Wednesday, 12th August, 1992
Dear Box No 248 – or may I call you 248 for short?
I’m not normally the type of guy who reads the lonely hearts column, let alone replies to ads, but when I saw yours, I thought, that’s a girl I’d like to know more about.
Before you start to think this is all far too corny and throw this letter in the bin, let me tell you a bit about myself. My name’s Steve, I’m 28 and I work for a firm of computer analysts in the City. But I’m not a typical ‘computer programmer’, by any means; I don’t wear glasses, I don’t possess an anorak and I’ve never been trainspotting in my life. I’ve enclosed a photo so you can get some idea of how I look; I don’t usually look that startled in real life, but then photo booths have a tendency to make everyone look like a criminal.
In my spare time, I like going to the cinema, and I read a lot of books, preferably anything by Clive Barker. I have been known to venture into the kitchen, and my chilli is legendary among those who’ve tasted it. Musicwise, I’ve got catholic tastes – I like Mary O’Hara! No, seriously, I love AC/DC, Faith No More and Yes, but nothing after the Drama album, because they really went downhill after that. Oh, and I support West Ham, but you wouldn’t hold that against a man you’ve never met, would you?
Why, you may be asking, if I’m so well-rounded and interesting, am I looking to meet someone through a personal ad? I really don’t know, I suppose I’m just bored of trying to meet someone through a pub or club, and the computer programmerettes at work are really looking for guys with anoraks.
Well, I can’t think of anything else to say, so I’ll sign off here and hope that you write back soon.
Yours in anticipation,
Friday 21st August, 1992
How much less formal that seems than a box number! It was really nice to hear back from you so soon. I thought after all that rambling nonsense I wrote that you’d probably think I was a complete idiot, but perhaps I’ve managed to convince you that I’m only a partial idiot.
Thanks for the photo. Not nearly half as scary as mine. I’ve never been to Barcelona myself, but from that shot it looks absolutely beautiful – and so do you. I’ve must say I’ve always liked brunettes, and you’ve got a particularly wicked smile. (Sorry if that was too forward – it wasn’t meant to be.) How flattering of you to say I bear a resemblance to Keanu Reeves; most people would say I look more like Jim Reeves!
I’m enclosing my phone number so you can give me a ring if you want. It would be really nice to meet up soon, and maybe I can persuade you to stop listening to Simply Red.
Tuesday 25th August
Yes, it’s me again! Just a quick note to say how much I enjoyed talking to you on the phone. You have a lovely voice, very rich and warm, just the sort of voice a brunette should have. It’s funny, but somehow it’s a lot easier to write something like that down, rather than say it face to face. Perhaps you don’t have that problem, I don’t know.
Anyway, this is just to confirm that I’ll meet you outside Tottenham Court Road tube station at 7.30 on Friday night – bomb scares permitting. I’ll be the one wearing a rolled-up copy of The Times in my buttonhole and reading a pink carnation
See you Friday,
Saturday 29th August
Wow! What an evening! Okay, so maybe Aliens 3 wasn’t the mind-boggling experience I thought it was going to be, but you weren’t too bored, were you? Next time we’ll go and see something a little more intellectual, like Freddie The Frog Detective, or whatever it was called. Well, the trailer looked good, and I’ve always been a sucker for a good cartoon!
Oh, and you should have told me you didn’t like pepperoni on your pizza. I noticed you pushing it discreetly to the side of your plate when you thought I wasn’t looking. Ask for what you want next time; I won’t be offended.
Hope you I didn’t embarrass you too much when I asked the waiter whether his bow tie lit up and spun round, but he was such a surly git, he deserved it.
Anyway, the film and the food might not have been a success, but you certainly were. You looked absolutely beautiful in that blue dress; I was so tongue-tied I can’t remember whether I complemented you on it or not. Well, if I didn’t then, I am now.
And the way you kiss! You have the softest mouth… I had to buy this morning’s paper on the way home, just so I could conceal my excitement or they’d have thrown me off the tube. You can tell how dazed by your charm I was; I bought the Daily Mirror, and I hate the Daily Mirror!
Sorry if I’m behaving like a love-struck adolescent, but it’s just the effect you have on me.
Can’t wait to see you again. Ring me soonest.
Monday 7th September,
Would you believe I thought you were never going to get in touch with me again? I kept ringing your flat, but no one answered, and then when I did get hold of your flatmate, she said you had really bad flu and were staying at your parents’ house. There’s a lot of flu going round at work at the moment, so I’ll have to wear a surgeon’s mask between now and the weekend, so I don’t catch it myself. I’d hate to re-infect you, but I can think of some interesting ways to do it.
Is there any chance of your wearing that blue dress again? It really does show your legs off to perfection.
Sunday 13th September,
This is another of those letters to tell you the things I couldn’t say to your face. When I said, ‘Thanks for a wonderful evening. I’ll give you a ring in the week,’ what I really meant to say was, ‘Why don’t you come back to my place? I’ll cook you breakfast tomorrow morning.’
I wanted to continue that cuddle at the station so much. Well, I say cuddle; I suppose by the time your train arrived it was more of a full-blown grope. I was so excited to find out you were wearing suspenders; they’ve always been my favourite turn-on.
I know our letters and phone calls have got a lot more intimate since we met, but somehow telling you about my taste in music, or what I like to do in the evenings, doesn’t seem so relevant any more, now there are so many other things we could be discovering about each other.
Yours, about to take a cold shower,
Wednesday 16th September,
I hope this isn’t the letter that finishes our friendship. I think after what we said last night, you’re open-minded enough to read what I have to say without being shocked. You said we should be able to share our secrets and desires, so here goes.
When I got home last night, I was so excited from seeing you that I stripped off and lay on my bed, touching myself and thinking about you. I couldn’t stop myself; I wanked myself with long, deliberate strokes until I came all over my stomach and chest, great gouts of it, all the time thinking of how you looked, and how you laughed, and how you kissed, and how much I just wanted to bury my head between those fabulous legs of yours and give you a good tonguing. God, I’m getting excited just thinking about it again.
What would really excite me would be the thought that you lie there and play with yourself thinking about me. I’d love to think that you were going home after you’d seen me and making yourself come. But I’d love it more if I could be there to make you come.
Friday 18th September,
God, that was the most exciting thing I’ve ever done, talking to you on the phone and wanking at the same time, knowing that you were playing with yourself, too. You sound gorgeous when you come; I’d really like to see it happen. I’m sure I will, soon.
But that’s not really why I’m writing. I’ve got to tell you about this dream I had last night, after we’d put the phone down.
Have you ever had a dream that was so vivid you thought it was actually happening? Well, this was like this. Maybe I’ve caught flu, I don’t know, but I was lying in bed feeling really feverish, and I dreamed that you walked into the room, except it was as though you really had walked into the room. You were there: I could touch you, taste you, smell you… Ysatis, lingering on the air; if I breathe hard enough, I can still smell it now.
Anyway, I was lying there, and you came and stood before me. You were in your blue dress, and the moon shining in the window cast shadows on your face and the swell of your breasts. And as I watched, you began to dance, to some music only you could hear, swaying your hips slowly and rhythmically.
You reached up to the neck of your dress, and you unbuttoned the top button. The material fell away slightly, so I could see just a little more of your breasts, just enough to know that you weren’t wearing a bra underneath.
Then you undid the second button, and this time your tits fell free. Not as full as I’d expected, but they had the most exquisite chocolate aureoles, and I couldn’t help thinking how much I wanted to take them in my mouth, to see if they would taste of chocolate.
You just carried on, dancing and unbuttoning your dress, until all the buttons were undone and the dress was completely open. All you had on underneath was a tiny little pair of white knickers, and they were slightly see-through, so I could get a glimpse of your pubic hair through them. I could tell how excited you were, because the knickers were already damp.
You threw the dress to the ground, and began to rub your tits, turning yourself on. Then you ran your hands over your body, until you came to your mound, and you slipped just one finger down inside your knickers and began to rub there. You sucked on the fingers of your other hand, and it was the most erotic thing I’d ever seen.
And then you ripped your knickers off – literally ripped them in two – and you fell to your knees, one hand still touching your clit, and two fingers of the other hand buried deep inside your love channel. You rubbed faster and faster, and then you threw your head back as you came, crying out in ecstasy, shattered.
I thought the dream would end there, but it carried on. You weren’t satisfied, you wanted me. You came over to the bed, and pulled the sheets off me. I was erect, harder than I’d ever been, from watching you, and you never said a word, you just took my rigid dick and straddled me. Then you slid down on me, your muscles clenching tight around me, and you started to fuck me – that’s the only word for it. It was like you didn’t care whether I came or not, although it was pretty obvious after a minute or so that I was going to; you were just using me like some living vibrator to bring me to orgasm. You carried on pumping me, until you came again, crying out in pleasure, and I followed you, jerking helplessly in my orgasm.
When you’d finished, you just climbed off me, picked up your fallen dress and put it back on, then you simply left, without a word. In fact, you didn’t speak to me throughout the whole event. All you did was throw your sodden, ripped knickers at me as you left.
Then I woke up, and I thought if I ran down the stairs, I’d catch you before you left, but then, you were never there, were you?
Suzanne, I want you so much. Make my dream come true. Please.
I love you.
Thanks for last night. I knew you’d taste as sweet as I thought. Come round and fuck me again soon. I’ll pay for the new knickers.