Back in the good old days when the written word was really written and you hoped to god your yearning letter of passion didn’t end up in some disgruntled postal worker’s yard. I don’t know if transcribing this for your eyes is an act of betrayal, celebration or simply self-indulgence, but it’s therapeutic for me, I suppose. And I want to record this while I still can – the paper in Lori’s original letter is yellowing and her curly cursive fading. To help set the scene, know that Lori was a virgin when we met. A brilliant math and science geek, she had no sexual experience whatsoever. But she was a quick and eager study, and she explored her sensuality with the same vigor with which she attacked her lab projects. Tall, blond and rail thin, she had a great ass and a curious nature. She was willing to humor any of my teen fantasies. She rented an anal-themed porn for my 18th b-day. We read Anais Nin and Penthouse Letters together in bed. We fucked everywhere, and all the time. She even. The small space ship lifted, tilted against the star. Arch of fire swept as flames wept into the self collapsing loop. The silver arrow flew against the licking light. Off the wings and of the bow, Off the Hull and Mast. Arch of fire swept as the flames leapt from the self collapsing noose. Behind is half a score of blue bolts skimmed and shivered through the heat. The energy spittle from the pirate patrol. To the right and left, And above the Mast. Half a score of blue bolts shot and melted into darkness forward. The painful orange plasma eye winks. A pirate scum flinches. Into burning hell he goes. The star swallows its prey. The painful orange plasma eye folds. Two others remain to kill. Two hit the flanks of our hero. Shields bow down before their masters. Ceramic melts to their pitter patter. Two others remain to kill our vessel, the silver arrow. Out manned, out gunned is the silver arrow. Twinkling in the dark. Spin it sideways to fit the narrow gap, Of flying demons as they.
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