by Faeth Lyon-Wall
(05/19/04)
Dear Ms. Sasha King:
My husband just presented me with a gift of your most recent CD for my birthday. I told him, “No chocolates this year, Buddy Brown. Chocolates are full of treacherous cholesterol. Do you want me to have a heart attack?”
Yesterday, I was 37, a conventional housewife, doing boring chores, used to sex in the missionary position -- and, most significantly, I had never heard of Sasha King.
Today, at 38, I think I have been reborn. I have, and I hold, your newest album, The Boy Next Door.
I took one look at the line-up of songs and I thought to myself, what class of chick sings guys’ songs? I thought chocolate was hazardous. Hoo-whee! I didn’t know there are significantly greater dangers under crepe paper and satin ribbons than Côte d’Or can ever deliver.
It made no sense, the concept of a woman singing a man’s song, that is. I didn’t believe a gal could sing Frank Sinatra, Dave Brubeck, or Perry Como’s love songs. It made no sense that the female voice would tackle lyrics made irresistible by Sammy Davis Jr., Ray Charles and Louis Armstrong’s masculine aura. Then I listened to your voice singing the words once sung by Dizzy Gillespie and Nat King Cole to the women they loved. I suddenly realised. You are no ordinary kind of woman.
I’m listening to you sing Too Darn Hot and I feel my nipples tingling. Makin’ Whoopee makes my clit start to throb. I’m enchanted. Captivated. Enthralled. I Got It Bad too, Ms King. This music should come with a warning label.
Today I am looking at your picture on the case and inside the booklet. I can’t get you out of my mind. I am a changed woman, and I am holding you responsible. Today, I realise that The Boy Next Door just doesn’t do it for me anymore. It isn’t a boy I want any longer, not that I particularly wanted one before, but looking at your elfin features, your laughing face, your long thin arms, your edible toes, I realise it is a girl I now desire. Never before did I even look at girls, but I’m looking at what there is to see now. Right now.
It’s you I desire. Ooh-Shoo-Be-Doo-Bee – I do, I do!
Now, please understand, I’m not one to write fan letters to anybody. But then again, you are not anybody. No, I’m sure you are an incarnation of Freya. I’ve been reading a book on the Goddesses and you’ll be interested to hear that Freya didn’t discriminate in her choice of lovers. That’s a right, gods and goddesses alike were fair game. How about that? Freya and Frigga are the two aspects of the Great Goddess. Freya was the maiden, Frigga, the mother.
Do you realise that in all four pictures printed, you don’t look once at the camera? Why would that be, Ms King? Are you truly demure?
Do you hide your eyes because you realise the effect you have on people? I can tell that my husband would like to ball you. He looks lecherously at your chiffon skirt that reveals so much fine thigh. He figures you are a lesbian dyke who just needs a good schlong where a schlong fits best. He would like to rip those feathery garments off you and give it to you good. Maybe he bought the CD so that he might perve over you too. I don’t ask. Or didn’t. I told you I was, until yesterday, a boring housewife stuck in the missionary position. Maybe I will though.
But wait, another question before you quit in disgust. Did you anticipate the response you would evoke in women? Did you know what you would do to me? Is that why you avert your gaze?
Can I tell you, that I would like to look into your eyes? Not just into a photo of your eyes. I would like to look into your eyes, as I unstrap those simple, elegant sandals of yours. I want to watch your expression change as I massage your instep, as I rub the ball of your foot with a steady deep pressure. I want to see your mouth open as I trail my fingers through your short, cropped hair, as I trail my little finger through the curves of your ear. I want to see if you smile as I remove the voile blouse you wear, untie your beaded corset. I want to see you blush; perhaps stare away, as I hold your breasts in my hands, as I suck your nipples.
Don’t be afraid. This is where it begins and ends, Ma’am. I Got It Bad, but I’ll recover. Of course I will. I’m not ready to throw out the husband on account of your pretty hands, your demure little breasts. Don’t be afraid. I’m no stalker. The truth is, I don’t even know which capital of the world you inhabit. I’m guessing you’re a Brit, because you are so classy. And because the album was recorded in London. But singing American music, you would do it with the right accent. You’re The Top, after all.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to follow you, or even send you pesky emails. I’m not going to make a complete ass of myself, behaving like a teenage dolt swooning over a pop star. Would you believe that I don’t even know how to surf the Internet? My kids help me if I need to know something, like if I want a recipe. I understand that in theory, I could get a picture of you from the World Wide Web; I could get an email for your fan club.
Oh no, Sasha King, I won’t though. That’s not nearly good enough for you – or me. This fan mail is confidential correspondence. It serves my housewifely need to put pen to paper, to keep private my unexpected yearning, to offer me maximum pleasure with minimum fuss. Besides, I have always managed without you. The proposal is that I Get Along Without You Very Well from now on too.
You see, pretty lady, you gave me so much more than music. You gave me a whole new world, a world where a girl can make love to a smoky-voiced girl. I knew it was possible in theory. I even know lesbian women. I just never gave it very much thought. But you’ve given me an idea, of how it might be, and so, here, in my private diary, I can write my beautiful fantasy.
Say It Isn't So!
I will buy myself roses, light candles, run a deep, scented bath. Alone I shall open a chilled bottle of wine. I shall turn on your voice and soap my breasts. I shall tease my nipples, thrust my fingers between my legs. Sasha King, don’t worry about me.
All I Do Is Dream Of You.
Once I have climaxed, and rested, I shall start again.
The Best Is Yet To Come.
