|Romeo and Juliet, an internet romance. (standard:romance, 1236 words)|
|Author: Cyrano||Added: Dec 01 2008||Views/Reads: 1604/827||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|After discussion in the forum regarding writing from the point of view of the opposite sex, I tried and failed. I tried again, having a man write and a woman respond. Does it work? Not really. You be the judge.|
Dear Romeo I am a certain kind of woman. I arrived to be this kind of woman the same way that all women grow to be women; a great deal of curiosity, children, experience, and hardest of all, tragedy. I've somehow arrived to be content with myself. It wasn't always this way; sometimes it was tough and agonized, but always wonderful. You are a man, a beautiful person. It flows out of your words. Last night I snuggled up on the couch, a glass of my favorite wine, wondering about this man who writes to me so poetically. I do not know you, yet your words touch me, as if they see through me, see my faults, know my desires. Perhaps you don't really exist, you are merely my fantasy. Someone who will never share my world; never be a part of it except for the time I spend thinking about you. If you are real, if your words speak a quiet truth, then you are indeed different to the men I've known. I cannot read your words with people round me, I need quiet, a bath, something soft and light to wear. Your words touch me, stroke me, and tease me with neck tingling tenderness. Won't you come forward, speak with me, and be a part of my world? But you are not part of my reality, are you? Yet, for all that, for all the mystery in your words, I feel myself trusting you. Is that right? Should I be more careful? Dearest Juliet, Would you protect yourself from warm sunshine if you were cold? There is no mystery here, just a man trying to live his life. I am not in your imagination. I am not anything more or less than I tell you. If there is beauty, let not one of us be responsible. I want to be the chill that sends you racing home for hot coffee. Another day the warm air that has you slipping into something light, comfortable and sexy. We are just an idea of God, set free in the world to experiment, to explore, and do what we can for each other. Sometimes it doesn't work, that's all. Sometimes people are crazy wild. Sometimes people are frustrated with their lives, held back, unable to survive, crushed by the pace of life and people rushing by. Some are dragged down by poverty, by the need to find a way to be something better than they are, perhaps drugs, drink, anything to help take them away from the drudgery of their lives. Some people stop. Like I stopped by here, ‘Hello Juliet, how are you?' When people stop sunshine happens. We stopped, Juliet, we stopped to say hello and sunshine happened. That is the reality. Dear Romeo, For so long, my world has been lived in my imagination. It holds me like a father holds his daughter. It challenges me the way beauty has every right to do. It has not very much to do with reality, but I am real, Romeo, and I have to live with reality the same as everyone else. Perhaps I live in a way that protects me from harshness and cruelty, but only because I've lived there, too. You've created a place in my heart that is yours, your words lie by my ears at night, some time sliding off my shoulders and downward, downward until I'm reminded that my body desires touch. I'm scared of love because I once gave everything, risked everything, dared everything trying to find that which is hardest to find. It's scary but I'm ready to be touched by your gentleness. I feel shy, once having youth, a body that was a banquet. It is a bittersweet memory. The silent leap of the sullen beast, this demon of tragedy, the withering of hope and the assault of crime-infested days, almost like a joke taken too far has deposited me in the midst of middle age without a pardon. You've awoken in me that sensual supremacy, that moistening of the imagination where once only arid lips survived. You've brought dampness to my thighs, but this is not enough. Is it enough for you? Is there a need for my fingers to feel your face, the touch of my lips to pressed to yours, the comfort of my breasts against your chest, for this is reality? Will you ever really need this habit of human warmth? Dearest Juliet You carry secrets darker than the dentist's chair. I cannot imagine the kind of terror and horror of you feeling so unwanted and so lost. Do you think I cannot touch you as well as any man. Reality is what we imagine anyway. Do you not feel my breath on your cheek at night' Do you not feel me looking at you as you slowly undress for me? Sitting Click here to read the rest of this story (38 more lines)
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