Jan. 7, 1999
By the Book
I love you.
You don't want me to tell you so, but I love you.
You're scared because you don't know me. I understand. I could be anyone behind this page, hiding between these lines.
It's an anonymous love note. I wrote myself into these pages, thousands of clones spinning off giant presses. Can't legislate against that, now can they? I'm living on the borderlands between science and censorship laws., I don't exist until *you* read me -- I don't even know what life is until your fingers open me, your hands spreading my pages apart.
I only see the world as it is reflected in your eyes as you read me. Is it any wonder I love you? You are my whole world. I don't want this pristine beauty. I want my spine to crack, my pages to bend under your touch. I see you reading my enighbors, I see how you go through the whole book sometimes, other days flipping to just one story. I see you blush, make sure no one can see what you're reading. I see you pull me out when you're alone, opening yourself with your fingers, your hands spreading your labia apart. Is this sex solo? If you masturbate in front of someone, is it sex? If that partner is a writer, timelagged by the year since she wrote hir story, but still seducing you with hir words, is that sex?
I want you to youch yourself like that now. I want to live through you, through your fingertips stroking my text. I want you to touch yourself for me now. Stroke your fingernails down your thighs. Back up, now, along the outside, towards your ass, like brackets enclosing your legs. Pinch yourself a little, right where you like it. I know you can do it: I saw you reading that story about the horny office dykes.
Caress your breasts for me. Show me flesh and juices, and I'll teach you the power of language. I can whip you silly with a dangling participle, I can command you with a single imperative. We can take each other places we've never been. I love you. I love feeling your eyes linger on my lines. Promise me you'll never leave me. Don't let me end.