| [from the desk of Stickboy]
September 20, 1999 ROUZE MEDIA, INC. Re: Stickboy in Love Sir: These words are written to you in an unbearable fever. They regard your Saturday, September 18, 1999 Rouze pictorials, and concern a Ms. Katrina Cassidy, whose gallery is featured under “also this month” on your pictorials page. You describe your web site as “the first on-line destination site for men.” You want us to visit, you want us to linger, you want us to masturbate, awestruck, before the on-line photographs of your Rouze girls, but do you want to help us? If not, then you must believe we are nothing more than a faceless army of under-yuppies with Internet access and cocks in hand, nothing more than a market for Tag Heuer watches and compact discs available on line from cdnow. I trust this description is not apt. I don’t believe every commercial enterprise is heartless and uncharitable, and when you use the word “for” in the phrase “the first on-line destination site for men,” I believe, yes, you are for and here for me. This brings me to my request and this letter’s purpose: I must contact Katrina Cassidy. I understand from her short bio she attends college in Florida, and resides in San Francisco during summer and while on break. As it is now September, I ask that you provide me with her Florida phone number and address. This isn’t about http://www.rouze.com/gfx/katrina_pic4.ipg, nor is it about http://www.rouze.com/gfx/katrina_pic5.ipg. It’s not about Ms. Cassidy’s thumbnail gallery, the grace of her legs, the delicate curve of her buttocks in http://www.rouze.com/gfx/katrina_pic1.ipg, how she seems pensive in http://www.rouze.com/gfx/katrina_pic2.ipg, her arms folded beneath her 34C breasts. This is about my life’s purpose. Jeremiah 17:9 says, “the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?” Sir, I am neither deceitful nor desperately wicked. I know my heart, and it is nothing more than a bloody, beating map leading me toward Ms. Cassidy. I worry I may be too old for her - thirty-one - and even if I were nineteen or in my early twenties, I doubt I’d be attractive enough to win her. Here at the cusp of middle age, though, with my coffee breath and newsprint fingertips, I may possess some sort of battered, world-weary charm which Ms. Cassidy might find alluring. It’s worth the chance, Sir, because I believe. There are two types of people in this world, heretics and fanatics, and you can be assured, Sir, this letter is from a fanatic, a zealot, a believer. I believe in the ninth inning home run. I believe the boy and his Collie will make it home at the end of the movie. I believe they might still pull a few live bodies from the rubble. I believe the bush was not consumed. I come to you in a time of great need, and I ask you not to suffer me your insouciance - I ask you not to judge me. Look upon me as you would poor, besotted Gustave Aschenbach in Thomas Mann’s Death In Venice. Look upon me as you would poor Ophelia, mad with love, and drowning. Look upon me as you would a beaten, lonely Sinatra of a morning’s wee small hours, longing for an Ava Gardner who will never return. Consider the many hours I have spent on my knees, a supplicant, before http://www.rouze.com/gfx/katrina_pic4.ipg and http://www.rouze.com/gfx/katrina_pic5.ipg, draining myself. I am spent of fluids, Sir. I am desiccated with love. You must help me. Should you deny me, I will cease to believe in the possibility of a fair and just world. I will believe in cold dark holes in the ground, but I will no longer believe in bunnies. My life will be something of anguish and oblivion, nothing more. I will die broken and alone in a dark room in a Tenderloin hotel surrounded by empty Diet Coke cans and Pop Tart wrappers, drenched in blood and seminal fluid. Cordially, and with unbearable urgency, STICKBOY P.S. Whoever came up with the idea to place those black, open-toed high heels on Ms. Cassidy’s feet should be given whatever award it is they give to guys who take pictures of naked girls and put them up on the Internet, if they have that sort of thing. If they don’t they damn well should. |