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Chapter Thirteen
Gina
The envelope is nondescript, a plain white rectangle with a black border. There is nothing about it that would let on that the letter inside was any different from the others. But it was.
Itis.
It is dirty. Full of sex.
It is an orgasmic depiction of a stranger's life. It is winter, chilly inside and out, but I am flushed three sentences in, full-on sweating by the time I'm done.
I reread the letter first thing when I wake. And again before I go to sleep. I read it while I eat breakfast, while waiting in line at the grocery store, in church, during Martha's funeral. I have never read anything like it.
It is a masterpiece. It’s more than a masterpiece. It is an aggressive encounter with a stranger in a hotel room at three a.m.
It reeks of a different life. A life of adventure and passion. And just like that, I fall in love with a stranger—the writer of the letter. Not literally in love, whatever that means, but it is definitely the beginning of something. Astirring, a longing.I imagine him in the room with me; I imagine him taking me. I am excited by his masculinity and by his lust. I want to cede myself to him, to let him use me, to imagine him taking me anywhere, anyhow.
When the letter concludes, I am breathless and aching. I know I must write back. I feel bereft. I want more. There is only one thing,maybetwo, that has ever made me feel like this.
I receive another letter from the stranger. This one is dated the day after the first. The first letter was postmarked from Arizona. He doesn’t sign his name on either note, but this time there is a return address. It’s a rented box. In Texas.
The second letter tells me that he was with a woman. Another woman. He tells me about her. He tells me he has been with her all night and all day. He tells me they had sex again and again in every conceivable position. That they had sex on a sofa, on a bed, in the shower, up against a wall, standing up, with her skirt up over her waist and her blouse ripped, useless on the floor.
The letter is not pornographic, but it is intensely erotic. It is a description of a stranger's lovemaking with another stranger. It is a depiction of two people coming together, naked, getting lost in each other's pleasure.
Maybe I don't want to be married.
But I wantthis.
Thisis not the type of thing you find in a town like Franklin. People have their private lives, to be sure. Behind closed doors and all. But you can tell by the looks on their faces. Performance without true soul is frantic like a puppy. Truth is seductive and wise like a cat.
There’s passion, and then there’spassion.
Passion is too much to ask for around here. Most people are just trying to get through the day—to the next growing season—’til death do us part and please let it come soon.
I fill my days reading the letters again and again, savoring every word, every image. I can't get enough. I read them in the morning with my coffee, before bed, as I brush my teeth. I read them at lunch, sitting across from my father. I read them in the car, on the way to do the shopping, during Sunday school, hidden away in my Bible, tucked in the Song of Songs.
And then I write back. A scorching letter of my own.
And so begins our exchange. A literate affair.
It’s pure fantasy. Obviously, I don’t want a womanizer, but it’s fun to play. I write that I belong to him. He can do whatever he wants to me. It’s acting in a sense, but it’s also me at my core. I am intrigued by his openness. I am obsessed by his frank manner. There’s a part of me that becomes desperate to meet this man. He could be the answer to everything.
He could be having my cake and eating it too.
Maybe there is such a thing after all?
I write about being taken, about having taken others in the past. I write about the things he does to me and the things I want him to do. I tell him I want to be his whore.
I write that I want to be his slut; that I want to be used, that I want to be fucked hard. Partial truths, of course, but again, it’s fun to play. How can I be an actress if I can’t even master the written word?
So that’s what I do. I write letters. I use my imagination to create this character. Madonna by light of day, whore by night.
I write that I will be his toy, his possession, his plaything. I will be his to do with as he pleases. No man wants a wife like this.Every man wants a wife like this.
I write about lying on a bed, legs spread, watching him take off his clothes. I write about my naked body and his naked body. I write about his cock, and my plans for it.So many plans.I write about being dominated by him, about being pierced by him, about him being in me and on me and through me. I want him here, there,everywhere.
I write so much.
I write like a maniac.
I am not myself.
I am more myself than I have ever been.
