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A Letter to Sarah Julie
by john e © 2004



Dear Eleanor,

You're probably wondering why I'm calling you Eleanor.  I figure eventually the world figures these things out—these meaningful non sequiturs—but I'll drop my usual flip posturing and tell you from my heart that calling you Eleanor happens naturally, and really does express the way I've seen you as of late.  Part of it acknowledges my own sustained and cinematic adolescence, and its current soundtrack of an old Turtles tune Eleanor gee I think you're swell.  But there's a mustiness there too, an Emily-Earnestine-Emma sort of resonance.  And it's a sweet—or rather, tart—mustiness, clinging to a hot summer day.  I imagine it clinging to you too who might be bare upon soaked sheets.  Ah, Edwina, you turn me away from cleverness, spook me, reduce me to a raving dog! I hope you enjoy these intimations of where my hand might go and finger lewd lucid thoughts of you! Gee I think you're swell!

And I'm sorry about the stuffy tone I might employ, at times.  I myself feel it an annoyance; but I suppose it exhibits itself as a decoy, or a zipper, when it is clear I am going animal, like thinking of you in parts, parts only, parts.  Then moist, dark, and the scent

Then wanting to do myself, Esmeralda, as I imagine the back of your hand brushing against the cool soaked sheets as your fingers reach into yourself once more.  I'm sure you can understand a bit better now how these things happen to me.  I think you a goddess in your enjoyment of self-stimulation (watched at times to the point of spasm—yes, both yours and mine, such fond memories), while you must think me weak and terribly dispossessed—or is it possessed, or neither—of myself from your knowledge of my daily doings.

Yes, yes Evangeline it is true.  I might imagine your nipple's dusty rose rise and point, or a dark revel in the right swish and swing of your leg—might imagine a rise in temperature, a twitch, sounds where you attempt to speak.  But I inevitably squander the poetry of your form upon a quick release, and I must tell you this, for we shall keep naught held back, and to fully embrace we must know all.  Naught held back.  Insidious data base causes inappropriate tone and/or reference.  Enid.  I'm flopping like a fish out of—yes, yes water but I do believe the connection is made because it is liquid and fluid and wet that I imagine, after the array of sliding body parts and renovated eyes, baby.  O this tone jive is strappin' me down, and not in any can I have another type of scene.  Let's see: birth leads to desire to death to birth to desire to—to you, yeah, your wantin' spreadin' slidin' thing, your raving soul stripped bare against my skin.  You watch me go baby, here I go, go Eliza Jane

I write like a whore.  I suppose I want something in return—a letter, perhaps, a notification of your excitement.  I know, I know I'm all over the place.  Maybe I just want to see what you'll respond to.  Once upon a time, Emerald, we couldn't wait to receive letters, and couldn't wait to write responses, couldn't wait for the next one.  I'd lick stamps and think of you.  That's the way it was with me.  But like I said, you might see me as weak and self-involved and I swear I'm not, the jacking off and stuff is just for a release of tension.  Yeah, yeah you're in there, mind-pictures and gawd sometimes I smell scents—you, and you and me together—and I go crazy because it's been so long.

I'm crazy because I imagine these things and they make me crazy.  Man, Esperanza.  Birth, desire, letter, crazy-scent, scent-crazy, death, response, birth, letter, crazy, desire.  See? I write like a whore, imagining salivation and want, in the hope it brings a few words or a rendevous.  My hands bent hoops I jump through.  I'm stuck on myself, without you.  I know you've formed no alliances, spiritual or carnal.  I easily imagine the dampness of your fingers, how your belly bounces as you buck up against yourself, how sweat appears in tiny beads on your

I'm doing it again, twice today—a long time to write this.  I don't know why I tell you these things—well, yes, to be honest.  But do you appreciate that? As you bring yourself off do you feel completely honest? Because I don't.  I can't be true to you and the beast at once, I can't achieve that synthesis.  Some claim they can, or smugly assume so.  I honor you first, then the beast inside.  My memories of you lead me to believe I had some love for you, but the beast won't allow me to dwell on that for long.  Soon I jack off to incoherence and shaking and wet.  That's the most honest part, not the other.  I sense you don't consider me much if at all when you come too.  It's sad for me to admit that I don't believe you even start with some sort of picture of me—a memory or a touch, even an image of yourself greedily staring at my dick.  Sorry.  Well yeah—my dick.  Nothing, I'll bet.

See the two pictures I've enclosed? Familiar places? Places we've been together.  I took them, I've done myself to them.  Perhaps this sort of synthesis of visual absence and physical absence might better help you think of me as you enjoy your own hands upon your body, goddess.  I know you're just a lazy silly girl who needs a little push to get moving, and I wish you would write me soon.  It's been so long, Eve, so long.

_______
© 2004 john e. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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