The Letter
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Forum Letter free porn video
Forum Letter
This is a copy from memory of something posted in the "letters"
section of Forum (later known as Penthouse Forum) magazine in the
early seventies. I claim no copyright, but if you use this then please
give credit to Forum. I made some minor alterations to bring the story
up to date.
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John and I had a long full life. After our children grew up and moved
away, one to Alaska and the other to Wales, we spent a lot of time
together. He had a flourishing photography business and I went back to
work as an elementary school counselor, but we spent most of our off -
duty time together.
Without the distraction of the kids, our love life actually improved.
I used to like to joke with John that I was glad we were so
wholeheartedly heterosexual! He would just smile quietly at me and
nod.
John was on the Community Arts council, and so we supported the Little
Theatre, and exhibits by local artists. We were on the board of the
Thrift Shop, which took donations of clothing and resold them at a
modest price; the proceeds were used to provide fuel and
transportation support for local residents who needed a little help.
We often donated our own clothing which we no longer wanted or needed.
There were some nice items there, which surprised me; an old timer on
the board said that most who came in to buy clothes were looking for
denim or flannel, not for evening wear or formal outfits, so the finer
items tended to stay on the rack.
From time to time, John held his own exhibitions, including portraits,
nature shots, and artistic compositions. He did his own framing, and
his work not only added to his reputation but it sold well despite the
steep prices. He always told me that his stored unprinted works were
his life insurance, because they could be developed and sold at any
time for a good profit.
Fortunately John had regular life insurance in addition to this
reservoir of work, because suddenly one day he fell over on our floor
with a serious heart attack. We rushed him to the hospital but major
damage had been done. He survived two days, and the announced cause of
death was heart failure, but it was really the attack that got him. I
stayed at his bedside the whole time, and told him how much I loved
him and how I appreciated his attentiveness and all the ways he had
found to express his love for me, everything from travel and jewelry
to simple walks in the park. He smiled, weakly, and patted my hand.
"Just promise me one thing," he asked. "There is a cabinet at the far
end of the workshop, locked; the negatives in there are worthless and
should be thrown out. They are not my best work, and I would hate for
anyone to see them. Promise me they will be destroyed," I replied.
"Then why did you bother with the lock?" And he said the stuff was
experimental and he had been using it just to generate ideas. He
repeated his request, and I agreed. What else could I do under those
circumstances? But mentally I was crossing my fingers. One does not
lock up something which is not valuable.
Well, the kids came home for the funeral and I was busy with family
and arrangements for quite a while and did not get around to
considering John's final request. But finally one day, when I had been
back by myself again for a few weeks, I was organizing all his work.
We could have an auction, I thought, or maybe somebody in the industry
would be willing to broker a sale of his gear.
I got hold of an auctioneer and showed him what we had. He said that
although there were some pieces of good quality, I should remember
that this was basically a "forced sale" and so the prices would be
disappointingly low. This is partly because there is no great amount
of public interest in the remains of someone's work, not unless there
is something outstanding or intriguing to generate some interest.
Hmmm. What was in that locked file cabinet? Even if it was weird or
odd, experimental, it still might help generate some interest, some
intrigue, and so improve our sale.
I searched but could not find any keys. So I got a locksmith, and
after some fussing around he got in to the cabinet. His work was more
difficult because since these were negatives we had to have the lights
out, and work under special lamps.
I thanked him and sent him away well paid; I hoped that whatever was
in here was worth it. I took a deep breath and removed some negatives.
They all seemed to be portraits. Not particularly exciting so far.
Just some lade posing in different outfits.
Maybe she was a celebrity?
I knew something about photography, from our long time together, so I
decided to develop some of these and see whether I recognized the
subject.
It took a while but finally I had several dozen developed photos,
which I spread out on our dining table and examined.
The lady did not seem to be a celebrity. I did not recall seeing her
in the news, either. She was not anyone I recognized from around town.
Hmmm. So....?
I looked more closely. She seemed poised, elegant, well made up, not
unattractive. Maybe she was from Europe, some lesser light from over
there that I had not heard of?
Then I noticed it.
My old evening gown.
It was dark navy, long, with a split seam. It was embroidered at the
hem with rhinestones. I had donated that to the Thrift Shop myself.
Looking more closely, I recognized more and more outfits. Business
wear. A sarong, of all things! Even my old swimsuit, which was called
a "Slimsuit" because the maker claimed it would hold you in and plump
you out in the appropriate places. It was teal green, with a boy leg.
My clothes! I was furious.
This woman was a hand-me-d0wn me! Why had John chosen to save these
photos of her, unless they meant something to me? When we had
arguments (not frequent, but we were human after all) did he find
relief from the tension by flying to the arms of his substitute wife?
Oh God, no! She was even wearing some of my jewelry, pieces which I
still kept in a cabinet on my vanity! John snitched these for her in
order to help her look pretty; look like me! Wearing the nice things
he himself had bought for me!
Damn him!!!
I clutched my arms around myself and shook as I cried bitterly. My
loving relationship was a lie! He was practically a bigamist.
I thought about calling the kids, but what good would that do? I
doubted he had made any of this known to them.
Shaking my head, I poured myself a glass of red wine and sat down to
think.
He had never said he was unhappy. Even after our infrequent fights,
all he ever seemed to need was a little time to himself.
A little time with her?
But I was here all the time! I surely would have seen her come and go,
would have at least noticed some clue. He did not even miss a meal, so
he had not time to run off anywhere.
Oh, John. I always thought I could trust you.
I slept uneasily that night. Next morning, I decided to develop all
those photos. Maybe I could find another clue to the identity of the
mystery woman, so I could confront her.
I turned on the special lights in the workroom, and closed the door,
darkening the regular lighting. The cabinet was standing open. I
removed the remaining negatives, and slowly and carefully developed
them.
Back at the dining room table, I examined the rest of the photos.
Here she was in more of my discarded clothing! And here in some other
items I had seen for sake at the Thrift Shop. Maybe she was afraid of
being recognized if she appeared in her own things?
And then, something odd. A photo of her in a stretch web wig cap,
without her hair. She was holding the wig in her hand, and smiling in
a knowing way at the camera.
So that elegant coiffure was not her own hair. Were there any other
photos of her without the wig? There were a few, but always with her
own hair covered by a wig cap. The exception was another bathing suit
shot, in which she wore an old fashioned swim cap. To me, it looked
ridiculous, covered with rubber flowers. Ugh! What did John ever see
in her?
He had left his phone, of course. I checked through the record of
calls, in and out. Nothing, nothing suspicious at all!
Were the calls somehow disguised?
Not that I could tell.
Message boards? I did not know his passwords, but I told a local tech
that I was a widow who needed to track down some of the assets of my
dear departed, and he broke me in. Again, nothing.
I was going crazy. Anger, a sense of betrayal, combined with my grief;
I was beside myself.
I went back to that room, turning it upside down, hunting for anything
I could find.
I located something. A loose floorboard. I loosened the screw which
had held it down (only one screw, already very suspicious) and brought
up a box.
Inside, wrapped in gift wrapping paper of all things, was a wig. Her
wig, the elegant one I had seen her smirklingly displat in some of the
photos. Why? Why could she not just keep it with her? Why not just
bring it with her?
And then I saw it, underneath. Another wrapped parcel. Slowly,
carefully, I opened it. Two perfect silicone breast forms. Yet another
parcel contained a corset.
At last I understood.
I went back to the dining room table and looked carefully at all the
photos I had developed. Here, and there, were hints. Especially in
those ones in which the wig was off; if I looked quite closely at the
wig cap, I could discern a receding hair line. A very familiar
hairline.
One I used to love.
As the tears began to trickle down my cheeks, I asked, "Oh John! Why
could you not just TELL me? Of course I would still love you."
But I knew, of course; he was a very shy, private man, an unsure of my
response. So instead, he continued his innocent hobby, and gave me all
the loving attention any wife could have desired.
Dear John.
What was her name, my rival? Desiree? Dulcinea, like Don Quixote?
With a sad smile, I boxed up all the evidence and removed it to my own
boudoir.
Then I called the auctioneer, and told him I had found nothing
exciting, so just go ahead and sell the lot for the best market you
can get.
It was not worth exposing this private memory to the public.
I had loved John, deeply. I would also now love Desiree.
Uma
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