I know it's strange, but I can't get you out of my mind. I don't even know your name -- to me you are just the woman my Justine first referred to as "my new project partner at work." Little did I know that your forbidden love would blossom, and that I would be left empty-handed.
QR Code Link to This Post
The thing is, secret lesbian girlfriend-stealer, it's you I miss, and not Justine. Though I've never seen your face, Justine's description the night we broke up has lingered in my mind.
"She snuggles close to me, her long black hair spilling over my skin. She is so tender with her kisses. She knows nipple play."
Those fateful words have haunted me ever since. Why can't I have a woman whose long hair -- black or perhaps auburn or even blond -- spills across my needful skin? Why can't I have my nipples tenderly kissed?
And when I think these things, gentle mysterious lesbian lover, I think of you.
By now you've probably realized that Justine is a needy, critical bitch who only goes down on you for the first few weeks. You're probably on the prowl again, you hungry little temptress. I can only hope that you'll read CL, and see past my penis, to the fact that, digging women, I am in effect a lesbian myself.
I hope we can connect. My nipples and I await your email.