Reach out and touch someone

No, this isn't Cave Tour: Part II.

This evening, I wrote this email to my wife, who's with the kids for a couple of weeks at a family reunion of sorts at her grandparents' house in the midwest:

Hi, this afternoon I ran errands, mowed the lawn and rode my bike up the canyon. En route, I passed the tennis courts--as usual--and wondered whether we ought to take up tennis together. I took lessons when I was younger, and while the skills didn't stick, I can probably still navigate the rules and aim a shot accurately within 10 feet. Anyway, something to think about. En route I also saw lots of legs. I had impure thoughts. The good news is that when I got back home, these impure thoughts migrated to you, which sort of makes them pure thoughts, except that you're not around, which I'm gonna bet IMpurifies them. Funny how that works. I wonder what the bishop's handbook says about phone sex and/or sexting between spouses. So I thought I'd give you a call; tried your cell and the house, no answer.

What I didn't tell her is that I put some of her Lancôme Clarifiance--its smell reminds me of her--on my hand and began to M (but stopped...more on that later) while touching my mouth to the last pair of panties she wore when we made love. I didn't think she'd take that additional as an "appropriate" sign of, let's say, longing devotion across the many miles. Rather, she'd probably think something entirely unreasonable, like it was plain old horniness focused on an authorized object. Where she'd get a notion like that is beyond me.