My dearest Jaime,
I know it’s been a while since I wrote, but don’t take that as a sign that I don’t dig you any more. I assure you, the opposite is true. I’m still totally hot for you. My love is burning like a big burning log that’s on fire.
It’s just that, well, that restraining order you put on me made it difficult to see you. Normally I like to be in the restaurant kitchen so I can be close to your food before you eat it with your perfect mouth. But since I couldn’t be within 300 feet of you, I had to wait across the street with my binoculars, as if I were no better than some pervy creep. For shame!
So what’s new with you? You’d think that I would be busy with all sorts of my own projects, but I still spend a great deal of quality time courting you silently outside your flat. Last week I found one of your windows open, so I slipped inside to take a look around. You haven’t yet invited me in yourself, so I have to take these opportunities when they present themselves. I’m sure a phone call from you will remedy the situation at any moment. I left you a picture of me on your nightstand, do you like it?
I think your milk may have turned. I was going to pitch it for you, but then I remembered that milk is a very personal thing, so perhaps you’d rather make that call. I hope you don’t mind that I licked your cheese. I love Swiss. And did you notice? I folded all your laundry…you know, after I tried on all of your knickers.
I think that I’ve set a new world record, by the way…I’m waiting on verification from Guinness. As usual, I cleaned your shower while I was there, and I gathered more of your hair from the shower drain. My Jaime Murray hairball is now up to 48 pounds! Oops, sorry – you’re British, my sweet – 3 stone, 6 pounds.
I understand you’re on the show “Dexter” now, but I still love you from “Hustle.” Even though we haven’t spoken since you left comments on my blog, I eagerly wait for a visit with you. Aren’t you filming “Dexter” here in the States? Where exactly do you film? Where’s your hotel, or are you renting a house? Anyway, just call me whenever you want, darling, particularly if you’re naked and/or masturbating.
I hope you know how much I love you. All you need to do is see the most popular search terms on my blog to know that I worship you. “Jaime Murray” gets dozens and dozens of hits every day. So does “Jaime Murray naked,” “Jaime Murray breasts,” and “Jaime Murray tight little ass.” OK, I made that last one up, but I really do get lots of searches for you. You are quite popular.
What is it like to be so damned beautiful? Does your boyfriend know how lucky he is to have you? Does he love you and make you feel special like a princess, though? Does he smell all of your used forks and spoons like I do? Does he lick your armpits when you’re sleeping? Does he swab your bathroom sink to collect your DNA the way that I do? Some day I’ll clone you and keep you all for myself. Why? Because the world just doesn’t have enough Jaime Murray. *I* don’t have enough Jaime Murray.
I’ve tried calling you over and over but you either keep changing your number or you just don’t return my calls. It can’t be the time of day because I’ve tried calling you at midnight; at 2am; at 2:10am; at 2:11am; 2:13am; 2:15am; 2:16am (three times); 2:18am; 2:19am; 2:22am; 2:37am; 3am; 4am, 4:02am, 6am, 7am, and noon, all to no avail. Surely you recognize my Caller ID by now? I mean, after 38 calls a day, you’d think you’d have to know that it’s me.
I want you to know that I’ve repeatedly submitted your name to Ben & Jerry’s so that they’ll invent a new ice cream in your honor. You know how they make Cherry Garcia for the Grateful Dead’s Jerry Garcia? Well, not FOR him. He’s dead so that would kind of be a real waste of some good ice cream. But you know what I mean. Anyhow, for you I suggested they come up with VaJayJayJaime Murray. It’ll be flavored like you (before your workouts). That way I can lick Jaime Murray all day long. And trust me, Jaime, I CAN lick. All. Day. Long.
Are you feeling warm and tingly in your luscious “downtown area?” Mmmm. I want to strain pickled eggs all over your body, baby. I realize that’s kind of cliche, but what can I say? You make me a different kind of man, the kind of man that wants to keep my pee off the toilet seat. That’s the kind of love I have for you.
Oh, I’m also writing a screenplay with you in mind. It’s called “The Lusty French Maid Pirate Wench” and you have the title role. Here’s a small snippet:
Karl, please! Stop talking with that damn sexy voice of yours and ravage me! Rip my bodice from my heaving bosom breasts and make me cry out your name over and over again!
But what of your honor, m’lady?
Screw honor. I’m the lusty French maid pirate wench for a reason. My loins are screaming for you now, you and your sword of manhood.
Oh Lord, why did you send me this nymphomaniacal angel? Must you tempt me so?!
Get your boxers off, boy, and be quick about it! Fetch me the clotted cream. It’s about to get nasty all up in here.
Oh Natasha, you complete me.
Yes, yes, you complete me, too. As soon as you enter my sugar walls, which are ever so thick and fluffy and moist, and don’t stop poking me until I say the safe word.
See? It’s Oscar-worthy stuff. You’ll be a huge movie star! Dig you go to the Oscars last weekend? Did you sit near anyone famous? You didn’t see Ellen Page in particular, did you? I hope she didn’t speak too ill of me. We had a brief fling but when I told her I was really holding out for you, she got all mad and jealous and shit and swore she’d get even with me. I didn’t mean to break her heart, but I suppose I can’t really blame her for wanting the best. Still, it’s a valuable lesson to learn. We can’t always get the best.
Well, babe, I’ve got to go. Give me a call, or just send me an e-mail. Let me know how you’re doing and what your itemized itinerary is going to be for the next few months.
I love you muchly.