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I write a letter to a woman I haven’t met, and probably never will.

A woman on a train, maybe. Or in a meeting. Dressed to disappear, and failing.

Why do I lick your pussy? Let me count the ways.

A woman, described.

Viagra says four hours is a medical emergency. I say it sounds like bliss.

A woman on the subway takes something from me I didn’t offer, and I sit still, fascinated.

Things I like to see women wearing. And not wearing.

My body responds before my mind does, but thankfully, my mind wins every time — and it’s not virtue, it’s something deeper and darker that keeps me honest.

You’re out there, reading, aching, wanting. I know. Write to me.