0 comments/ 11775 views/ 8 favorites Dear Chris By: MJRoberts Dear Readers, This is a story of a relationship that builds slowly, over a long period of time, with lots of complicated feelings from D.J.'s side. Part of what makes D.J. like Chris so much is her ability to just be herself with him, and let out a part of her nature she can't anywhere else. Part of what makes D.J. so attractive to Chris is her incredible ability to weave a realistic, interesting story that makes him feel like he's watching it take place, like he's right there. This chapter is about the start of their time together, and the interesting stories that D.J. weaves that capture his interest, and maybe one day, his heart. To N.C., and William H. This one's for you. DJ I love hearing from fans, but there was one whose accolades were more specific, encouragement more inspiring. After a while I wanted to reach out and say something to him or her specifically. I decided to put up a post. It's easy for me to think of characters for my fiction. It's much harder to do anything real, especially nowadays. I bit my bottom lip as I tried to think of what to write, and I came up with a draft. Dear Chris Ch. 02 DJ Sometimes, things work out. The more my Wednesday, in-the-confession-booth visits with Chris continued, the more comfortable they became. Summer turned into fall, and the leaves turned red and gold. With the crisp, perfect weather, came a feeling that everything could be the backdrop for a Disney movie. I took long walks every morning in a park near my house and noticed every cardinal, and robin, and blue jay, every tiny frog, or hurrying squirrel. The all seemed ready to turn to cartoon characters who would sew your dress out of curtains and ice your cake. I was filled with gratitude. One day I found myself skipping, actually skipping down the path. I know that I had a lot to be grateful for. The weather was great, and the stores were beginning to stock Halloween decorations. It was one of those falls, that because things were going so well, the entire world was colored by my rose-colored glasses. I began to view Chris like a writing partner, a first listener to test stories out on, as well as a muse. He also had become a real friend, the Wednesday's in the booth taking on a surreal quality of being alone and together, like sitting in a dark pub with a large ale and talking to, but not being able to see, the person sitting next to you. So on quite a few days, I let myself skip, and swing my arms, even though that's silly. But it made sense. I had a great boyfriend, who had been healthier for months, and now a good friend who was very supportive, a job that was relatively low stress. I even started jogging some mornings, something hadn't done since high school. Considering I was in such a perpetual good mood, it surprised me when I got so pissy on the Saturday before Halloween, after doing a ton of errands, when I came home to find my boyfriend's car in the same place he'd left it earlier, on the street, instead of where it would have been if he'd gone out and come back: in the driveway. I stomped into the house. I asked him to do one thing. One! Get asparagus. So I could make a nice lobster dinner for us. And he couldn't even be bothered to go out and do that one thing. Jeez. "Hey, Lazy!" I said as I put all my bags down on the kitchen counter. "What's your excuse?" My boyfriend didn't answer. I started un-packing some of the things I bought. I put the lobster tails that I'd gotten from the fish market in the fridge, and put away the new package of fancy napkins, and I had the roll of tin foil in my hand when I went down the hall to check on him. He was lying on the bed, absolutely grey. I ran to him, dropping the tinfoil. It fell to the ground with an odd thunk noise. I tilted his head back, put my mouth to his and breathed out, started chest compressions, administering CPR before realizing that my lips had touched only cold. My knees buckled, and I landed on the floor by the side of the bed. Didn't he have a do not resuscitate, anyway? By how cold he was, he might have been dead for hours. Still I felt I should feel for a pulse, because even though I could sense he was long gone, what if I were wrong? There was no pulse. I put my forehead down on the bed near his hip. "No," I said. He was doing so well. "Why couldn't you just get asparagus?" It was a ridiculous thing to say, as if, if he had been able to go to the store to get a vegetable everything would have been fine. I took out my phone and dialed 911. "What's the nature of your emergency?" a female operator said. It took me a few tries to speak. I guess it wasn't an emergency anymore, was it. But weren't you supposed to call 911 when someone died? "My boyfriend died and I don't know what to do," I said. "I'll talk you through it," she said gently. "I'll talk you through it." --- In a blink of an eye, my life changed. The Halloween decorations looked sinister. I walked through my days as if I were surrounded in a grey cotton cloud, or wading in a murky stream. I didn't talk to anyone. I didn't answer check my personal email. I wrote the articles I needed to for work, but I felt like I was phoning in the answers from some remote part of my brain, composing blog posts lauding fake Christmas trees with "authentic" tree scents, and finding ten synonyms for high-speed for a new internet company that claimed they would "revolutionize" the world. There was a word for what I was doing. Sleepwalking. I was very hungry, but the idea of eating anything was appalling. I found the only thing I could eat was ice cream. So for months, I ate only ice cream. It was a diet of Breyers ice cream, chocolate, chocolate chip, and vanilla, and water. My body began to look thinner and more hallow and hollow, except for my stomach, which pouched out, like a soft, distended basketball. I noticed, but I barely noticed. I could only wear my loosest clothes. This went on, until Christmas Day. I wouldn't even have realized that it was Christmas, except I went to the grocery store to get ice cream, and the store was closed. I realized that my plans for Christmas dinner, was ice cream by myself. Again, it was my knees that first had a problem supporting me and I crouched down, right there in front of the closed glass doors, on the pavement, and started bawling and couldn't stop. What the hell was happening to me? After I had cried myself out, I decided that I needed to pick myself up. Not just from the huddled, blubbering, tissue-holding mass I was in at the moment, but from my pattern. This had gone on long enough. Oddly, my first thought was of Chris. Oh, God. My boyfriend had died on a Tuesday. I had missed my standing Wednesday appointment with Chris, but had forgotten to call and cancel. Fuck. And I hadn't checked my emails since. Oh boy. I went home, washed my face, and logged on to my computer. Nine emails from Chris. I read them, in reverse order of the pile-up, so I was reading the first one that he sent, first. *From Chris1970* Dear Chris Oh, you naughty exhibitionist you. I'm betting that driver is going to get a good tip. I smile back at my date and bite my lip. Again I have to really search my brain for words in Farsi. "You know, I am...loud." Huge grin from my date. He says something back to me in Farsi, rapid fire. I have no idea what he said but my guess is it's something like, 'hell yeah, if I do my job right.' And then, it's magic. My hand is on his cock and his mouth is suckling my nipple. I remember reading that Middle Eastern men are the best lovers and that Mediterraneans do it more frequently than any population on earth. And now I now why. As in holy cow, don't stop. I start moaning and grinding against him. His fingers find my core, and, what do you know, his fingers are magic too. I start shaking immediately. I stop moaning as my mouth forms one big 'O' and I'm already onto silent shakes. After I come he slides into me, pumping in a perfect fury. Just when I'm sure he's going to come he stops. Turns me around, rolls down the window just enough that I see outside. We drive through a rotunda and he takes me hard from behind. His grunts mix with mine and we come together, watching the city. I collapse, he collapses on top of me. I start to laugh. I should pay him. He's fucking fantastic. He knocks on the partition. Pulls out of me. Hands me a bottle of water. Fixes my petticoats, dress, my hair. Kisses me softly. The car stops. We're back at the party. "I don't speak Farsi," I say in Farsi. It's the only thing I can think of to say because my mind is so boggled I don't have any words left. We crack up. He says something in Farsi. I have no idea what. I assume it's, 'Then my job is done here.' He slips a card into my little dress purse. The driver helps me out of the car. He manages to keep a straight face. A true professional. My date says something to me in French. Thank God it's not Farsi, I've exhausted my vocabulary. It takes me a minute to translate it because my mind is still not working properly. Ah, 'The white limo is not back yet. Do you want to wait? Do you want me to get you that taxi?' I feel like I should get while the getting is good. "Taxi." He walks me over, kissed the back of my hand. Says something to me in English. Fuck if I know what. Pays the taxi driver, puts me in the cab. "I'll make sure your friend knows you are safely on your way home." I nod. "To the finest start of the New Year a man could possibly ask for, mademoiselle." "Right back at ya." I fall asleep in the cab and wake up at my place. I let myself in and plop onto the bed, still in costume. I realize I never got paid. Whatever. Giselle will probably catch me up. It's an adventure for my diary for sure. Of course, I can never tell anyone. -DJ *From Chris1970* Dear Chris He told me a story, about how he had to enter a stand-up comedy contest wearing a dress in order to get into his fraternity, that had me laughing so hard I was in tears. I decided, much like I often had, that I should get while the getting was good. I stood up and let myself out of the small box without even a good-bye. "DJ?" I heard Chris call after me. "Will I see you again?" I closed my eyes. Oh, I don't know if I had it within me to stay away. But I said what came to my mind, in an old timey voice. "One never knows, do one." -- DJ In all this time I was writing to Chris, and doing my day job, I wasn't writing any new fiction. After the church I went home, with the muse on fire. I sat down at the computer until four in the morning, the characters in my head dancing across the page, lighting up the night. Their prose was perfect, their dialog witty. I sat on the edge of my seat as I followed them through dark alleys and into lush metaphors. Chris had opened some pipe way that had been squeezed; I felt like I was breathing clean air filled with inspiration. It was the beginning of a pattern for us. Every Wednesday I went to the confession booth and spun a story more horrific and fantastical than the next. Every Wednesday evening I went home and wrote the story down, my fingers flying across the keys with blurring speed. I sent the stories out, and people bought them. Early spring became abundant blooms, then the grasses dried brown as spring turned summer, and fan groups of my little off-world crossed lover assassins sprung up on the internet, causing me to strut around my backyard like a peacock when nobody was looking. And then one day I had a thought. *From DJtruewriter* Dear Christina Dear Christina, It's over. I'm sorry, but it has been for some time. I think that deep down inside, we've both known this, but that we've never been able to face it. I suppose I could say that we had a good run, but I think we both know that would be a lie. Do you know what I'm talking about yet? I suspect that you have some inkling by now. It's your... shall we say, indiscretions. Oh yes, I've known about him for some time now. And perhaps I would have been able to live with it, were it not for the fact that you flaunted it so obviously. Did you really think that I would never find out? And the fact that you had the nerve, the audacity, to do it in my very own home? That was just too much for any man to bear. The first time I saw the two of you together was a mere three months ago. I had come home early from work. Yes, perhaps I was being a little too naive, but I thought nothing of seeing the pool cleaner's beat-up old pick up in the driveway. After all, perhaps you needed him to come over and clean. It wouldn't have been the first time. But imagine my surprise when I came in and found your clothes - both your lingerie and his clothes - strewn about the hallway floor. All of my suspicions, my worst fears, my paranoias... all of them were confirmed right then and there. I know that I should have left right then and there, but instead, I chose to follow your moans of pleasure into the bedroom. I don't really know why. In retrospect, it was a stupid move. And yet, I felt drawn to it, almost as if compelled to see with my own eyes. I wish that I hadn't. When I opened that door, I saw everything. The pool boy... what was his name? Roberto? Raymondo? I don't really remember. I don't really care, in fact. All I remember is that the pool boy - your pool boy - was laying there naked on the bed. His swarthy, muscular body was stretched out on the bed, and you were naked, and straddled on top of him. Your long red hair was thrown back, and you were riding him rough. The two of you were so lost in your moans of pleasure that you didn't see me opening the door, staring at you. I was dumbfounded by the sight of you, my wife, cheating on me. I suppose that I should count myself fortunate. You were so oblivious to everything going on around you that I was able to take out my cellphone and get some really good pictures of what you and the pool boy were doing. That's right, I have photographic evidence. My lawyer assures me that they will go over real well in court... I watched as you arched you back, trying to take in as much of his big Latino cock as you could. After a while, you changed positions. I watched as you knelt down and let him take you doggy style. He started to thrust into you, taking you roughly from behind. I must confess, it was pretty hot. Too bad that you never let me do that with you. And then, he pulled out and came all over your back. You were covered in his sticky Latino cum, completely naked. I know that you two took a shower afterwards, because I could hear it running as I snuck out of the house. Do you know what I did next? Would you care to guess? I cried. Yes, I went back to my car, drove to an abandoned parking lot and cried. I thought of everything we went through, all of those memories... it was all a sham. You fucking, lying, cheating bitch. Any sympathy that I had for you as my so-called "wife" has since been burned away. Expect to be hearing from my lawyer soon. And speaking of my lawyer, do you remember her? Ms. Sengupta? Yes, she was that absolutely stunning looking young woman from India, with the dark hair and almond shaped eyes, and the cutest little nose. Yes, she was more than willing to comfort me when I told her about what I saw and how I wanted to file for divorce. Ms. Sengupta and I fucked very vigorously in her office that day. She stripped down and let me fuck her up the ass on her couch. I can assure you that she is very curvy under those sexy little suits she wears... much more attractive than you are. I mean, she could be a model or something. Ms. Sengupta was a very hot little fuck. You can't believe how tight she was, and she is willing to let me do things that you never would. I hope that your little pool boy can treat you to the lifestyle that you have grown accustomed to. Ms. Sengupta and I will be very happy with all of our money, as well as the luxury apartments, sedan and of course the dog. We plan on keeping it all in the divorce settlement. I trust you will have no objections, unless you really want us to take those pictures of you two to court. Sincerely, your EX-husband. P.S. - Fuck off you cheating, back-stabbing bitch.