Dirty Little Secret

He was my dirty little secret, except he wasn't little and if he was a secret, he was a very badly kept one, secret not because no one knew about him, but because everyone chose to ignore his existence in my life.

But he was dirty. Oh yes, he was dirty, as dirty-minded as any teenager could be with a worldly older woman as his sub rosa lover, a woman who was willing and eager to do anything and everything she'd ever thought of or seen before. He was prime, a juicy fig plucked down that I could sink my teeth into, bite down, chew and swallow, and he loved it. I was more fantasy flesh than any of his compatriots could even imagine, let alone aspire to and I was his. So yes, he was dirty.

Another facet of my fragmented life, everything in it's compartment, sharply separated, no overlap, nice and tidy. I like keeping things orderly. I like the concept of separation of church and state and I practiced it with great enthusiasm. I had my state, my public side, and I had my church to worship in. He was my church and I got down on my knees and committed sacrilege to make your hair curl and your stomach churn.

Until, years later, it all came crashing down, when the letter I wrote, telling him it was over, it was all over, over to the extent that I doubted it had ever been, that I wondered if it had all been a wet dream powered by a fevered imagination, the result of too much anesthesia at the dentist or too many donuts after a night of reefer, the letter which took "Dear John" letters to heights never before or since seen, the letter which I never mailed but kept, relished in rereading, treasured words, 24K calligraphy on cheap looseleaf, was found.

By my kids.