A Letter from a Fictional Character
Hey,
Sorry it’s been so long. I have been swamped up here. And yes, that is unusual. Normally I have to find things to do when I come into the office. I drag everything out so that I don’t get more work. I make sure I drink from the smallest mug I could find, and still only fill it half-way so I have an excuse to get up and do something. But lately, the work has just been piling in. So much that I have been staying late at the office, something I have never done since I was actually getting paid to work. In fact, it’s been since we were in college together that I did any work after 5 p.m. Who am I kidding? 4 p.m. But now, Jesus, I can’t keep up. Yeah, yeah, I can hear your smart ass mouth now with some quip about my age, or even better, about my size, about me never really being able to keep up. But it’s worse, not just because I’m older.
What makes it worse is Kylie. I know, this is what you really want to hear about. I can hear you now over a pint as I rattle on about my shaking hands and the pains in my knees and the horrors of old age, I can hear you saying fuck the aging, fuck the work, tell me about the girl. I want to know about this young woman who’s sucking your cock.
Well, let me tell you, I’m no Leonard Cohen. I have no lines of poetry to keep her interested when my dick is soft and it feels like an effort to stay awake in my chair, let alone listen and speak and move around. I know, I know. If you could have a girl like her sharing your retirement castle/cell you’d have no complaints. You’d die a happy man exploding into her orifices, letting her swallow up the last bit of your life. You think it’s just a matter of me always needing something to complain about, something to sigh about.
Maybe you’re right. But every morning when I get up and notice how little hair I have left on my head, surprise myself at how large my belly has actually grown, every time I look in the mirror and see how the darkened skin under my eyes droops, I think that life is shit, no matter who sucks your cock. In fact, I think that it’s only a matter of time before Kylie gets tired of being woken up three times by my futile attempts to piss in the middle of the night, of my inability to stay up past 9:00 p.m., of my ineptitude at everything I can think of... fuck, I’m tired of it, why shouldn’t she be? I’m almost tired of her being around to remind me how far I’ve fallen. Correction, of what I never achieved in my best years. Of how far I have fallen short. Not that she does it on purpose. She never would. Just here being here is enough. It almost makes me want to kick her out and drown in my misery.
Almost.
Anyway, keep dreaming of a 23 year old sneaking into your tiny room at night to help you rediscover you pleasure. Something tells me we are both beyond that discovery.
Reg
Sorry it’s been so long. I have been swamped up here. And yes, that is unusual. Normally I have to find things to do when I come into the office. I drag everything out so that I don’t get more work. I make sure I drink from the smallest mug I could find, and still only fill it half-way so I have an excuse to get up and do something. But lately, the work has just been piling in. So much that I have been staying late at the office, something I have never done since I was actually getting paid to work. In fact, it’s been since we were in college together that I did any work after 5 p.m. Who am I kidding? 4 p.m. But now, Jesus, I can’t keep up. Yeah, yeah, I can hear your smart ass mouth now with some quip about my age, or even better, about my size, about me never really being able to keep up. But it’s worse, not just because I’m older.
What makes it worse is Kylie. I know, this is what you really want to hear about. I can hear you now over a pint as I rattle on about my shaking hands and the pains in my knees and the horrors of old age, I can hear you saying fuck the aging, fuck the work, tell me about the girl. I want to know about this young woman who’s sucking your cock.
Well, let me tell you, I’m no Leonard Cohen. I have no lines of poetry to keep her interested when my dick is soft and it feels like an effort to stay awake in my chair, let alone listen and speak and move around. I know, I know. If you could have a girl like her sharing your retirement castle/cell you’d have no complaints. You’d die a happy man exploding into her orifices, letting her swallow up the last bit of your life. You think it’s just a matter of me always needing something to complain about, something to sigh about.
Maybe you’re right. But every morning when I get up and notice how little hair I have left on my head, surprise myself at how large my belly has actually grown, every time I look in the mirror and see how the darkened skin under my eyes droops, I think that life is shit, no matter who sucks your cock. In fact, I think that it’s only a matter of time before Kylie gets tired of being woken up three times by my futile attempts to piss in the middle of the night, of my inability to stay up past 9:00 p.m., of my ineptitude at everything I can think of... fuck, I’m tired of it, why shouldn’t she be? I’m almost tired of her being around to remind me how far I’ve fallen. Correction, of what I never achieved in my best years. Of how far I have fallen short. Not that she does it on purpose. She never would. Just here being here is enough. It almost makes me want to kick her out and drown in my misery.
Almost.
Anyway, keep dreaming of a 23 year old sneaking into your tiny room at night to help you rediscover you pleasure. Something tells me we are both beyond that discovery.
Reg
posted by deadwriter at 8:48 p.m.
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