Romance

My Steamy Love Letter

To all the girls I’ve ever ogled

Adam Robinson recently shared the love letters of his youth, challenging me — along with other writers whose names I won’t mention here because I can’t remember them — to share a steamy love letter of our own.

After searching through an old chest where I keep souvenirs, knick-knacks, and every pair of underwear I’ve ever worn, I discovered this adorable gem. It’s a little embarrassing, as any past instances of unbridled affection are bound to be, but I think the sentiment still holds up.

Enjoy!

Dear Horiya,

I watch you sleeping, and that’s when I know. I’m in love.

It’s your hair, how it droops carelessly across your face. Or maybe it’s your nose, the way it’s right there in the middle, breathing in and out with that piercing whine that lets me know you trust me enough to fall deeply asleep — and also that you have deviated septum. Hot!

It’s definitely not your feet. If I could change one thing about you, it would be those stinkers you’ve got below your ankles. Sure they’re misshapen, but a man can accustom himself to a wayward toe. It’s the odor that must be resolved if we are to be together for the rest of our days, my love.

Not to worry, my friend is an anesthesiologist (sorry for the big words, but that means foot doctor). With his help, we’ll have those tootsies smelling like the sweet mix of fresh baked bread and Pine Sol Multi-Surface Cleaner.

With your feet smelling like deciduous baguettes you’ll be my perfect little Horiya! Of course, you can’t go around walking on those perfect feet, that’d just stink you right back to square one.

That is why I will invent a mobile chair, with two great big wheels on the sides. You’ll be able to manipulate this chair by using your arms to thrust the wheels forward, and thus will have no need to ever have your feet come into contact with the filthy ground ever again. I’ve sketched this brand new device — which I will call a Lazy Lady Limousine. I’m hoping to sell it to old ladies who have too many cats to carry all of them in their arms while simultaneously collecting every errant plastic bag within a three-mile radius of their feline-infested apartment.

This may sound crazy, but I don’t even want them to come and fix this elevator anymore.

Not now. Not when you’ve finally fallen asleep, and stopped hyperventilating while simultaneously complaining about the smell of my farts. Even though I already apologized and explained that I had beans for lunch because I really enjoy beans and also because I eat a can of Heinz Beans in Tomato Sauce for every single meal of the day — two cans on Christmas and Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Maybe if you weren’t breathing in and out so fast the smell of my flatulence wouldn’t bother you. Besides you’re going to have to get used to this if you’re going to marry into a family of bean eaters. Where do you think I got the slogan ‘ten thousand beans a day keeps the doctor away’ from in the first place?

I can’t believe we just met 46 minutes ago on this frozen elevator. It feels like I’ve known you for at least two hours.

I hope you stay perfect and asleep like this forever my love. Maybe I’ll speak with my anesthesiologist friend. He may be a foot doctor, but I’ve heard rumors he also sells Temazepam on the side.

Sincerely Yours,

Oscar Rhea

Post Script: I took a chance that your name was Horiya, because you refused to introduce yourself while you were awake. Either way, I started tattooing it on your forehead after you took those ‘anxiety pills’ I gave you and fell asleep — is there anything Temazepam can’t do? I’ll finish the tattoo when you wake up, at which point I think you’ll agree it will just be easier to change your name to Horiya than to go through the excruciating pain of having a forehead tattoo removed.

Sweet dreams my love!

This was a response to an article by Adam Robinson. If any of this upsets you, just remember: it’s Adam’s fault.

Enjoyed yourself? Then read this, Stupid: