by PJ (12/13/00)

And so I find it's you I want, but it's your wife I'm fascinated with. What she looks like, how she fucks you. Do you talk or scream? Do you enjoy spending time together, or do it out of duty and secretly sigh with relief when it's time to do your own thing? How often do you make love, and does she like it rough like I do, does she scream your name when she comes? Does she come, or does she fake it -- pant and moan to make you stop banging her bones, and then jump up and run to the bathroom to wash you away like spilled milk? I know she's smart and active in the community, the good wife, the good mother, but is she shaken by the lust she feels for you? Does she beg you to own her, use her, possess her soul, or does she say start the laundry if you want clean underwear tomorrow and there's a casserole in the fridge you can reheat because it's PTA night and I promised Patty Brewer I would do that thing, that thing, that PTA thing that's so much more important than locking our bedroom door, pulling your clothes from you, sucking your cock like I did so many years ago when you came home from work crispy-fried tired. Then the Girl Scout meeting, so vital that she attend while you quietly reheat dinner and start your own laundry and sign on to AOL for a little chat with a slut who would lock the bedroom door and pull your clothes from you and fall to her knees to stroke your tired mind.

You never say a word about her, not one single word, you avoid it like the plague, and it's honorable and right and good, but you're here with me, and she is saving the world and making politics and playgrounds safe for endangered species while we meet wordlessly in hotel rooms, speaking with our hands, our lips, our bodies, all the words we cannot say. From thousands of miles away I make love to you with my written words. You don't say much, but you're there, consuming my words, my love, needing more and more. Sometimes I want to fuck her. I want to feel her body move beneath me, feel her hair tangled in my hands, her lips soft on mine. I want to push her thighs apart and taste what you taste, know what you know. I want to hold her as you fuck her, there in your marriage bed, between the vows, between the sheets, clean sheets, you did the laundry, didn't you?

Is she in love with the principal, does she fantasize about the mailman, does she ever dream of leaving you and the kids to be a rock and roll star? Does she lie in bed and listen to the clackclack of your typing as you run away with me and think thank God he doesn't want it from me, he's not on my to-do list anymore? Or does she lie awake and wonder what I look like, how I fuck you, if I like it rough like she once did, do I cry out your name as I come? I love you, but it's her I want to know.