Would you care to join me for dinner tonight? The occasion?  Let's celebrate the wonder of you, or the contentment of me, or the supremeness of us. Or, if you'd like, we can further discuss the issue, exploring various topics until we agree upon one that is worthy of celebration.

     I will stop on my way home and pick up a bottle of wine. I'm thinking of a red. Why a red? Maybe it's the color that compels me to select it; conjuring images of intensity, passion. Maybe it's the warmth that spreads from it as it flows, so velvety over lips, warming as if with rapid friction the top of the tongue before gliding and heating as it coats the throat. Even the thought of your fingers curved around the red liquid, calmly sitting as a patient lover inside the crystal glass, stirs me although I can't say why. Perhaps it's the way those same fingers absentmindedly play with the top of the glass when your mind is occupied; reminding me of when they play at other times, although when your mind is not so absent.

     Red? Oh no, we can't have red tonight! It shall be white.  For you see, I am stopping to visit the old man. The one with the bad eye that has squinted closed on him for a nearly a decade now; the one who sells clams down off the docks. I know when he sees me coming, he'll smile and I'll laugh at the one tooth that he has left, always wondering when it will leave him. And he'll hold up his knobby-knuckled hands and say "Ol' Ernie's gonna pick out da besh ones for ya schweethard wit my magical hands". Then he'll fish around the bushel lovingly fondling each tiny prize, searching for the ones that give him "the feel" he calls it.  Maybe there's something to it; I don't know. No clams are sweeter.

I can't help but chuckle now at the thought of dipping one of the salty satisfiers into the tasty broth then swirling it in thick, melted golden butter.  As I lean closer to you, your eyes smile at me and dance along with the candle light, and I tenderly place this little succulent gem into your mouth. I suspect you will close you eyes in order that you may best taste the depth of the first and sweetest sensation. Of course, I know you'll forgive me if I cannot help myself and tease you just the tiniest bit by running the little mollusk along your lower lip, allowing a mixture of juice and butter to crawl down your chin. Then, I most probably will feel it my obligation to lean into you and remedy the situation.

     A slippery kiss! Isn't it amazing how lips glide when lubricated? And yours, my love, are fervidly fevered and I wonder how such intense heat could emanate from two such delicate curves.  The impassioned sensation is more than I can resist; ok, call me weak, and I quickly rise from my chair not caring that it tumbles loudly behind me, nor that forks and knives have been sent clinking across the floor. Luckily, your chair is sturdy enough for me to straddle your legs and I sit, facing you, upon your lap, which rises ever so slightly as if reaching up to greet me.

     First I give attention to the thin line of tasty fluid which trails down your chin, wiping it as the tip of my tongue travels upward. When that's been tidied up, I can now give your lips the full focus of my quickly escalating eagerness and begin tenderly nibbling your extended bottom lip, pulling it into my mouth, tasting it, wanting to devour it. Oh how delightful you taste!  The multiple sensations which frolic upon my tongue and lips are excruciatingly stimulating. Our tongues maneuver around each other's; sliding, tickling, circling in an erotic choreographed dance as the tempo rises to a furious pace. 

     Your eyes are closed, your head titled backwards, the gracious curve of your neck lies completely exposed before me, as you sink into the acceptance that we have abandoned the dinner on the table.... 

     I will place this letter under the windshield wiper of your car and anxiously await your answer. I promise that the evening will be deliriously, deliciously and delightfully divine.

     You can whisper to me in the morning, if I kept my promise.
 

Ever yours,

O.