I'm at work and I just typed a letter to, well let's call him "boyfriend" for now. Yeah so I typed "boyfriend" this letter, but I'm not going to send it. Something feels off. I have this, I don't know what you'd call it, like an "intuitive feeling" that I love him more than he loves me. Well, I think he said it to me once, but I don't remember how exactly because I was in the middle of prying my good underpants out of my cat's mouth and you know how hard that can be. Well, all sorts of wretched ideas have been pouring across the horizon of my thoughts, since he hasn't yet responded to the letter I haven't, in so many words, sent yet.

1. He doesn't want to see me long term

2. I totally embarrassed him this weekend

3. He didn't want to make out with me, not at all

4. I'm a damn good kisser

5. I felt overwhelmed with affection for him and might have smothered him

6. But only just a little, really

It's push and pull with this guy, always push and pull. I seem to be pulling him nearer to me, and he seems to push me away. Or he's pulling away from me because I'm pushing him too hard. Well, I'm doing everything and he's standing there with his hands in his pockets doing nothing. Or he's doing something secretly and not telling me, or just doing it so slowly that I can't tell if he's moving at all! I feel uncomfortable. What should I do? I mean, is it that inappropriate to wear linen in the winter? Please respond promptly. I'm freezing my patootie off over here.  

Goose Pimpled and Pushy in New York

(P.S. - My name is Gopy Darling. Please publish this letter because I feel the need to publicly purge this man from my system - I ought to, right? But please do not publish this "post script," because "boyfriend" might see it and continue not to respond to my letter. Or actually, do what you think would upset him most. I give you full artistic control because my friend said he saw you at a cafeteria once and you were kind of cute.)

Sincerely, 

Gopy

Dear Goose-Pimpled Gopy, 

I have been told that I am cute, but should cuteness alone be the basis for full artistic control? And should one ever use the word patootie when tush or the more flavorful toches is available? And, Gopy, it's just fine to wear linen in the wintertime. Just a few nights ago I had dinner with a lovely woman looking particularly lovely in linen. I also agree with your implication that artistic control depends on the degree to which one is cute. Is the boy you call your "boyfriend" cute? When you've provided him artistic control, has he come through? (There's a joke there, I think, involving the last two words of the previous sentence, but it's probably better not to go there, it'd be too hard to pull off, something about coming through something - but what? I have no idea what one would come through. Hasids come through holes in bedsheets, and your boyfriend objects to linen, so if he were a Hasid and you cut a circular hole in your . . . I'm sorry. I can't do it.) Actually, Gopy, your letter arrived at just the right time! We might be able to help with your situation! We might be able to perhaps interest you in a more-than-adequate replacement! Tomorrow, Gopy, we institute an ambitious and entirely unique program amongst the online literary-related websites on the Internet. Tomorrow, Gopy, we present the first installment of an exciting program, one we have christened . . . 

Every Wednesday, or thereabouts, we will present a debutante, a literary type, one ready to attend readings, gatherings, galas, reenactments of scenes from The Story of O, Story of the Eye, or The Story of the Finnish Tango. If desired, the escort could even maintain lively conversation. It'd sort of be like that Woody Allen story, The Whore of Mensa, except after several drinks (at your expense), he'd discuss The Wasteland with you, back at your place, while providing significant amounts of pleasure of a sexual type. But who are these escorts? How will you know which one's right for you? In an effort to address this concern, escorts have been presented a questionnaire, which they've completed to the best of their abilities, that, when read, enable those of interest a certain familiarity with an escort's manner, his syntax, his most intimate inclinations, especially with regard to literature, and even more so, when it comes to sex, and even more so, when it comes to the twain, that is, whenever sex and literature come together, whenever they get together and it's like this huge bucket of warm water poured from a great height, with the water dropping so slow and yet so fast in a neverending cascade flooding the town's amazed and blushing townsfolk in a deluge that overcomes the very sewers meant to shuttle it quickly off to sea, a watery mess drowning the assorted little beasts of the town's sewer system in soaked-through watery wetness. When sex and literature come together those in its vicinity die a little death, or so sayeth the French, although this coming together need not be in France, it could be in Venice (that's right - a little death in Venice), or elsewhere, in any language, as long as it involves sex and literature. Where was I? When we talk of sex and literature coming together (ie, the twain), we do not simply mean Erotic Lit, not the stuff of sultry euphemism, such as mass-market paperbacks by Fabio, for example his memoir about ravishing excessively busty wench women, back when he was a pirate. 

To summarize and simplify, what we talk about when we talk about what we're talking about is this: 

Gopy, take a long thoughtful look at our debut debutante tomorrow morning. Then ask yourself what's right. All we can say is follow your heart. Love will find a way, coming through, coming together. 
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