04-17-2004, 01:35 AM
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's 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'd never really thought of
that before.
I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up a little.
Later, after I'd 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 fueled 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 fucking
remote is.
Love,
John
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's 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'd never really thought of
that before.
I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up a little.
Later, after I'd 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 fueled 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 fucking
remote is.
Love,
John
:fuckYou:
![[Image: ac5586cf78c9d9fecf8819bdd377a0a4.jpg]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v94/hambonebtc/ac5586cf78c9d9fecf8819bdd377a0a4.jpg)