man, was seated on the other side.

For a moment neither of us spoke. I had a second of wanting my voice to be as enticing as my emails. But I didn't want it to come out as affected, or fake sultry. So the silence dragged on.

"DJ? Will you tell me a story? I don't mind driving two hours just to listen to you breathe, but if you'd tell me a story, you'd make my day."

I smiled. His voice was low and deep. Pleasant. Normal. No accent.

"And by the way, you smell divine."

"Just soap," I said. My very first words to him and that's what they were.

We talked for a long time about nothing and everything. Mostly I talked about my boyfriend. How we met, what it had been like since he got sick.