The first letter was especially surprising because I wasn't expecting personal mail in the post office box, let alone an envelope featuring my name handwritten in green ink. That box had been used by various organizations that I was involved with over the years: the Women's Shelter, the Lavender Bookstore, a short-lived gothic journal named Dyke Demon. I had been the unofficial Keeper of the Key for years, so I had agreed to pick up the mail for the Women's Shelter during their fundraising drive.

The letter addressed to me had been mailed within the city, which didn't give me much information about the sender. My name and the box number were so elegantly inscribed that I decided not to rip into the envelope in my usual style, but keep it sealed until I could slit it neatly with a knife. That little decision was my first step on the path that led me to this point.

I was sitting over a cappuccino in Café Mocha when I opened the envelope, almost as though I had agreed to meet the sender for a leisurely chat. The letter read:

 

Dear Christina,

Do you know how you look when you think no one is watching? I think you should know.

I doubt if you have ever studied the dark depths of your own eyes, the wild grace of your bronze hair in the wind, the stubborn line of your chin, the fruitlike curve of your breasts, the sassy shape of your lower cheeks. You need me to describe these things to you because otherwise, you might never come to know yourself. I don't want you to stay self- ignorant.

Why don't I tell you these things in person? I think you can guess. You would feel threatened or pressured, and you would probably reject me. It's harder to stop reading a letter than to walk away or hang up the phone, isn't it?

Beautiful Christina, I've been watching you for a long time. I've been patient and I'm not planning any sudden moves. Watch for my next letter.

Sending you a kiss, Your Admirer

 

My reaction to this message was alarming; it turned me on. I told myself in vain that a bullshit fan letter from a stalker with too much spare time and green ink should annoy or scare me, not excite me. All the same, I could almost feel two firm hands testing the weight of my breasts, squeezing my butt, stroking my face, running her (his?) hands through my hair. I decided to stop indulging in sick fantasies.

That was the first letter that I filed in my underwear drawer with the lavender sachet. It was soon joined by others.

Letter #2 was waiting for me when I checked the box two days later.

It read:

 

Lady Christina,

You haven't thrown away my first letter, have you? I hope you've been thinking about me. Thinking about you always brightens my day.

I hope you don't feel threatened, honey. The last thing I want is to drive you away. I want to know you better than anyone else ever has.

Do you wonder why I'm writing to you like this instead of by e-mail? Because this paper is real and physical. I like to think of you holding it as you read my words.

Do I sound sentimental? I'm not, believe me. I'm bigger than you are, and I work to maintain my strength. Being vulnerable to attack is a luxury I can't afford. I could squeeze you breathless, fuck you to frenzy, or take you to the place where pain merges with pleasure. I would like to show you the sights in places where you've never been before, and claim you as my most valued possession. I'll never do this until you invite me.

I've learned as much about you as I can without touching you. That might or might not happen - who knows? Such things can't be rushed.

 

I'll be sending you a return address so you can write back to me if you want to. In the meanwhile, try to smile for me. I'll be watching.

A Pair of Eyes