The Love Letters: A Novella

by Ashley Pullo

  Bouncing up top,

  When I go down.

  Nipples hard and pink,

  Feather clamps on,

  For extra kink.

  Tits of perfection,

  Teasing the tip,

  Of my erection.

  Fuck. I miss you.

  Zach

  February 9, 2003

  Z,

  You made me promise that I would never keep the truth from you, even if it’s painful. Truth: today was a bad day. Everything was wrong. And more than I ever, I wanted you here.

  I hate days like this – feeling jealous that you chose Afghanistan over me. And then knowing that you won’t get this letter until next week is the fucking shit fucker’s cherry on the agony cake. Why? Why, why, why? FUCK! We can’t even fight like normal couples.

  So I was feeling pathetic and lonely and then the worst thing imaginable happened.

  I was asked out on a date. And the shittiest part? He’s a decent guy. We have tons in common. Like our affection for Survivor, breakfast for dinner, and craft beer. And guess what else? Since I have no plans this weekend or any other weekend for all of eternity, I accepted. And by the time you get this letter, I will have had dinner with another man. Possibly sex.

  But it’s your fault as much as my own. Pick me, Zach. Come home to me.

  Love,

  The prisoner of your absence.

  February 9, 2003

  Sugartits,

  It looks like I’ll be returning to Camp Hammond next week. I don’t have all the details, but I promise to email you once I get there.

  How do you feel about Hawaii? Believe it or not, there’s a Combined Forces base in Honolulu. With my specialty in pharmaceuticals and undeniable charm, I will most definitely be offered the assignment after my Afghani tour. Just think of it, Nat! The beach, the perfect weather, and a tropical bungalow with a lanai – all for us, as long as you want.

  If I close my eyes tight enough, I can see our future – you in a blue bikini, chopping fresh fruit to be served with our sunset cocktails. Following our cocktails in our favorite spot, we’ll take a therapeutic and sensual swim in the ocean. After our swim, I’ll carry you back to our bungalow and make love to you under the stars – devouring your salty flesh until you orgasm.

  While I’m at my 9-5 job, you can shop! Clothes, shoes, jewelry, island furniture, tropical fish for our huge tank, sushi books for our private chef, ALL OF IT. I will insist that you visit a spa at least once a week. I will also demand that you learn how to surf or at least paddle board.

  And when the time is right, our little island babies will toddle around the beach saying “dude” and “bra” while we cuddle in a hammock and thank God for our luck.

  I know you love NYC, but this could be our chance at paradise – far removed from the snow and the constant battles of sarcasm. Think about it, ma femme.

  Natalie-body-part-of-the-day.

  Your lips.

  Luscious, inviting, billowy puffs of pink cotton candy, your lips are my sexual haven – demanding to be sucked and begging to be licked. When my mouth grazes your velvety sanctuary, you flinch beneath the pressure of my tongue. The moans and whimpers that escape your mouth are almost as good as the taste of your lips. Almost.

  But nothing, absolutely nothing, can top the pleasure of your swollen, wet, pink labia wrapped tightly around my cock.

  Aloha, ma femme.

  Zach

  February 10, 2003

  Zach,

  I don’t want to date anyone but you! I tried. I really did.

  Maybe I went out last night because I was angry with you. Or maybe I’m just really lonely and horny. But most likely, my reason for dating was a shallow one. I wanted to wear a new dress and shave my legs because I needed to hear a man’s voice tell me I’m beautiful – a guy other than the cashier, Raji, at New Deli.

  But guess what?! Besides the delicious Caesar salad sans anchovies, the date was a huge, gaping disappointment. He tried, but nothing he said or did could replace my emptiness without you. He was NO Zach.

  Good news or not, I think we need to discuss the elephant in the room. Except that idiom doesn’t really work in a letter. We need to discuss the thing that is obvious that we choose to ignore – abstinence. There’s no way in hell I can go a year without being touched by a man.

  Brilliant and efficient chick that I am, I submit to you a weights and balances system to hypothetically keep track of our activities. It should be noted that all of the suggestions below are hypothetical and not planned.

  Flirting 1pt

  Exchanging numbers 1pt

  A date 2 pts

  A kiss 2 pts

  Dry humping 3 pts

  Making out 4 pts

  Sex in a bathroom at a bar 6 pts (almost impossible to enjoy)

  Sex in a bedroom 8 pts

  Sex on the couch 8 pts

  Sex in a hotel room 8 pts

  And if you’re reading this and wondering how many points I’ve racked up, then you’re a bastard. But if you’re reading this with a smile and thinking of ideas for playful revenge, then you’re my one true love. Forever.

  Come home to me.

  ~Your Natalie

  February 11, 2003

  Nat,

  I have a confession.

  I love a goat and he loves me back. Gumby the goat followed us to our bunks last night and he won’t leave. Now technically, we’re not allowed to pillage the natural environment – plants, poppy, livestock, or women – but Gumby chose me. He’s infected with sand fleas or something, whines like a baby, and his teeth are obnoxiously large, but he’s the most loyal pet I’ve ever had.

  Do you think I’ll get to keep him? Just imagine our Hawaiian future with a goat!

  Remember things change without warning, but I heard I’m getting my first leave this summer. Which means sometime in the month of June or July, I’ll have two weeks to spend with ma femme. And as soon as I know, I’m booking our first-class flight to Hawaii. You’ll need to do all the shopping for our trip. Can you handle that? Although you won’t need any clothes for my dream vacation.

  In keeping with the theme of our fast-approaching romantic vacation, I give you:

  Top Five Places You Will Get Lei’d

  1. Beach

  2. Luau

  3. Outdoor shower

  4. Hotel Spa

  5. Hotel Suite

  Stay strong, ma femme. I’ll be home soon.

  Tu pense que tu es une etoile, mais tu es ma balise. You’re my beacon, Nat – never forget.

  ~Z

  February 11, 2003

  Zachy Wacky Poo,

  Mothertrucking snow. Twenty centimeters and counting. Normally when I hear something is twenty centimeters and growing, my ears perk, but when referring to the amount of precipitation, it sucks. As usual, I was totally unprepared for the potential blizzard. Can I live on wine, Junior Mints and Twizzlers for two days?

  *send search party if you don’t hear from me*

  Molly is the best boss. She demanded I stay home until the streets are drivable, even though she knows I walk to work. So following orders and preparing for a few days in the apartment, I stopped by Blockbuster on my way home. Everyone always runs to the grocery and hardware stores before a snowstorm, but as you know, I have different agendas. Being the only person in the video store, I was able to score classics like Encino Man, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Harry and the Hendersons, and Dirty Dancing. And because I was the only person smart enough to visit a video store, I wiped them out of candy.

  Promise not to think I’m crazy? I’m imagining you’re here with me – and not in the metaphysical way, like really here. Right now you’re begging me to stop writing to come sit with you on the couch and watch the snow. To my surprise, you moved the couch so it now faces the window.

  Heeding your sexy, dominant request, I turn off the light and crawl into your arms, never one to deny your mischievous smile and your need to be as close to me as possible.<
br />
  We gorged on candy and watch the snow fall, sitting in silence as we converge into one soul. Moments before we fall asleep, you kiss me. It’s the kind of kiss that can break spells, awake the sleeping, and freeze time.

  It’s our kiss.

  Hours later, before the sun makes an appearance, you shake me off the couch and instruct me to get dressed in snow gear. Bundled up, we run down the five flights of stairs, dash through the lobby, and plow out into the snow.

  You grab my hand and drag me through the fresh, untouched white blanket. We make it to the middle of Worth Street and then fall. But it doesn’t matter because the forty-centimeters of billowy powder breaks our fall. We don’t move, but we laugh – eliminating the uncomfortable stillness that doesn’t belong in our special moment.

  It’s our snow globe.

  XO Nat

  February 11, 2003

  Ma femme,

  Today was a bad day.

  I lost two brothers in a truck explosion near the Pakistani border. Extra patrol shifts have been added so I’ll be out of pocket for a few days. It kills me to know that you won’t get this letter until next week, but I promise, nothing will happen and you don’t need to worry. In fact, by the time you get this letter, I’ll be sipping some crappy coffee back at Camp Hammond.

  And in a few months when we’re snorkeling in Hawaii, this will all have been worth it.

  You’re my distraction from the pain, ma femme. That’s your assignment.

  Zach

  February 12, 2003

  My love,

  I woke up with a small hangover and a sore throat. Snowstorms do crazy things to crazy people.

  I had the movies and candy, so naturally I thought I would be neighborly and invite Angie over for the evening. One glass of wine chased with Junior Mints eventually led to an entire bottle of Zinfandel. I cannot confirm or deny if there was a karaoke contest around midnight, but I’m pretty sure I won.

  After a shower and some toast with Twizzlers, I laced up my new snow boots and went for a walk. The streets were nearly spotless, and the sidewalks were that slushy mess that the taxis fling from the dirty wheels as they zoom past. As I was sloshing down Broadway, the strangest thing happened – I got on a subway heading Uptown. Gathering my bearings, I hopped off near Central Park for some lunch. And then an even stranger thing happened. I ran up the steps of the Metropolitan Museum like Rocky.

  Inside, I checked my coat, paid the suggested donation entrance fee, and then attached my free little button that said: I LOVE ART to my sweater. For obvious reasons, I walked-not-stopped through the Egyptian Art galleries and ended up in the American Wing. Very colonial and repetitive. And where exactly is the Canuck Wing may I ask? Does the Beaver Hall Group sound familiar? Anyway . . .

  From America I made my way to Europe. Jesus Murphy! Monet, Cezanne, Van Gogh, and my personal favourite, Seurat! All the greats that I studied in college, framed and hanging right before my eyes. Have you ever stood in a room and felt completely insignificant? It was the first time that objects felt real to me – they were fucking talking to me, Zach!

  There was one gallery in particular that eerily affected me. It housed nine canvases of different size and different subject matters. Other than the fact that the paintings were all from the Impressionist period, there were no similarities between the pieces. Why was Van Gogh’s sad little sunflowers residing next to Gaugin’s naked Tahitian women? Those dudes probably hated each other!

  So what did I learn on my spontaneous detour to the Met? 1. The Café was over-priced and unsatisfying. 2. Kids in an art museum are fucking turds. 3. When something works without an obvious reason, it’s real and it’s beautiful. And you, my love, are my something.

  Come home to me.

  xoxo Natalie

  February 12, 2003

  Natalie,

  I just spent the last thirty-six hours with Floyd and Russell on a cliff. The best part was the night vision goggles. The worst part was the thirty-six hours with Floyd and Russell. I’m pretty certain Russell is forgoing the deodorant for some stupid reason, and Floyd makes clicking sounds with his mouth when talks for extended periods of time.

  I’m a pretty laid-back guy – I usually ignore quirks and focus on the positive attributes in a person. But WHAT THE FUCK? Torture has a whole new meaning over here, and after thirty-six sleepless hours, I figured out why.

  There’s nowhere to go. I’m fucking landlocked.

  I can’t excuse myself to go play video games and chill. I can’t read an entire Sports Illustrated without some dumbfuck slapping it from my hands. I can’t have a burrito on a patio with a cold beer. I can’t sleep until noon with you in my arms. And I definitely can’t sneak out and surprise you with little presents.

  Land-fucking-locked.

  In other news, I’m heading back to Camp Hammond tomorrow. I’ll email you as soon as I can.

  Z

  February 13, 2003

  Lover boy,

  Happy Valentine’s Day, ya sneaky bastard!

  Earlier this morning, I was scheduling a meeting with some vendors in New Jersey when a man came barging into the office with a vase of flowers. Molly was having lunch with some clients, so I pointed to her desk without disconnecting my phone call – it was the third time scheduling this meeting!

  The delivery guy put the vase on Molly’s desk, and then he shoved a clipboard in my face to sign. He waited for a tip – I gave him my bag of Sun Chips. He stormed off.

  While the vendors were bitching about the price of gas or something, I studied the blue crystal vase filled with two-dozen red tulips. BAM! I hung up on the vendors and ran to Molly’s desk, knocking over the trashcan and spilling a bottle of water.

  Finding the little card tucked among the waxy stems was like finding a perfect pair of jeans. I hesitated before opening the envelope, but I KNEW THE FLOWERS WERE FROM YOU!

  You actually remembered the conversation we had about tulips! And the blue crystal vase? That was all you. And the card!

  The tulips are red,

  The vase is blue.

  V-day belongs to lovers,

  Everyday belongs to you.

  Je t’adore, ma femme.

  They’re gorgeous! How did you do it? How do you ever do it? You always know exactly what I need! Thank you, my love, for making me smile.

  XO Nat

  To: natalieL@MMeventsNYC.com

  From: cooter01@yahoo.com

  RE: I’m Baaack!

  Happy Valentine’s Day!

  I’m here! Fisher welcomed me with open arms and a box of strawberry Pop Tarts. Best homecoming between two heterosexual men on Valentine’s Day ever.

  I need to take a very long nap before my very long shift.

  Z

  To: cooter01@yahoo.com

  From: natalieL@MMeventsNYC.com

  RE: RE: I’m Baaack!

  Zach!!

  An email! Best gift ever in the history of cupid and his arrows and candy hearts and stupid roses. I’m sure you’re exhausted, but I need to know everything ASAP. We should try yahoo messenger. I’ll set it up and we can decide on a time.

  I’m so relieved that you’re safe and warm, and that your bunk buddy still loves you. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Except in my case – absence makes me bitchy.

  PS Thank you for the roses. Very thoughtful. I especially love the Snoopy vase.

  XOXOXO Nat

  To: natalieL@MMeventsNYC.com

  From: cooter01@yahoo.com

  RE: RE: RE: I’m Baaack!

  What? Are you messing with me? I’m very tired, woman.

  Please tell me you DID NOT get roses in a Snoopy vase.

  Z

  To: cooter01@yahoo.com

  From: natalieL@MMeventsNYC.com

  RE: RE: RE: RE: I’m Baaack!

  The tulips are gorgeous!

  Sweet dreams, my prince.

  March 2, 2003

  Z-pack,

  Do you want to know what the biggest tease
of my life is right now? The weather. Today is perfection – bright sunshine and a crisp sixty degrees . . . but guess what’s coming? A FUCKING SNOWSTORM!

  How can I wear my new lapis blue spring jacket when there will be snow covering the ground for another week? This, the weather, is why New Yorkers are so tightly wound.

  In other exciting news from across the world . . .

  Chloe’s bed was delivered yesterday! Do you think she’ll be okay with matching duvet covers? I don’t care! God, I hope I can find something really tacky and flowery to piss her off!

  As much as I’m counting down the days for Chloe to move in, I wish it was you. You belong with me in NYC, not in a makeshift dormitory inside a shipping container.

  Come home to me.

  Natalie

  3-11-03

  Ma femme,

  Happy 3-11 Day! I’d tell you to listen to their music all day but we both know they suck.

  Mmm, I’m still thinking about last night’s yahoo chat. Thank God I can sneak off to my office storage room, because my dick is still hard. Have you thought about using your skills as a sex operator? There are tons of horny guys that would pay big money for your imagination.

  Wait. Don’t even think about it. Your naughty mouth belongs to me. Only me.

  I’m heading to chow with Fisher. It’s Taco Tuesday, and if we don’t hurry, the Army jerks Bogart the ground beef. I can’t eat the tofu tacos again.

  Love,

  Zach

  To: cooter01@yahoo.com

  From: natalieL@MMeventsNYC.com

  RE: Pot of Gold!

  Z,

  Not only did I have my first mug of green beer, I got the best news! Guess who’s flying to Miami tomorrow for an insurance conference? Moi!

  Molly twisted her ankle playing racquetball this morning and can’t fly to Miami to run the events. She’s worked so hard on everything that I almost feel bad, but . . . it’s five days in the sun!

  Shit! I gotta go home and pack!

  XO Nat

  To: natalieL@MMeventsNYC.com

  From: cooter01@yahoo.com

  RE: Lucky