Dear Dream-Come-True,

I picture you in a large plush over-stuffed easy chair, naked as mother-of-pearl in a pocket of deep velour, your fair skin opalescent, your eyes Asiatic, your mouth an O of plentitude—fleshy as a plum, moist as a dew-drenched succulent.

I am, indeed, a writer, albeit unpublished (the great are often spurned), just turned forty, never married, and, at the moment, unattached.

You are younger, perhaps by twenty years (or more?), your body nascent in its prepossessing attributes, breasts that barely hint at full-bloom development, nipples upturned, figure lean yet amply curved, compact buttocks buoyant when regarded from the rear, pubes sparsely fringed or, better yet, bald as a bishop’s tonsure.

I do not do drugs, imbibe hard liquor (though I’m fond of wine, much less of beer), nor have I ever smoked. I’m vegetarian, but, if you eat meat, that’s not a problem.

Thick is your shock of hair, on the verge of curly as it dangles down your spine, dense as a virgin forest, unspoiled as is your chastity. For you, ‘Heart's Ideal,’ though uninhibited in your fantasies are nonetheless intact, waiting, if impatiently, to surrender what your modesty deems held-in-reserve, your pent-up passion percolating pores like nectar seeped through stamens.

I am unemployed—‘between jobs,’ more accurately—though fiction-writing is work. Would that authoring paid a living wage; with any luck, mine will. In the meantime, to be absolutely honest, I sure could use some company.

Yours... because, in addition to your trim physique, you are inquisitive, bright, and kind, your budding intellect eager to engage a mind more mature, your instincts singularly wise (despite your tender years), the compassion of your temperament instructed by benevolence. You are loyal, when loyalty is merited. You are faithful, when faithfulness is shared. You are honest, in any case, allergic to deceit and loath to tell a lie.

Finally, you are head-over-heels in love—with me—or will be, when we meet, a sudden tug at the heart attracting yours like the counterpart of mine, two conjoined by an alchemy of oneness a la yin with yang commingled… if, that is, you exist beyond my MUSE, which I consider most unlikely.

Yours Eternally, Body and Soul,

Malcolm Poole


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