Dear Lover

Dear Lover,

I’m still reeling after this morning. Finding you on the bed in a pair of my boxers was interesting. But better still, you were playing with one of these. Fun! Then you produced one for me. In blue.

A matching set of His n’ Hers vibrators. I’ve mixed emotions about it, but Christ was it fun. (It may be silent, I wasn’t)

Love,
Me.

Dear Dirty Dave,

I’m writing you a love letter. Why? Because you sounded desperate.

(I know I’m a bloke and my way is not nearly as sexy as that brunette on Nassau street. But if you could see past all that I think we could be very happy together.)

Love,
Me.

Dear Lover,

I would love to go away to Detroit with you. I hate saying no but you are expensive and I can’t afford it. (I pay for most of our nights out - meals, tickets, drinks - and I can’t save any of my already measly wages) At what point in a relationship do we start sharing the cost of nights out?

PS - We haven’t slept together since the night you fell asleep. (This could be my paranoia but is it because I’ve started blogging about us?)

Love,
Me.

Dear Lover,

Looking at the new Agent Provacateur Bridal Collection is not a hint. I know you caught me having a peek yesterday morning - you have been giving me funny looks ever since.

Honest, I’m not about to propose. I was only looking at Kate Moss.

Love,
me.

Dear Lover,

I missed the toilet bowl this morning. Don’t freak out. I cleaned it up - even bleached the whole place in the process. But I thought you should know about it.

(Mostly I’m just telling you because last night you told me I never clean my bathroom and I wanted to prove you wrong.)

Love,
me.

Dear Lover,

There is a photo of me doing the rounds this week where I have my hands between a stripper’s legs. PLEASE IGNORE IT. It is from a stag party last year and I told you about it afterward.

As insurance for my well being, can I remind you about that picture. (The one where you and your sister have your tongues out, practically inches away from a Chippendale’s ball sack)

Love,
me.

Dear Rosie,

I [heart] you too.
(Just not as much as Lover)

Love,

me.

Dear Lover,

Do you remember coming back to my place last night? We stripped and I went down on you. You came loudly and told me I spoiled you. Then you fell asleep. That wasn’t quite what I (we?) had planned for our evening…

While you slept:

I played with your vibrator.
Watched porn on your laptop.
Clamped one of my nipples until it felt like it was going to come off. (regrettable)
Came twice.
Looked up the cost of a Russian hitman.
Drank a glass of wine.
Played with your vibrator some more, came again and then fell asleep.

Love,

me.

Dear Lover

I hate that you dislike spending time with my family when every weekend we sit/talk/dine/garden/walk/shop with yours for hours. Admittedly your whole family are amazing and no one will bitch, steal or stab you in the back - but they are my family and I don’t have another one.

They might be scum of the earth sometimes, but they are my scum of the earth. (Except for Gerry who won’t talk to anyone. No one likes him, not even us.)

Love,
me.