Separation Status Report Letter

Dear John:

I know the marital counselor said we shouldn't contact each other during our "cooling off" period, but... I just couldn't wait anymore. The day you left, I swore I'd never talk to you again. But... that was just the wounded little girl in me talking. Still...

I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In my fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess my pride needed that. But now I see that my pride's cost me a lotta things.

I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you. I don't care about looking bad anymore. I don't care who makes the first move as long as one of us does. Maybe it's time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. And this is what my heart says...

"There's no one like you, John."

I look for you in the eyes and the asses and the crotches of every man I see, but... they're not you. Honestly, they're not even close. By way of for instance...

Two weeks ago, I met this guy at our bar (you know, the one we used to love to go to?) and brought him home with me. I don't say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my whorish desperation. He was young, young enough to be your son, maybe 19; with one of those perfect bodies that only youth, a genetic gift from God, and a childhood spent doing gymnastics can give you.

I mean... just a PERFECT body: pecs you wouldn't believe, ass like a pair of bowling balls, and when I ripped his pants off, a cock that belonged on a horse. Every woman's dream, right?

Right.

But...

As I lay on the couch being eaten alive by this stunner I looked down at his awesome nude form and thought: look at the stuff we've made important in our lives. It's all so God damn superficial. What does a perfect body even mean, anyway? Does it make him better in bed? Well, in this case, yes.

Very much so.

But you see what I'm getting at, right? Does it make him a better person? A better friend? Does he have a better heart than my mildly attractive John? I doubt it.

And, I gotta admit: I'd never really thought of that before. I dunno, maybe I'm just growing up a little.

An hour later, after I'd tossed down about a pint of his hot sweet creamy throat yogurt and was smoking a cigarette while he refilled his big tanks for Round 2, I found myself gently rubbing my freshly-orgasmed (for the 5th time) and still-tingling clit and thinking:

"Why do I feel so drained and empty?"

It wasn't just his flawless technique or his ginormous dick or his neverending stamina or his shameless, insatiable hunger, but something else. Some fucking feeling of loss.

Why did the hands down best sex of my life feel so God damn incomplete?!

And then it hit me...

It didn't feel complete because you weren't there, John.

To WATCH.

Do you know what I mean? Nothing feels the same without you. Jesus, John, I'm just going crazy without you. And everything I do just reminds me of you.

Do you remember that tall, good looking single dad we met on the Upper East Side last year? Well, I texted him to see how he was doing, and he dropped by last week with a pan of lasagna, a bottle of good Italian red wine, and a pack of Marlboro reds. He said he figured I wasn't eating right without a man around. I didn't know what he meant till later, but that's not the real story. Anyway...

We had a couple glasses of that sumptuous wine while I was smoking a cigarette and the next thing ya know we're banging away in our old matrimonial bedroom. And this hottie's a total monster in the sack, I mean, Geeezusss... he's going like the Hammers of Hell, giving me everything. You know, the way a real man does when he's not hung up about his career or politics or whether or not the neighbors can hear me screaming?

(Trust me... they did.)

Then... all of a sudden...

He spots that tilting mirror on your grandmother's old vanity. So he rips it down and puts it on the floor and we straddle it standing, completely naked, right? So I can watch his big dick... you know, the one that's much bigger than yours?... barreling in and outta my sloshing pussy for minute after minute after minute after endless minute. And it's totally, and I mean... totally... hot.

Buttt...

It makes me sad too. Cuz I can't help thinking: "Why didn't John ever put the mirror on the floor? We've had this ancient useless thing for what, 18 years? And we never used it as a sex aid."

Then I thought... maybe it was because of your small penis: the mirror wouldn't have had nearly the same electrifying effect on me. Anyway...

Friday afternoon your brother drops by with my copy of that restraining order I got against you. I mean, Chris is just a kid and all, but he's got a real pretty head on those broad, muscular shoulders of his and he's been a... a real friend to me during this painful and difficult time. He's given me lots of good counsel: about men in general, and about you specifically.

He's pulling for us to get back together, John, he really is! You should be proud of him. I know I am. So...

I invited him in and we had a conversation and we're luxuriating in a steaming hot bubble bath while I'm smoking a relaxing cigarette, sipping good Scotch (that 25 year old single malt you were saving for our silver anniversary, delicious), and delightfully chatting and laughing about happier times of days gone by. Just taking a little stroll down Memory Lane, you know? It was marvelous.

But then, suddenly, I thought: shit... here's this strapping young man with the same DNA as you, and all I can do is think of how much he doesn't look like you when you were 28. And how much bigger his dick is. And those vast differences? Well, they just about made me cry.

And then, wonder of wonders, it turns out that Chris? He's really into the whole "anal sex thing." And that gets me to thinking about how many times you pressured me about wanting to try it. And how I always, every single time, refused you, and how all those denials very likely fueled a great amount of the bitterness between us.

Buttt...

Do you see how, even then, as your baby brother is thrusting deep inside my throbbing cinnamon ring amid the acrid clouds of my cigarette smoke and the peaty fragrance of our whisky fumes and I'm screaming my lungs out while cumming furiously and relentlessly all over his huge cock, all I can do is think of YOU?!

It's true, John. In your heart you know it. So... my question is...

Don't you think we could start over? Just wipe out all our grievances and start fresh?

I think we can.

If you feel the same please, please, please let me know. Otherwise...

You need to tell me where the remote control is.

Yours Most Truly & Sincerely,

Your Beloved Wife,

Brenda