I feel so desperately that I need to be forgiven. I’m scared and I know it would soothe me. I suspect I’m finally starting to convince you that I’m psychotically obsessed with you, Mistress. I wonder at that word, Mistress, whether it’s something you would want. I imagine you cocking your head slightly to the side, pursing your lips, and thinking, “No, do.” Please remember, Mistress, that I did not assume the burden of always loving you by choice. You really might not have the right perspective. Losing my mind was the most significant event in my life. Falling in love with you was the most significant experience of my life. I’m so afraid that it will be ridiculed and made light of that I never let anyone see the pain. I feel my broken, hemorrhaging heart, beating out, ‘You, I, You, I You, I, You . . .” and I know why. Did I ever tell you how I fell in love with you, Mistress?” It was seventeen months after our dates and ten months since the hallucinations had started, and fifteen since the delusional thinking began. I was vert poorly medicated and I was pacing up and down by three windows in my mom’s guesthouse where I was sleeping. Incidentally, if you slept with her, we’re getting married. I’m serious. I’ll get together a prenup with a no-fault divorce clause and a plop large enough to pique your interest. We need to be soul-fused. That’s all there is to it.
I was yelling at the voices on the other side of the windows, telling them to fucking leave me alone — I didn’t want to be alone but they were nasty and obnoxious that night. They weren’t capable of wounding me yet. I took what pills I was on and then sat on the sofa in silence until a voice I thought was yours chirped, “I’m still here.” That was absolutely all it took. The next two or three weeks of my life was a heaven you cannot imagine. You never told me you loved me, though. You would only say, “Ditto.” I want to stop here, Mistress. My psychiatrist told me years later he would have been more aggressive with the medicine that summer and fall but he was worried I would kill myself if I thought you weren’t still somehow in my life. This is going to . . . I honestly suspect that I’ve spent more time fliting about my head, in love with you, the last twenty years than I have both eating and driving. And I suspect, when it’s there, you love your sense of faith that you and I would work I’m tired of me. I want to believe. And I really don’t want to be imprisoned by my love for you right now, Mistress. I know it’s expected of me, by myself at the least, but when I’m adrift in this ocean of love, I too often wonder if my thoughts are thoughts that would please you. I wonder if my desire to dress up is right or appropriate. I love you and I will never be with anyone but you. I don’t think that pleases either of us too much. Or maybe you think I’m being silly. Mistress Lea, I can’t even think in words right now. A hallucination halfway to the door and in my head at the same time says something every so often: “Why do you do this? Why do you do this to yourself?” I tell it I do it because you would prefer it. It answers, “What, is she all of you too?” I ask its opinion. “I don’t know.” The honest entirety of it is that I want to play with your dick and commune with this fear more fully. Maybe soaking the alter of your pussy with an offering of my hot cum would break the spell writing this has put me under. I know you’d have me beg at it for my own life.
I can’t do that, but I can tell you that whenever I lay an offering of cum at the alter of your pussy — if you ever call me a cunt worshipper, I will come up with a joke bad enough that you regret it — for the thirty seconds of so leading into climax, I have a strong, strong, pervasive sense of understanding that I can’t decipher. I “know.” And I am euphoric and completely at peace at what I know. I know, it’s like I’m a virgin. Who thinks these things, explores these emotions, just for the joy of it? My . . . luck to fall forever in love with you as a virgin. I’m going to leave poems out for you to find, if we ever get out of bed long enough to do more than eat. The bad news is that I need to talk to fill the silence.
I love you, Mistress Lea. I will until I die. It really probably is my function in life. I hurt, thinking about it, how it might go to waste. Yes, I want to experience it with you, but then there’s that other nuance. If it’s only the Lea in my head, it’s only the Lea in my head, but I can make you whole. As many as four times a day. This is my dream, Mistress. That, should you desire it, I can love you enough to make up for the god that failed you.
