by
Coydelight

December 10, 2000

1:42 a.m.

_____My sweet Frances,
_____I can't get two good hours of sleep without you creeping into my thoughts. You have invaded my mind once again, and I had to crawl quietly out of bed, sneaking away to jot down all these things your visions make my feel. Night after night, I see you all around me, your face on these ivory walls dimly lit by the moon, your legs tangled with mine in this crisp white comforter, your hands in mine helping me touch you. Then, I jerk myself awake after coming hard in my sleep to the sound of your voice and I find that it is only he, this unforgiving and unkind husband of mine breathing his sourness into my face. This is my cold reality. This is the life I chose in spite of what we had together, in spite of myself.
_____Listen, honey, I know you told me not to even look your way until I had my shit figured out, but, I think I've got it. Now, I don't claim to be coming with all the answers, but this is what I do know. My body experienced its awakening at the touch of your hand. My mind became open to experiences real and new and fantastic and every year of the thirty-one we've shared as friends took on new meaning when our lips touched and parted and our tongues joined for a slow, sensual dance. And risking everything, that doesn't seem like such a bad idea at all, now that I'm thinking about it, now that I am waking up in the middle of every night with my pussy and nipples throbbing and my tongue darting at the empty air and calling to you. My intent was to save face, to put my husband, my family life first in my life, even if it was only a front. But four months, two weeks and six days have passed me by and my life has proven to be the biggest comedy act to ever hit the center stage. But, you see, Fran, I'm the only one laughing. I mean, after the fallout, when he has finally won, the bastard doesn't even bother to touch me anymore. I mean, I remember back in the day (pre- you and me) when the two of us couldn't even walk a block without him reaching for my hand or stroking my back. Now this king sized bed we've loved in whispered in, argued in hushed tones in for thirteen years has been distinctly divided into two halves, appropriately titled, his and hers.
_____ But, I can't say that his no longer touching me is the problem really, and it's not like his touch thrilled me that much lately anyway. I mean a little tickle of the dick is good, but it ain't no more than what I can do with that trusty machine of mine (I am grateful every day for that little gift from you!). The problem may really be that he has never touched me and will never be able to touch me like you do. You have that marvelous way of sifting your fingers through my cropped waves of hair, touching the sharp nose I have despised since puberty, and tickling my chin like I'm your adorable little baby. What makes me the biggest fool of all is that I knew all this when I told you to go.
_____In the days when he once made the effort to at least let the hair on his chest brush my bare back under the covers at night, I would imagine his heat was your heat, and that his bristled chest was the top of your head buried in my back. Now he has taken even these small, yet vital thrills from me, as he lay in the same space with me and jacks himself to ecstasy while I wait for the bed to stop rocking so that I could settle into my own naughty dreams of you. My favorite is you and me in the shower, sliding against each other's lathered bodies, or me and you in the closet at your mom and dad's fiftieth anniversary party, your fingers probing deep into me, rubbing my clit into oblivion. Damn, Fran, it's been hell. Do you forgive me, yet?
_____I don't know when I began hiding in the bathroom past midnight with that wicked picture of you in my palm. Sitting on the edge of the toilet with my panties on at first, and then tossed into a frustrated pile in the corner on the cold gray tile, I like to stroke the shine reflected by your smooth caramel skin and kiss your cold, red, Polaroid lips. I know you're probably pissed that I didn't trash this picture after all, but it really helps me through these times, and let me tell you that your full, glossed lips and long, thick hair bring rhythm to my stale ass life. I keep wishing you could feel me rubbing your quarter-sized nipples and darting my tongue in and out of your "innie". I keep trying to take back everything I told you that night when I forced you away from me and returned to my comfortable, married with children life, but I don't know how. I know too well, though, that's it's damn hard to reach out and grab back those words I let foolishly fall from my lips and there's no way to soothe the hurt and confusion I put in your eyes. What can I say? I'm human and I fell for the hype. I believed everyone when they said that a woman's body was made to fit a man's, when the truth is, this forty-two year old body fits none better than yours, Fran.
_____But, I forced the fit with me and Gary and I chose to continue our lovely little cherade. Then came the cold nights and the longing. See, Fran, as a strong, sexual black woman, I long to be touched and talked to and gazed at every once in a while even if the rest of my life is just a show, I mean humor me, but he won't even do that anymore. I'm sure it's because he's bitter and rage and jealousy has him all fucked up inside and I try to tell him that I gave you up but he won't see past his man pride and machismo. I get accused of sneaking over there and eating you out even when I'm just trying to go to the fucking 7-11. What he doesn't know, is that an interlude between you and I would last much longer than it would take me to pick up a carton of milk.
_____Remember that time I saw him with the woman and the baby and I was so close to him I could smell the green beans on his breath and almost feel the flaky dryness of his skin? But, he said it wasn't him, right? Said, I must be losing my mind 'cause he's never been with anybody else and he only has three kids and they all look just like me, his wife of thirteen fucking years. And you and me, me and you on that big, soft canopy of yours just rolled over laughing 'cause that Negro had the nerve I don't recall your lips ever being as soft as they were that day when my laughter turned to screams and then to uncontrollable sobs and you kissed my tears away and told me "Patricia, you don't need that shit." And I don't know if was the hurt and betrayal running throughout my being that sent me running top speed to your arms, but at that moment, there was nowhere else I wanted to be. I wanted that kiss on my forehead and eyes and nose and then my lips. I wanted you gently sucking the chocolate sweetness from my tongue, while your long, slim fingers traced the four letters of your name across my chest. I wanted to be taken over by the orgasm you provoked from me when you invisibly wrote and F on my left nipple and ended with an N on my right and traced it with your warm, wet tongue. I am nearing the edge right now thinking of your soft, tiny fingers and tongue going in and out of my center that hot afternoon. That was the day I knew I was bound to you.
_____You were right that day and you would be right now if you told me what a fool I am for hiding up in this cold ass bathroom in my own house pleasing my damn self. I know all this already, Fran, but we've been through this shit before. It's hard enough raising three hard headed potentially woman hating boys without having to break it down to them that their mommy likes to eat pussy. You know it would take an act of congress to prove that I am a fit mother, that my lifestyle ain't got shit to do with it. And when did love become a fucking lifestyle anyway? You're probably laughing at my vulgarity right now, but you know I ain't bullshitting. This is what I've been reduced to since I can't get to you.
_____I tend to wonder was it the complete an utter honesty I reluctantly gave him that turned him so cold or was the front coming some time before and this was just the clean break he needed? I mean, doesn't everybody tell us that men like that shit? And ain't he a man (don't go there )? But, no, he didn't go on about how fine you were (cause we both know he's been watching you for quite some time) and he didn't even want to know if he could he watch us sometime. He wanted to know why the hell I was still exploiting his dick if my gay ass girlfriend was what I really wanted. If I wanted some dyke bitch to sit on my face and finger my pussy, what was I still doing with him? Honey, I was shocked to hear that come from even him. But, I wouldn't even give him the pleasure of an argument that would drive me to tears. I wouldn't even try to reason with him that yes, it is possible to feel equally attracted to a man and a woman without slapping some big political label on myself. No, the asshole wasn't grown enough to handle a conversation like that, so I just complied. "Yes, I'm gay. I'm such a nasty bitch. You're right, Gary, I've never liked men. All these years you've just been a front for my family and my straight friends. I never enjoyed one moment in bed with you. And those three kids, huh, they were just the icing on the cake, the perfect addition to our fairy tale life." That one earned me a sound smack across the face. And so I wouldn't be selfish and try to have you both. I was ready and perfectly capable of making a decision. And after calling you at work and listening to your voice break and quiver on the phone, your naked picture and my own hands are all I'm left with.
_____I know you said you would forget me and I know that you wish that you could, but, I also know that it is still me you smell on your sheets even when you've changed them and sprinkled them with powder a dozen times. The truth is, I found my way inside you even when you saw my crazy life and decided you didn't want me to. That's what I loved about you. You opened yourself up so completely and let me all the way in. You showed me your life's mistakes and imperfections and you were willing to accept mine. You loved every one of my hundred and fifty-five pounds of womanhood and you touched every gray strand of in my hair as gently as if it were a baby's. You kissed every part of me that was beaten, scarred, and bruised, and told me I was still beautiful to you. You knew me when I was barely grown, celebrated with me when I legally was; you helped me rediscover myself when I felt I no longer recognized the woman in the mirror myself. I fucked it all up, and I know it, Fran, and, now I am looking for a way back home.
_____If, by chance, I am not the chicken shit that I am convinced I am and this letter just happens to fall into your beautiful, brown manicured hands, call me and let me speak these exact words to you. Let us bring each other to sweet release over the phone and then come together at our spot in the valley and really discuss this thing. What I'm trying to say is, I love you, Fran, and I don't give a fuck anymore

Yours Truly,
Pat

THE END

Copyright © 2000. Used by permission of author. All Rights Reserved.