Read Online Virtual Strangers by Lynne Barrett-Lee - Free Book Online
Authors: Lynne Barrett-Lee
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still have plenty of time to appreciate a twenty five year old man or two.
griffithxxxx
Or three. Though perhaps one will be enough.
[email protected]
Dear griffith,
Wow! You’re surely not twenty-five, are you? It never occurred to me! What a wonderful, uplifting thought! Actually, it all makes sense. What with Bill Gates and silicon valley and so on. (Though he is forty odd by now, isn’t he?) But, hey! What a lovely surprise; a toy-cyber-boy! How exactly would you like to be appreciated? Tell me now.
Yours, in feverish anticipation,
Charliexxxx and X
I have to wait twenty four hours for a response, but as I’m still sailing blissfully on a high fluffy cloud of silliness, anything-being-possible and ridiculous speculation, I care little. I care not a jot.
[email protected]
Dear Charlie,
Oh dear. Sorry, but I’m going to have to disappoint you. Not quite twenty five, I’m afraid. But feel free to pretend, if it makes you feel better. And what I lack in muscle tone I can certainly make up for in imagination. And in a dim light - no - forget that. When you reach a certain age you’re not so demanding about that sort of thing anyway. I’m certainly not. Give me enthusiasm and a big bed and, well..... Did I say ‘disappoint’?
griffith.XXXXX
[email protected]
Dear griffith,
Much relieved. There’s nothing so daunting as the sight of young flesh rippling with great expectations. Because while I’ve no doubt I could give it a run for its money, I’m less certain the concept would hang together so well, once the flesh in question clapped eyes on my almost-forty-year-old-packaging...
I pause to grope for an appropriate adjectival grouping and find myself suddenly transfixed. Hang on a minute. Hang on a minute. I bring up the last few emails and re-read them more carefully (at least, with less childish emphasis on the bits between the type). Aha. Hang. On. A. Minute. Delete email, and send instead;
Hang on a minute. How did you know I’m going to be forty?
Await answer. Make tea. Await answer. Drink tea. Await answer. Take mug back to kitchen and wash up. Await answer. I have been here before. Do not get one . I type;
Come on. I’m waiting. And this silence feels guilty.
And unexpectedly scary. I send the email and wait some more. Then go to bed.
Well, what else is there to do? I come down obscenely early in the morning but there’s still no post. I spend some minutes groaning and pulling on my fringe. Spend a further few thinking, then groan a bit more. Type;
[email protected]
Oh, God. So it is true, isn’t it? All this time and you’ve done it to me again! I can’t believe it! I can’t believe me . You do know me, don’t you? You know exactly who I am. Oh my God. You bastard. Grrrrrr. I am so cross with you. I can see I’m just going to have to move to Canterbury. God, I hate you. I’m going back to bed.
I click hard on the mouse and send the email in high dudgeon. I recall also what griffith said about action. I’ll give him action. But who him? Who him?
I have ample opportunity to consider his identity, as I do not receive a response until late Saturday night.
[email protected]
Look Charlie,
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. And you don’t hate me. Really. I can see you might be a little riled, but it has been a laugh, hasn’t it? And, believe me, I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone anything you told me. I’m not that kind of guy. Look, can’t we just forget all about this?
griffith.
Sunday. Late a.m.
Stomping irresolute and irritable around the house while the implications of my admission of my (albeit wistful rather than actionable) sexual inclinations flood nerve-janglingly into the quagmire of my consciousness. I telephone Rose to run this depressing development by her.
‘How d’you know?’
‘Rose, believe me. I just know .’
‘How? Give me evidence. Oh. In fact, no. Hold on. I have to turn my parsnips. Hold on.....
griffithxxxx
Or three. Though perhaps one will be enough.
[email protected]
Dear griffith,
Wow! You’re surely not twenty-five, are you? It never occurred to me! What a wonderful, uplifting thought! Actually, it all makes sense. What with Bill Gates and silicon valley and so on. (Though he is forty odd by now, isn’t he?) But, hey! What a lovely surprise; a toy-cyber-boy! How exactly would you like to be appreciated? Tell me now.
Yours, in feverish anticipation,
Charliexxxx and X
I have to wait twenty four hours for a response, but as I’m still sailing blissfully on a high fluffy cloud of silliness, anything-being-possible and ridiculous speculation, I care little. I care not a jot.
[email protected]
Dear Charlie,
Oh dear. Sorry, but I’m going to have to disappoint you. Not quite twenty five, I’m afraid. But feel free to pretend, if it makes you feel better. And what I lack in muscle tone I can certainly make up for in imagination. And in a dim light - no - forget that. When you reach a certain age you’re not so demanding about that sort of thing anyway. I’m certainly not. Give me enthusiasm and a big bed and, well..... Did I say ‘disappoint’?
griffith.XXXXX
[email protected]
Dear griffith,
Much relieved. There’s nothing so daunting as the sight of young flesh rippling with great expectations. Because while I’ve no doubt I could give it a run for its money, I’m less certain the concept would hang together so well, once the flesh in question clapped eyes on my almost-forty-year-old-packaging...
I pause to grope for an appropriate adjectival grouping and find myself suddenly transfixed. Hang on a minute. Hang on a minute. I bring up the last few emails and re-read them more carefully (at least, with less childish emphasis on the bits between the type). Aha. Hang. On. A. Minute. Delete email, and send instead;
Hang on a minute. How did you know I’m going to be forty?
Await answer. Make tea. Await answer. Drink tea. Await answer. Take mug back to kitchen and wash up. Await answer. I have been here before. Do not get one . I type;
Come on. I’m waiting. And this silence feels guilty.
And unexpectedly scary. I send the email and wait some more. Then go to bed.
Well, what else is there to do? I come down obscenely early in the morning but there’s still no post. I spend some minutes groaning and pulling on my fringe. Spend a further few thinking, then groan a bit more. Type;
[email protected]
Oh, God. So it is true, isn’t it? All this time and you’ve done it to me again! I can’t believe it! I can’t believe me . You do know me, don’t you? You know exactly who I am. Oh my God. You bastard. Grrrrrr. I am so cross with you. I can see I’m just going to have to move to Canterbury. God, I hate you. I’m going back to bed.
I click hard on the mouse and send the email in high dudgeon. I recall also what griffith said about action. I’ll give him action. But who him? Who him?
I have ample opportunity to consider his identity, as I do not receive a response until late Saturday night.
[email protected]
Look Charlie,
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. And you don’t hate me. Really. I can see you might be a little riled, but it has been a laugh, hasn’t it? And, believe me, I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone anything you told me. I’m not that kind of guy. Look, can’t we just forget all about this?
griffith.
Sunday. Late a.m.
Stomping irresolute and irritable around the house while the implications of my admission of my (albeit wistful rather than actionable) sexual inclinations flood nerve-janglingly into the quagmire of my consciousness. I telephone Rose to run this depressing development by her.
‘How d’you know?’
‘Rose, believe me. I just know .’
‘How? Give me evidence. Oh. In fact, no. Hold on. I have to turn my parsnips. Hold on.....
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