Copyright© 2005 by Carlos Malenkov

And then I'm softly touching you, gently caressing your lips with mine, holding you so very close.

I'm a man of letters. A scribe. In the olden days a practitioner of the craft would have been writing letters and filling out official papers for illiterate peasants and laborers. In this age of computers and the Internet I write personal ads and letters for semi-literate software engineers and tongue-tied technical types who can't express in words their deepest feelings toward a woman.

Thus did my heart, ice-bound, melt in your warmth. Anew I live encircled in your arms.

My clients pay five dollars per word, and no one has yet asked for a refund. After all, I sell words of power, the power to change minds, bring tears to the eyes, and unleash mighty emotions.

Let me tell you a story. This took place back when I was just starting out, some thirty-odd years ago.

One of my first customers was a particularly difficult case. The fellow had just turned 18 and was still a virgin. He was an absolute disaster -- catastrophic acne, ears that stuck out like an elephant, clumsy and uncoordinated, and with the world's worst case of body odor. Not to mention having a terminal case of social ineptness. The only thing he had going for him was inherited wealth. Money out the wazoo.

I took him on as a test case, a challenge. If I could help this sorry specimen of humanity find someone to produce an heir to the family fortune, then I could help anyone. Not to mention that it would establish my reputation once and for all.

"First off, Miles, shower regularly. That'll enable you to get within hailing distance of a woman without her running and screaming for help. (It also happens to be a matter of my own personal comfort while I'm in your presence, guy.) Sure, there's nothing wrong with the natural smell of sweat... unless it's week-old, rancid sweat. And, oh yes, using mouthwash once in a while wouldn't kill you, either.

"Now, as to the wording of that ad, are you absolutely sure you want to mention the matter of, well, anal sex? Isn't that getting a little ahead of yourself? First you want to get a girlfriend, and maybe worry about what the fun you'll have later."

Back then, ass play hadn't gone mainstream yet. It was still ultra kinky -- a perversion -- and according to conventional wisdom, anyone who liked that sort of thing had to be secretly gay...

He insisted. It had to do with some kind of personal fetish. Something about gaining total power over a woman, owning her body and soul.

Come sail with me
Upon the sea
Of heart and mind
And you shall find
A love that binds.

We'll navigate
Yon narrow strait
To lands unknown
Up windward pass
Into your... soul.

It was a rather roundabout way of trolling for back-passage sex, but at least it more or less rhymed. He paid my fee and took out a two-time insertion in the Personals column of a well-known weekly.

"Hello, Mr. Wordsmith. I got a response from a woman who's interested in me. Wants me to write her a letter telling all about myself. Needs to be persuaded that I'm the right one for her. So, how much extra if you take care of that for me, too?"

Complications. It seemed that my pimply teenage ugly duckling millionaire needed extra services. Well, why not? Money was hard to come by back in those days.

Dearest Kindred Soul,

Do I long to gaze into your eyes, breathe your scent, caress your cheek... and melt in your arms? Do I wish share with you the sheer joy of just being alive? Does the eagle rejoice in its flight and do the stars burn in the deep velvet of the night?

Touching, connecting -- that furious spark when two become One. It's so much more than the joining of the flesh, you know. And the most intimate form of the Loving Act is what was hinted at, drawn in faintest outline in my clumsily worded attempt at poesy.

Am I financially secure? Let me tell you a few things about being born to wealth. It means never knowing want or unfulfilled desire, and yet that makes ever so much more precious the first flower of a woman's passion. Now, that is true wealth. And it can't be bought.

Take me as I am with all my warts and blemishes. I'm human, and so, I imagine, are you. Gloriously, beautifully human. I could learn to cherish you in time. And you, perhaps you might find me worthy, too.

Yours in hope,

Ugly Duckling

"Hello again, Mr. Wordsmith. She wants to meet me in the flesh. What do I do now?"

"Why, meet her, of course." You fool!

"I'm not sure I can deal with that. What would you charge to handle it for me?"

As I said, money was scarce back then, and I agreed to give it my best shot.

An interesting problem. Stand in for lover boy, win fair lass, but not for myself. Now, how to go about this?

March 11

Salutations, My Lovely.

I must confess that in my eagerness to caress you with my eyes I have neglected to mention one minor detail. Tragic misfortune has left its scars on my features, and although I am told it lends me something of the look of a dashing scoundrel, nonetheless vanity forbids me revealing my naked face to you all too soon. Alas, I must, for our first meeting at least, remain shrouded. I shall wear a mask.

A mask! I invite you to accompany me to the annual United Charities Masquerade Ball this following Saturday evening. Indeed, a masque!

Your Duckling