I was about to leave for work when the phone rang. Laura answered.

“That was Karen,” Laura said. “She won’t be able to make it for breakfast.” Every month or so Karen and Laura go out for breakfast. I knew Laura looked forward to these meetings. Karen is intelligent and fun, and surely it’s a nice change from Laura’s usual morning routine of coffee and newspaper, piano practice, exercise, and more piano practice.

“Is Karen okay?” I asked.

“Jeff has a fever and isn’t going to school. He threw up six times.”

“Great,” I said. “I’d go to breakfast with you, but Rollie’s got another one of those ‘must attend’ Y2K meetings.”

“That’s okay,” Laura said. She hugged me. Her breasts through her nightshirt felt sleepy-soft and nice. “Thanks for thinking of me,” she whispered. For a moment I thought maybe I could miss Rollie’s meeting. Phone in sick, or something. As if reading my mind, Laura told me I’d better get my butt moving. “You know how Rollie is,” she said. “But when are these Y2K things going to end?”

“2001 if we’re lucky,” I answered.

Laura smiled.

I couldn’t resist giving her one more kiss. Oh, such sweetness. Finally she pushed me away. “Now go!”

“What are you going to do?”

“The usual, I guess. Make some coffee. Make sure the kids get off to school.”

“You could write me a letter,” I suggested. I don’t know what made me think of it.

“A letter?”

“Something, you know, sexy. And mail it to my office?”

She chuckled as she pushed me out the door.

Halfway to work I forgot all about the letter. Three days later it arrived.

Dear Mat, You’re so sweet. You’re my sweet curly-headed honey bunny. I wish I could tickle you. Thanks for thinking of me this morning. Are you thinking of me this morning? What are you thinking? I wish I could sneak up on your thoughts. See them and hold them and feel them. Do you think of me? Do you think good things? I’m babbling aren’t I? I’m not used to letters, to writing. I keep thinking I should be writing a grocery list. Lettuce. Cheese. Carrots. I’ll try to be sexy for you. Be patient. First I’d better call Karen. Find out if she needs anything for Jeff. Back in a sec.

Hi again. Busy. I left a message. Where were we? Sexy stuff. My pen resists going that way. I think of ... oh, I don’t know how to say it. Shopping lists are easier. Lettuce, carrots, cheese. That lettuce is going to be wilted if we don’t watch out. Want me to tell you a secret? Okay. I said that without knowing what secret I was going to tell. Do you believe me?

Here goes. Ropes. What if I tied you up to the bed? The trouble is I don’t know the knots. I guess you could teach me. You know knots. You know so many things. Anyway, I’m thinking of you tied up on the bed. We’ll figure out the knots later. I imagine big heavy rope, like the kind that holds ships to harbors. Not laundry line. When I was a little girl, I watched Grammy Busha hanging laundry. She was really good at it. There was a sack full of clothespins. Grammy was so short she could barely reach the line. I liked the bedsheets best. Big and white and freshly damp. I’d slide my face and fingers along the fabric. I always assumed someday I’d be hanging out laundry. And then Grammy died and we always used the drier after that.

Bedsheets fresh and warm from the drier. You’re naked. Nude. Nothing on, lying on your back, in bed, on those fresh, warm bedsheets, ropes on your hands and feet. You can move, but not much. Your little tusk is so sweet, all nestled in its nest. Then you see me watching you, and you smile, and immediately your tusker begins to grow. I like the way it does that. From something almost shriveled it stretches up, like flowers stretch towards the sun, but in cute little intervals, like a little boy hopping up the front steps. Hop hop hop. Oh, my tickle bunny. My little boy. Penis. I wanted to write that word. Penis and then cock. Penis becoming cock. Tusk. Sweet and strong, the stem stretched straight up, the hat so cute and hoping. One ‘p’ in hoping. Penis. Penis in my mouth. No, we’re not there yet. Don’t get ahead. Don’t make me get ahead. Besides, you can’t move. You’re all tied up. It’s nice to have you this way.

Do you like what I’ve written so far? I’m going to touch myself a little now. Just a little. For flavor. I wish you could watch. Maybe you are watching. Maybe I’m standing at the foot of the bed, fully clothed, watching you, your eyes, and your tusk straining straight up. You can’t move. I start with the nipple. Through the shirt. I’m wearing that brash orange and navy tee, the bold stripes across my breasts. Makes them look fatter, don’t you think? The nipples push. Mm, feels good under my fingers. Finger and thumb. Pinching lightly. Now a little harder. Just a little. Makes me squint. Makes me feel good. Good and hot. I think about taking my top up. I think about taking my top up, but I don’t. My breasts feel fat and full. Nipples plump as berries. Darker than they were before our babies. Do you miss my pink nipples? The way they were? Oh well. Can’t be helped. My breasts are fatter, though. I’m fatter. Not much fatter, though, right? Not too fat? You tell me I’m not fat, but still ... but still. It’s hard not feeling that way sometimes. I’ll listen to what you say. You’re so good to me. You love me, don’t you? I can’t hear it enough. I don’t feel fat when you’re filling me. I feel ... I don’t know, like liquid, sometimes a warm pool, fully fluid, like water touched by sun and rushing down down down. Waterfalls. All this is going through my head while I play with my nipple under my shirt. The right nipple. The left one feels neglected, but it’s fattened up, too. Twins. I’ve taken both hands and pulled my shirt tight. I’ve rocked my shirt up and down. Don’t laugh.

One thing ... gripping my shirt at the bottom has brought my hands closer to my lap. Or it did until I wrote that last sentence. I wanted to touch the place. I can feel the beginning of wetness. I’m wearing those cotton Calvin Klein workout shorts. I’m thinking about putting my hand on my mound. Just my palm. No fingers yet. Just pressure. Pressing lightly. My nipples are like little knots. Tight little knots. You’re good with knots, aren’t you? My mound wants. I move my hand down. Down my belly. You watch from the bed. I need your eyes there. Your tusk is straining up. Gleam seeps from the tip. Just a touch of gleam. I’d like to touch it with my tongue. Just the tip of my tongue. You’d see the silver strand stretch up as I moved back, stretch up and snap. Sticky, like a spider web in the sun, a single strand, so sweet, I can almost taste it.

But I’m not going to suck you just yet. First I’m going to touch myself through my workout shorts. Just enough to get my own gleam going. I cheated. I rubbed a little. I made myself squeak. Just one shy squeak and then I stopped. On your back in the bed you can see my fingers sneaking under the waistband. My middle finger carefully eases into the crease, avoiding the clit at all costs. Yes, I’m wet. Wetter than I would have thought. The sheets dried in the bright sun. Not in the drier because maybe with Y2K there will be no electricity but we’ll always have sun.

One day I asked Grammy what made them dry. Was it the sun? “Yes, Laurie,” she said. “The sun and the breeze.” “But how?” I asked. She explained. “The sun fizzles the water up, and the breeze carries it away.” She used that word. “Fizzles.” I thought it was funny, like soda pop poured too quick overflowing the glass. When you come it’s like that sometimes. When I milk you with my hands and you bubble over, all white and creamy, it’s like soda pop exploding, but no breeze to carry it away, so I have to suck quickly, or there’ll be a mess, and we’ll have stains on the sheets. No, I’m not going to suck you yet. I’m not going to touch you either. Not yet. Be patient. When you come, does it feel like a fizzle? Does it ever feel like you’re choking, like you drank too fast and swallowed the wrong way? And you think “now I’m done for,” but it feels good all the same, good in a deeply dangerous way? By now your meeting with Rollie might be over. You might be back at your desk, working working working. Keep us in electricity. You’re so brave. So brave and so handsome to work that way. I could never do it.

I will reward you. I will touch myself some more. That’s your reward. My fingers are working. Work work working. On my nipples. On the top of my mound. I’m standing at the foot of the bed doing this for you. I’m pretty ready now. Pretty ready to do what I’m going to do. What I’ve been planning. You’ve been patient, so now ... if I can be brave ... if I can write it right.