I wanted to send Lesley some of my writings about us, and she agreed to see them. Yesterday morning I sent her four pieces via electronic mail: “Yet Another Sweetheart” (October 21, 1999) and addendum (January 4, 2000), “Licking” (January 8, 2000) and addendum (January 9, 2000), “Clinching” (January 8, 2000), and “On the Lips” (January 14, 2000). I introduced my message with “sweet pussy,” the words of greeting that nicely matched my words of farewell: “fuck you soon.”

My message went out early in the morning. Lesley responded around noon. She was not pleased. “I may have had some adventures recently,” she wrote, “but each one was spontaneous, sexy, fun, and with someone I found attractive.” She was not interested in a physical and literary relationship. “I find your self-absorption unappealing,” she wrote. “After reading the rather uncomplimentary tale of our liaison, I feel dirty and used,” she concluded ominously. I was surprised, and I immediately wrote to her that I was surprised. “I thought we had fun,” I wrote, “and I thought the pieces I sent you would be fun to read, too.” She did not respond, and I wrote to her again:

I see I am losing you. It is such a pity. The last few hours I thought through what you said, and I am simply stumped. I know I did not use you in any way. I had been very excited by you, and that is all. When we were first together, I acted rather like a puppy from all the excitement.

Perhaps you see writing as something cold and distant. You cannot imagine how important writing is to me. I also know that, no matter how you may read my pieces, I felt a lot for you when I wrote them. For instance, in the last piece, which sounds rather rough, I actually speak of love. I write about a spark of love between us. Perhaps you cannot see this because the other words. The gist of the piece is precisely in that paradox.

In response to my pleas, Lesley finally sent a terse message to the effect that she felt tired, that she had low self-esteem, and that she might be taking everything the wrong way. “I am going to sleep,” she wrote. Soon afterwards I sent her one more message. I tried to persuade her that my feelings toward her were genuine:

Please believe me that I have nothing but the best of feelings for you. Of course, it is a bit funny at times to be egging each other forward into further adventures, like a menage-a-trois, but I have never felt anything but affection for you. Honest. If you look dispassionately into what I have written, there is nothing nasty there. I genuinely like to give pleasure to women. I have never felt anything but a wish to give my partners pleasure and to make them feel good about life. I am extremely open with myself, and with a few others, and I would gladly report a nasty streak, were I aware of it. On some level, something like this would also interest me, because there would be something to learn, explore.

In the last few paragraphs of the message I try to tell her that it is up to her to kill our relationship, but that I would hope she would not do that. “Remember,” I wrote, “there is no good reason for you to have low self-esteem: I appreciate you very much, and I appreciate the whole of you.”

Last night I found on my mobile phone Lesley’s last message, which must have been sent the previous night, when I asked her to share her fantasies with me. “OK,” she wrote, “I want you to watch a handsome man with a thick prick fucking me, and then you fuck me, too.” I really liked the “thick prick” bit. Of course, all this was incongruous after her accusations. This morning I wrote to her again, but I am ever more convinced that my pleas will have no effect. After all, even if Lesley relents a little bit, the magic of our encounter is already gone.

Addendum (January 22, 2000)

Yesterday afternoon we had a nice talk on the phone. In response to my several pleas, she offered that I call, and I obliged at once. We went through all of Lesley’s gripes, and she sounded much better afterwards. To wit, our meeting on Monday is back on schedule, and I look forward to it. Anyhow, it was clear she was especially hurt by several references to her age in the pieces I sent her. Not surprisingly, the first text message I received from her yesterday evening on my mobile phone was a retaliation of sorts: “You know something? I think you are the oldest man I have been with.” The clincher followed directly: “I was a bit worried about your ticker.” “Ditto,” I felt like responding to her comment about my age, but I quickly decided for a less bellicose approach. Instead, I wrote: “Are you worried still?” But a few minutes later I sent her another message, which was undoubtedly inspired by the word “ticker”: “Besides, are you worried about my pecker? Long enough? Thick enough? Hard enough?” Nothing yet from Lesley, though. For better or worse, I must have blown the Monday fuck.