2024-04-25

I was living with a boyfriend for several years while I was in college who didn’t go to school himself, he had various jobs, for awhile he drove the city bus. We were very happy together, he made me laugh, he took me out dancing even on weeknights. We had met out dancing at a restaurant that converted to a discotheque on weekends. We had fantastic chemistry together.

There was an unusual guy in one of my literature classes. The course we were in was a senior seminar on the romantic poets, and had only fifteen students. This guy “Blake” (we’ll call him) began slipping dark blue envelopes to me at the end of class. He was tall, broad in the shoulder, and had a classically sculpted face, with a cleft chin and, wait for it, yes, dimples. He had brilliant blue eyes and dark blonde wavy hair.

Blake was not my type. I’m quite serious. And I think he knew it and enjoyed it. So when the handwritten love poems began, a week into the semester, he had already tried other ways to get my attention.

But these poems were not just any poems.

Pages and pages of sepia ink from a fountain pen on thick creamy blue stationary in which he described his hopeless plight and my overwhelming charms.

This went on for weeks. It was definitely the most erotic experience I’ve ever had with someone who wasn’t my partner, because he’d never even touched me.

He eventually asked me to lunch and I went, and we got to know each other. As it turned out, Blake was from a very religious family, and they expected him to marry within his faith, as well as to remain a virgin until marriage.

We were in our twenties, he graduated and moved back home a year later. I still have a big gold box of blue letters under my bed.

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