My Dear Clarissa
By Mike Romeling
My Dear Clarissa,
I smile to myself as I write this, aware of how rare a thing it must be for someone to receive a letter the morning after a one night stand. And if I may digress for a moment (of course I may because after all, this is MY letter isn’t it?) why is this sort of thing called a “one night stand” in the first place? I understand the “one night” part of it but where does the “stand” come in? Certainly there is nothing military going on in these situations such as “a last stand” or anything of that nature. Likewise, there is no moral or ethical “stand” happening, is there? Quite the contrary actually—just one more dog-eared reminder that perfect strangers can seldom if ever take their clothes off together with any result other than hilarious (or depressing) futility. Nor is there any “standing” done in these circumstances except possibly by those misguided souls who try to do it in the shower. I must confess here that in the past I used to become so aroused by the shower scenes in the movies that I actually tried it once with someone I hoped was as intoxicated as I was. Let me assure you that it is no picnic to be lurching around in a slippery shower stall as spigots and soap trays grind into sensitive parts of your body. Also, have you ever noticed that in the movies they show steam pouring out of the shower, I suppose as a cheap metaphor for the “steaminess” of the sex supposedly going on? Truth is, though, that you only need to raise a man’s core temperature a little bit before his chances of a satisfactory erection start declining rapidly. And of course, as we all know from swimming, cold water quickly reduces the organ to the size of a baby gherkin and so all and all they ought to stop promoting the shower fantasy in Hollywood although who really cares and that is not the point of this letter anyway. Only time will tell if indeed there is a point.
One thing that bothers me a little bit this morning is how you said before we parted that you were “sorry we did this.” Please remember this about men—no matter how insignificant the occasion seems to be, our egos never sleep. Besides, as I move morosely into middle age, I¹m determined to never be sorry about anything. No more apologies period. In fact at this stage of my life I feel I’m owed some apologies, primarily from God and the Utility Companies but the list will probably grow.
Having said that, though, I shall immediately make an exception to the rule and offer what may be the final apology of my life. That apology goes to you for that thing I tried to do with you involving the lime jello and my big toe. In my own defense let me explain that I was recently waiting with some groceries at the checkout line. I could see that the clerk with the acne was having trouble talking on his cell phone, chewing gum, and checking out groceries at the same time and so I knew I was in for an aggravating wait. I suppose all these morons with the cell phones may eventually figure out that since they have two hands AND two ears, they could actually purchase two of the useless contraptions and still say nothing of any importance since twice nothing is still nothing. At that point I guess all services will grind to a complete halt and perhaps civilization itself as we know it. Oh well, at least the whales will be happy—they deserve it. Anyway, in between putting a few of my groceries on the counter as space slowly became available, I picked up one of those magazines you always see in the supermarkets and read a survey on people’s sexual preferences. According to the survey, 69% percent of all women interviewed said they either had tried the jello/big toe thing or else thought they might enjoy trying it. Well, suffice it to say we now know you are firmly within the other 31%. Nevertheless I feel I must register my disappointment at the loud and accusatory nature of your reaction to the event. I felt I had dropped a subtle yet significant hint when I mentioned that my apartment walls were thin and the guy next door worked in my office. Now tomorrow when I return to work (and I suppose forever after) I will have to wonder if he heard you shriek at me in the middle of the night that you “don’t do deviant things.”
But don't worry about it. I forgive you. Forgive me. Let’s all forgive everyone and to all a good night and all that happy stuff. Better yet, remember earlier when I said only time would tell if there was a point to this letter? Well there is. The day is waning now because I have had to take many breaks from this letter to nurse my hangover. In all that time I have not been able to get you out of my mind. You look such a treat. Could I possibly see you again? No jello—I promise.