Remember how you once asked me how I felt about the blog you wrote about your ill husband and I wasn’t sure?
Something like this. The idea of fucking you all the way down the Mekong made me green with envy. It just sounds like heaven. I was really envious. Very straightforward.
But what affected me more was you visiting him in hospital and opening your shirt for him to fondle your breasts. Wasn’t sure why at that time, but now I know. You were offering him comfort, succour, pleasure, when he was ill and in need. And you have done the same for me, offering your whole wonderful body to make me feel better, make me feel fed, I guess. Mentally, emotionally, sensually in my case, not physically yet, but you opening yourself to me, so generously giving of yourself, has been the most wonderful gift. I want to feed from your beauty, make myself well again. Love.
What women do. Why?
The counsellor says when I tell her of this correspondence: Don’t be ashamed of your compassion.
At this point I need to hold myself. I don’t want anyone else to touch me. I want to wrap my arms around me, so I do.
What has been lost, I realise, is the woman who gave her body to comfort and succour. She is gone and I grieve her passing.
I think, I’m glad I had her while my husband was alive.
But the other one. The one who read the story of my love and wanted it for himself. Who didn’t ask it from his own wife but from me. Who took when I did not want to give. Him I spit on.