Open Letter

Dear One,

What I was doing in Istanbul, I do not know, but there I was. Gotta say, I wasn’t impressed by the minarets, the food, nor the women who all looked tired, worn out, pockets under their eyes, looking almost dirty, as if they spent their nights caring for an army of wailing babies. The clean-looking ones were overfed and wore jeans that were too tight.

Anyway, I was walking one day, somewhere or other, it all looked the same to me: cats everywhere, old blind men begging, the smell of half-cooked kebabs and dog piss in the air. But I saw a bar and entered, hoping to find some solace in the guise of a whisky or two. The Crow, that place was called. At least that’s what I guessed, since it was in Turkish, but there was a giant picture of a crow inside, even though it looked more like an ostrich to me. In any case, I found a table somewhere upstairs, and that’s when I saw you.

My first thought was that you couldn’t be Turkish, you were too beautiful… Casually – but tastefully – dressed, you were sharing what looked like a Campari with a dark-haired man, one of ten million in this God-forsaken city. I became jealous of him, instantly. I felt I had more to offer than him. Even physically, which doesn’t happen often. I kept stealing glances at you, hoping you’d return my gaze, but your elbows were on the table, head in hands, enthralled by the banalities the guy was probably spewing out. I could tell you had long legs under those blue jeans and the slightly-tight T-shirt you wore let me guess you had small, firm, well-defined breasts. They made me think of apples freshly fallen from a tree, begging to be bitten into, and I was more than willing to oblige, to see their stars. I wanted to bury my nose in your long hair and feel the smoothness of your skin. Our bodies would be one, entwined for eternity in a sea of peacful slumber.

In short: I wanted to fuck the living shit out of you.

Then, after what sounded like a rather contrived laugh, you got up to go to the bathroom, or so I guesssed. I didn’t think twice about it, I also got up and followed you upstairs. ‘There must be a God,’ I thought as I saw the WC was mixed. Or maybe it wasn't. I just conveniently decided to ignore that fact, though.

I waited behind the door (after checking whether you had locked it or not) and imagined you with your panties between your ankles, a light golden spray coming from close to what I wanted my fingers to fondle. Then the lock clicked and the door opened. There you were. You gave me a polite smile. I didn’t think: I grabbed you, pushed you inside and locked the door behind us. What happened next is ours, and ours only. You might think you didn’t want it, but somehwere deep inside you did, I’m sure of it. I understood rather quickly why you had come up here: it was your time of the month. But I didn’t care. I removed and threw aside that white spongy plug and enjoyed you flowing around me. In fact, it somehow made it better.

I’m sorry I hit you.

You were starting to be too loud. I’m sorry I destroyed that perfect face of yours. Sorry about punching your nose so many times. Sorry I banged your head against the toilet bowl. And the mirror. I sure hope that silvery shard wasn’t too painful to remove from your eye.

I figured that once I had you, nobody else should. Why would you, anyway? I am sorry I left you behind, sorry I left. Unfortunately for you, the music in the bar was too loud for people to hear us. Funny, Nick Cave’s “Straight To You” was playing. A sign, surely. People didn’t notice me leave and the day after, I was back home in the civilized world. This is my letter to you, my love. I miss you. Do you miss me? I hope so. I shall return to Istanbul very soonish. Hope to see you there.

Very sincerely yours,

Me