There are some things about us that give me pause. They’re an arm’s length away in every conversation. Commonality where acknowledged. Transparency when I’m not quietly omitting responses that suggest a sexual interest. All I could do was think loudly about how I wanted to sit next to you too and moisten lips in your direction. We write these letters because the statistically insignificant probability that our others will actually find them is about the equivalent of that of those people in real life reciprocating—feelings, the mental complexities that inspire these passive communications. Unfortunately for most of us, other people are rarely as complicated as we try to pretend they are. For the most part, we’re responding to subtexts that don’t exist.
I want to believe that I’m lucky. My lips are pretty fantastic and I’d never mind if a visceral intention involving them occupied a space in your electricity for awhile. Let me help you make a baby. Marriage is wonderful in its own right but it doesn’t satisfy the urge for something captivatingly curious. If the thought of having me make you wet, invite me in. We can do everything we want to do to each other right in front of him. His hard-on will stretch for miles as he watches us exchange every same-sex pleasantry foretold the time you stared at me too long. I want you, and I’ve always been good at this. You two are so beautiful together, such wonderful people. Let’s start a conversation that’s up to no good and make it work to everyone’s advantage.
My first car was a 1980 VW Rabbit. Primary blue. Talk to me about it some time.