I started out on burgundy
But soon hit the harder stuff,
Everybody said they’d stand behind me
When the game got rough,
But the joke was on me
There was nobody even there to call my bluff.
- Bob Dylan
Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues

Since adolescence, I’ve posed as an easy cynic - the obvious refuge of a romantic. While I searched for my great love – the woman who completed me, no one was going to cause any hurt. My mask was solid as I searched for her in St. Louis, Chicago, New York, Manama, Dubai, Athens, Rome, Paris, Wurzburg, Munich, Salzburg, Dublin, Edinburgh, London, and Cambridge.

Of course I have fallen in love before, but then there was Darcy and I no longer had a curriculum vitae worth a damn.

There is that crystal-clear moment when time stops and we realize everything up to this point has been shabby pretense; a third-rate existence, a poor imitation of life.

I went mad for Darcy – a married woman, with children. It still makes no sense, yet I’m no longer a prisoner of reason. Even in bright sunlight, night rolls through my eyes.

* * *

My darling Darcy, I started this email four hours ago. Since then I’ve been completely and frustratingly prevented from writing you.

Last evening I was so hot and so hard when I arrived home - you know what I expected … a sizzling account of your fuck-date with Jordan. You know I love it when you are so verbally explicit with another man – besides your husband … about sucking his cock, about offering him your cunt, even letting him fuck your tight ass. You know what this does to me.

Continued.

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