(no subject)
Cousin (sweet),
I have been bad. Your absence has made me a filthy wreck of a girl and I have punished you for it in a hundred little ways that you'll never know about, unless you insist, some late August night when we are sweaty among our trees in the south garden and your hot breath is in my ear and I haven't the will power to withhold all the perverse details you’re itching for.
I can only say,
yes, I can only say,
that I scarcely ever wear proper undergarments anymore. I have perfected the production of a deep crimson blush on command, and call it into play as soon as my windy bendy swoony skirts balloon in the wind exposing, sweetly exposing, the rounded plump haunches that I pretend to want very hidden.
Peter Mulligan, a school boy two whole years ahead of me now knows the exact taste of my salty summer thighs and the scent of my dewy armpits when I haven't washed for several afternoons. And Willa, who you'll remember vividly from our celebratory birthday romp in the park (she still talks with violent tremors of your snake like fingers!) has been a dreadfully good partner in my mischievous undertakings. Two tongues are better then one! (or so we insist in heavy lidded appeals to our current prey.) We devour trouser snakes with such pretty accuracy, like two hungry mouths on buttered corn cobs…. (minus the crunch! don’t worry my love.)
My sheets don’t smell like your opal excretions anymore, and my pale blue sundress (the one with the flowers that you argued looked like pea pods) is laundered and holds no stains from our half an hour in Aunt Katcha’s linen closet. I spent the whole of late May and early June perfecting my swan dives, trimming my curls (which are far shorter then you’ve ever preferred; you’ll be furious but I don’t care), and of course petitioning the boys from Larimer Prep to see what I look like with grass stuck to my bare skin.
Fall term is starting soon and you’ll be returning home to your darling with her knees sewn shut at the joint. You’ll be forced to work yourself off under your desk to old yellowing letters I wrote you in the second year of our affair making you just as bad as all the pathetic boys you warned me against. I hope you’re rotten and cringing with guilt and jealousy. You ought know better then run off for the whole summer and leave such a crazy!
Yours, (despite it all, and much to my displeasure)
Cordula Du-frey
I have been bad. Your absence has made me a filthy wreck of a girl and I have punished you for it in a hundred little ways that you'll never know about, unless you insist, some late August night when we are sweaty among our trees in the south garden and your hot breath is in my ear and I haven't the will power to withhold all the perverse details you’re itching for.
I can only say,
yes, I can only say,
that I scarcely ever wear proper undergarments anymore. I have perfected the production of a deep crimson blush on command, and call it into play as soon as my windy bendy swoony skirts balloon in the wind exposing, sweetly exposing, the rounded plump haunches that I pretend to want very hidden.
Peter Mulligan, a school boy two whole years ahead of me now knows the exact taste of my salty summer thighs and the scent of my dewy armpits when I haven't washed for several afternoons. And Willa, who you'll remember vividly from our celebratory birthday romp in the park (she still talks with violent tremors of your snake like fingers!) has been a dreadfully good partner in my mischievous undertakings. Two tongues are better then one! (or so we insist in heavy lidded appeals to our current prey.) We devour trouser snakes with such pretty accuracy, like two hungry mouths on buttered corn cobs…. (minus the crunch! don’t worry my love.)
My sheets don’t smell like your opal excretions anymore, and my pale blue sundress (the one with the flowers that you argued looked like pea pods) is laundered and holds no stains from our half an hour in Aunt Katcha’s linen closet. I spent the whole of late May and early June perfecting my swan dives, trimming my curls (which are far shorter then you’ve ever preferred; you’ll be furious but I don’t care), and of course petitioning the boys from Larimer Prep to see what I look like with grass stuck to my bare skin.
Fall term is starting soon and you’ll be returning home to your darling with her knees sewn shut at the joint. You’ll be forced to work yourself off under your desk to old yellowing letters I wrote you in the second year of our affair making you just as bad as all the pathetic boys you warned me against. I hope you’re rotten and cringing with guilt and jealousy. You ought know better then run off for the whole summer and leave such a crazy!
Yours, (despite it all, and much to my displeasure)
Cordula Du-frey