Analove Letters

Dear N.G.

Hi there. It was a pleasure seeing you the same cocksucker you were. No fuckin’ clue your clumsy steps taking you where. No bully or heart feelings. I just wanted to up-date you on where I stand.

Don’t get all mad and defiant. I got married two years ago to Ryan, and we live in a nice house. You know, the kind that doesn’t have roaches creeping all around the kitchen, where Ryan and I love to get the counter all wet. You’re still living on the same dirty house, I bet, mailing to publishers your worthless psychedelic shit.

To say the least, I don’t miss you. I stopped having dreams about your dirty orgies and sodomy. I kicked my destructive addiction to your flirty, deceitful eyes and sadistic laugh. I didn’t know how, with you, love lowered standards of living so far and filth hurt so fuckin’ good.

Bye bye, Adéu, Ciao kinky guy. I hope you spend the rest of your life clueless and high.

Sincerely,
K. T.

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Dear K. T.,

Alraight! Good to hear from you. But, honestly, seeing you wasn’t a pretty sight. I felt those cuts in your left wrest when I saw you with that clean-cut dude. I also realized that your years of denial have created thousands of roaches in my kitchen, where you fucked and never cleaned. Yes, indeed, I was almost always stoned, but not too high to figure out you were having an affair with that Jamaican guy.

So you got married. Congrats. You looked all clean and nice. You didn't look like a prostitute. He was holding your hand (How cute?). Yet, I could tell your hand was so cold, an ice cube would melt on your "bottom lips" as fast as the fake diamonds, with which he made you shut-up. I admit, it hurts me to see your big black shades and his polo-shirt collar-up (Whatta stud?). Let’s hope he doesn’t catch you with another Jamaican guy. Be careful, you don’t want him blackening your other eye.

I was, after all, a dirty hippy with straight forward kinky lies, dread locks and a refrigerator felled with vegan food. Maybe I was little mean, but I understood that you felt "so fuckin’ good."

Sorry, maybe it didn't hurt enough. Maybe I should've more often used the cuffs. Maybe you wanted harder-core psychological stuff. You needed your brain fucked instead of your duff. For a while, I missed you. But since you left, I’ve boycotted orgies and sodomy, waged a war on my
nasty little cocksuckers, including Naomi, who made us a great three-some. I hope you just realize that I loved you and you screwed me because I was stoned and dumb. I stopped hoping that you'd call me, although from your tone I’m certain you still crave for my “analove.” If he's doing your eye that black, he's not that good from the back. He's so "clean," according to what I've seen. Cold-clean and you know what I mean.

Please don’t send me any more letters. I’m working with a publisher on my first book. If you’re interested, it talks from cover to cover about getting hooked on anal pain and pleasure.

Yours,
N. G.