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 bre@sts 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. T*ts like you wouldn't believe and an a$$ 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 sl*tty, 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 just about everything I
do 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 s*x 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 an@l thing and 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 all the grievances away and start anew? 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, Mike
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 bre@sts 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. T*ts like you wouldn't believe and an a$$ 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 sl*tty, 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 just about everything I
do 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 s*x 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 an@l thing and 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 all the grievances away and start anew? 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, Mike
