DEAR SUSAN
by Holly Day

Susan can’t wait to get home from work so she can fondle herself.  Sometimes, she can’t even wait
that long--she takes her lunch break in the restroom at work and spends her entire lunch break just
touching herself.  “Some people might say I have a problem,” she says, spreading wide for the
photographer.  “I don’t think it’s a problem at all.”

May

Tom first saw the real Susan in the grocery store about a half-mile from his house, purely by accident. He followed her through the store, pushing his shopping cart, trying to get a good look at her face to make sure she really was “his” Susan.  He continued following her outside the store, following her in his car until she finally parked outside a small white house with a friendly but uncomplicated garden. The next morning, he followed her to work, keeping a good two or three car lengths between them, like they always did in the detective shows.

The casual observer might not suspect that Susan was one of those insatiable types. Tom wouldn’t have dreamed it himself if he hadn’t seen her picture in the one smutty magazine he allowed himself to get once a month.  It came to his mailbox in a brown paper wrapper, once a month. Not even the name of the magazine was printed on the wrapper, just the return address.  Of course, everyone who saw the plain brown envelope knew what it was.  Once or twice a year, a small, unlabeled box containing a DVD would appear along with the magazine.  Everyone knew what that was, too. Tom didn’t even have a VCR in his apartment, however, so the boxes just piled up in the corner of the living room.

Tom hardly recognized Susan from the picture in the magazine. She dressed simply and conservatively for work, wearing either the same dark blue suit jacket with a long skirt or solid-colored slacks and a blouse.  She always wore her straight brown hair up in a tight bun on top of her head, pulled back so severely that the scalp looked taut.  She wore no conspicuous jewelry and very little makeup.

In the magazine, however, she wore elbow-length white gloves and a white garter belt with no underwear.  Her stockings had dime-sized white lace flowers going up one side, and the material was all sparkly as if it had little pieces of silver wove into the fabric.  Her hair hung down her back, the tips caressing the points of her shoulder blades, long and straight and thick like a dark brown curtain.  Her green eyes were thickly outlined in black, her lips richly pulsing red back at Tom, who lay quivering and cowering in bed.  He could easily imagine Susan alone in the tiny bathroom stall at work, long red fingernails gently scratching the ends of her nipples erect, eyes closed in ecstasy as she leaned back against the wall, legs spread wide over the dark bowl of the toilet, stifling her moans of pleasure with clenched teeth and pursed lips as her fellow employees passed by in the hallway outside the lavatory, oblivious to her orgasm.

June

Susan’s office only had a tiny window set in the middle of the wall.  It was nearly impossible to see into Susan’s office from where Tom sat in his car. She almost never went out for lunch.  Every so often, Tom would see her walking briskly from the building to the parking lot, eyes sweeping the lot for her car as if she had forgotten where she had parked, even though she parked in exactly the same place every day.  Her flat, sensible shoes made no noise against the black asphalt, quite unlike the slow, sensual echo he imagined the stiletto heels she wore in the magazine would make.  She would pull out of the lot carefully, looking both ways before turning out onto the road, returning exactly one-half hour later, often still clutching a partially-eaten hamburger as she dashed back from her car to her office.

Could she actually find time to masturbate every day during her lunch break?  Tom wondered, dismissing the hamburger.  If so, her appetite for orgasm must be truly tremendous—in fact, it must be virtually impossible to satiate her and her voracious sex drive.  For some reason, the thought was comforting to him.  He would never have to worry about completely satisfying her in bed, because no human being, man or woman, ever really could.

It wasn’t long before he was thinking about the two of them sleeping together.  He could feel the silk of her soft flesh beneath his callused fingertips, the way the nylon of her sheer pantyhose snagged on the rough bits of skin that outlined his palms.  Her thick, red lips smiled back at him in his dreams, eyes half-closed as she watched him move in and out of her.  She was the kind of girl who would insist on seeing him put it in her, would watch intently as his swollen penis disappeared inside of her, only to reappear, again and again, wet.

“Dear Editors,” he began.  It was the first such letter he had penned to the magazine, even though he had been a faithful subscriber for nearly ten years.  “I truly enjoyed this month’s spread on “Susan” (pgs. 25-28), and would like to see more of her in the future.  Please pass my admiration on to her.  Sincerely, Tom Dunn.”  It was not much of a first move, but Tom was a shy man.

The Monday after he posted the letter to the magazine, he made up his mind to meet her.  He waited until her car turned the corner into the lot before slowly walking toward his office.  He timed it so that as she stepped out of her car, he would be walking right past her.  It would all appear to be perfectly accidental.

Susan’s matte blue compact sedan pulled into the lot.  Tom suddenly felt butterflies tumbling in his gut as he rehearsed how he would say “hello” and smile at her in the most natural and friendliest of ways.  Susan parked her car in the same spot she always did and fussed with her seat  belt.  Tom veered a little from his straightforward path to avoid walking into the fiberglass bumper of her car.  Susan opened her door and stepped out of the car, stretching her long legs way out to avoid stepping into a small puddle of rainwater. 

“Good morning,” she said, smiling at Tom pleasantly.  Tom grinned back, feeling his mouth stretch wide and his head bob idiotically.  “Good morning,” he said, several seconds too late.  She had already walked past him and into her office. Tom got and his car and drove straight home, heart beating wildly in his chest. “Good morning,” she said , again and again in his head, from her picture in the magazine.

July

Tom got a different kind of package in the mail.  Inside it was an eight-by-ten glossy of Susan wearing the same outfit she had been wearing in the magazine.  She smiled invitingly at Tom from the photograph, legs spread wide and hanging over the arms of the chair she was sitting on, allowing for a full and close-up view of her private parts peeking out of a pair of white crotchless panties.  A smeary lipstick kiss puckered in the bottom right corner of the picture, with “XXXOOO Love, Susan” scrawled next to it in red magic marker.  A small handwritten note accompanied the photograph.

Dear Tom,
it said.
Thank you for the kind words.  It is always nice to hear from my fans.
Write me any time.  I promise to write back.
Love, Susan
it ended.

Tom framed the photograph in the one nice picture frame he had and hung it  up in his bedroom.  He tried hanging it up in various places about the room, trying to find the one truly right place to display a picture of a naked woman, and finally settled on the wall directly in front of his bed.  It was autographed, and to him, and was therefore special enough to be on display and not hidden from prying eyes like the rest of his pornography.  He lay back on the bed and stared at Susan through half-closed eyes.  “Good morning,” he said aloud, imagining Susan in her simple brown skirt and matching jacket.

Dear Susan,
Thank you for the lovely photograph.  I was afraid that you would be like all
of the other women in the magazines—aloof, unapproachable—but your
quick and personal response to my forwarded letter has proved you to be
otherwise.  I think you look beautiful both in and out of your underwear.
Love, Tom

August

Susan had been out with a cold or a vacation or something for almost a week, and Tom found himself standing like an idiot in the empty space where she parked her car time and again.  Finally, one day, he saw her pull into the lot, get out of her car and walked briskly towards her own office, radiant in a simple tan blazer and matching pants.  Her hair was pulled back in its customary tight brown bun.  She dabbed at her slightly-red nose with a white cloth handkerchief as she walked, as if recovering from some sort of sinus problem.

Her hair wasn’t really brown, Tom thought to himself as he watched her cross the parking lot.  It was actually a sort of reddish chestnutty color, rich and thick like oxblood or velvet.  Her skin darkened to a subtle olive in parts, especially in the crease of her armpits and the dent of her navel.  The lips of her vagina were also faintly outlined in gray, almost as if her had applied makeup to the area.  Tom knew every nuance of her body, or at least the front of it. He only had a small magazine glossy of her bending over and grabbing her ankles, so he knew just a few faint details about  her backside.

Sometimes, when he saw Susan across the street coming to and from her car, he didn’t see her in her standard conservative office attire at all.  He saw her pacing, like a giant caged cat, slowly across the parking lot, naked in six-inch high heels, hair down about her shoulders, thick red lips pouting at him from across the street.  And sometimes, staring at Susan’s photograph from the comfort of his antique canopied bed, he didn’t see her high heels and white gloves at all—instead, he saw her deep, serious eyes studying him over a dull navy suit, lips tucked in a tight, bleary I-don’t-want-to-be-at-work-right-now smile, long hair pulled back into a demure and asexual bun.

Dear Tom,
You sound like a nice man.  I have received quite a few thoughtful letters
regarding the spread I did in last month’s issue of S--. I am contemplating
doing another series of  photographs for the magazine—am thinking of
you as I consider and practice poses for future issues.
Love,  Susan

Tom had never been much for forward woman.  However, he could forgive as well as expect indiscretion from a woman who claimed to spend her lunch hour masturbating in the company washroom.  He was actually surprised that Susan’s letters were more like the lines blurted out by the 1-900 girls in the back of the magazines—like “Cum All Over My Melons,” and “Watch Me Fuck My Sister,” and “I Dare You to Pull My Finger.”  Susan’s correspondences were extremely polite by comparison.     

September

The weather grew colder.  Susan switched from skirts to dun-colored wool slacks, from thin leather flats to lace-up granny boots.  She wore her hair down at the office now, obviously more an attempt to keep her neck warm than to look sexy.  Tom liked the change in her.  The fact that she grew cold in the fall, just like everyone else did, made her even more human.  He managed to walk by her in the morning almost every day now, managed to catch her eye long enough to smile and say “hello” or “good morning.”  Inside, he was bursting.  He wanted desperately to say, “ I’m the Tom that’s been writing you all the letters,” but somehow, the moment never seemed quite right.

October

Susan answered every single letter he sent her.  She enclosed autographed photos of herself in various stages of undress, in provocative poses, close-ups of her snatch.  The letters were somewhat reserved, however, with only the occasional references to sex or self-gratification.  She mentioned the men in her life a couple of times, although she flat-out stated that all her previous relationships were transitional things, something to occupy her time while she figured out what to do with the rest of her life.  Her interests included modeling, going to movies, and snuggling up with a good book.  She especially liked to read pornography, and she encouraged Tom to write her nasty letters.

Tom tried to comply with her request, but always felt his letters falling short of what he really wanted to say.  Finally, after many tries, he came up with:

Dear Susan,
I wish we could get together in person.  There is nothing I would rather
do than follow you into the lav at work and watch you play with your cunt.
I want to help.  I want to help you get yourself off. I want to hear you
say how good it feels, how good I feel. 
Love, Tom

His hands actually sweat as he wrote.  This was what he had meant to say all along.  It felt good to say the truth for once, instead of beating around the bush with, “Gee, you’re so pretty,” and, “I’ll bet your hair smells nice.”  He felt strangely empowered by getting this simple truth off his chest and onto paper.  He read his letter over and over to himself before finally signing it and stuffing it into an envelope with a photograph of himself.  He had to get this thing out with the mail today, now, before he lost his nerve.

Susan’s letter came back faster than he could have expected.  Inside the large, flat package was a glossy photograph of Susan sitting with the legs spread wide open over the arms of a chair, wearing only a white garter belt with lace hose and elbow-length gloves.  The corner was signed “XXXOOO Love, Susan.”  It was exactly the same photograph and autograph she had sent him with her very first letter.  There was no other correspondence enclosed.

Tom drew the bedroom drapes tightly shut and turned off all the lights.     She must have made a mistake.  The second eight-by-ten glossy must have been intended for another of Susan’s admirers, and the letter that was supposed to go to Tom had been sent to that person by mistake.  Surely, if Susan had sent another photograph of herself to Tom, she would have signed it with more than all those “X’s” and “O’s”.  Not after all the letters they had already exchanged.

Susan smiled at Tom from across the room, the slick surface of the photo catching and reflecting the barest stream of light coming in through the cracks where the drapes met.  Her smile seemed sad today, almost apologetic.  Of course it had been a mistake.  Tom gathered up with little nerve he had left and picked out some casual clothes to wear.  He was going to speak to Susan about this, now, in person, like he should have done in the first place.

It was about noon when he pulled into the parking lot.  Susan’s car was parked in its usual spot. Tom walked quickly to the door of her building and let himself in. The hallways leading to the private offices was dimly lit and cool.  The building was quiet, save for the sound of someone typing in one of the rooms, and the voice of a telephone going faintly unanswered in another.

Tom stood in the lobby and held his breath.  He had only a general idea where Susan’s office lay.  He tiptoed past the nearest office and peeked in.  A man’s suit jacket hung from the coat rack in the corner. The next office was also empty, but a familiar brown leather purse was slung around the desk chair.  Tom closed his eyes and breathed in the faint perfume that still permeated the room, a scent that suited Susan  perfectly.  He thought he could smell her hair if he breathed in deep enough.

The soft pad of high heels on carpet startled him out of his reverie.  He quickly ducked into Susan’s office and pressed back against the wall.  An older woman in a charcoal business suit walked past the open door, glancing quickly at her watch as she did so.  Tom looked at his own watch and realized that this was Susan’s customary lunch time.  Since she wasn’t in her office, and her car was still here, there was only one place she could be.

Tom waited until the woman disappeared outside before braving the outside corridor.  Halfway down the hall, he found the women’s restroom and let himself in.  He closed the door quietly behind him, careful not to let the latch click as the lock slid into place.  There was only one pair of shoes in the restroom,  peeking out from under the far stall.  They were flat, black, and sensible.  They were Susan’s.

“Hello?” he said, walking toward the stall.   “Hello, Susan?”

“What the hell?” called back a voice with a pronounced East Coast accent  “This is the woman’s restroom, idjit.  Is that Jack?  This isn’t funny.”

“Susan,  it’s Tom!” The words fairly burst out from between Tom’s lips, having been held back for so long.  He reached the fall wall and tugged at the door.  The cheap latch holding the door close came off of the frame and clattered loudly to the ground.  The door swung wide open, revealing an angry Susan pulling her stockings up and her shirt down. 

“Who the hell are you?” she snarled, trying to stay in control of the situation.

“I’m Tom!’ Tom said again, smiling.  “I wrote you the letters, remember?  To the magazine.  You sent me your picture.  You sent me a bunch of pictures.” He grinned wickedly at her.  “I see you’ve been masturbating in the lavatory again.  Naughty, naughty.”

“You’re the guy from the parking lot,” said Susan, recognition slowly dawning on her face.  “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.  My name’s not Susan, it’s Jennifer.”  She had managed to get her hose up around her waist.  “And I never wrote you any letters or sent any pictures.”

“You’re lying.”  Tom spat the words out at her, and then said it again in a much softer voice.  “You’re lying.  I’ve been watching you for months now, watching you from across the street in my car, reading your letters in bed at night, trying to write back to you and let you know exactly how I feel. I wrote to you from my fucking heart, do you understand?  I wrote to you.”  He felt it all then, all the passion and terror and love and pain that had been building up inside of him since he first saw Susan’s picture in his magazine, ever since he recognized her as the woman in the grocery store.  She was so close now he could smell her, could smell the last traces of urine in the toilet water, the fresh scent of her sweat overpowering the sweeter scent of her signature perfume.  She was so close.

“I’m not Susan,” Susan said again in a small voice, trying to stand up.  She tried to push her way past Tom, out of the little stall. “I’m Jennifer. Jennifer.”

“No.”  Tom took hold of her arm and pulled her back to the toilet, gently at first, then harder.  “No.”

“Let go of me.”  Susan opened her mouth and closed her eyes as if preparing to scream, scream, as loud as she could, as loud as they had taught her in those self-defense classes her employer had paid for, the self-defense classes that had never mentioned what you were supposed to do when confronted by a stranger in a cubical too small to move properly in.  Tom slammed his open hand across her face to cover her mouth, hard.  Susan fell back against the side of the stall and slid to the ground, staring up at him, terrified.

“Oh, shit,” whimpered Tom, stepping back.  “I didn’t mean….Please don’t scream.  I just wanted to keep you from screaming.  I don’t want t o hurt you.  Please don’t scream.”

Susan pushed herself up with one hand on the toilet and shouted, “Help! Somebody, help!” Tom caught her across the face with his palm again, stopping the scream again, pushing Susan hard against the side of the stall again.  She fell against the flimsy metal frame and slid down to the ground.  Her head lolled and smacked the lip of the toilet seat, hard.

“Now look what you’ve….damn it.”  Tom held his breath, listening for footsteps, someone coming to investigate the noise.  Susan lay on the ground with her face in the toilet.  Blood pinked the white porcelain and turned the blue toilet water purple.  “It’s okay.  I won’t hit you again.  Please don’t scream anymore, okay?”  He pulled her up into a sitting position.  Her eyes stared dully at him, stared straight at him, just like they did from the picture in his bedroom.  “See?  Nothing happened.  It’s okay.  Right?”

Her body seemed much heavier than the 110 pounds she claimed to weigh in the magazine interview.  He grunted as he lifted her up and set her down on the toilet.  He leaned her far back against the wall, legs spread out wide  to brace her from slipping off the seat.  “It’s going to be okay,” he assured her.  Her hose came off easily, over her slim ankles and tiny feet. Her skirt was a little more difficult, but he was able to manage it with her body slung and balanced over his right shoulder.  He unbuttoned her white silk blouse and pulled it off, one arm at a time.  He left on her slim, white cotton bra, although it wasn’t as sexy as the bra she wore in the photographs.

“Everything’s going to be all right,” he kept saying, over and over, not sure if he was reassuring her or himself.  Everything seemed bright and shiny, as if extra lights had been turned on in the room.  His breath sounded ragged and incredibly loud in the quiet of the empty restroom.  He crawled backwards on his knees from the woman and gave her a little smile.  “See?  It’s just how you like it.  It’s just how you said you liked it.” 

Susan was stripped down to just her bra and cotton underwear, head leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, as if she was asleep or overcome with ecstasy.  Her right hand was buried deep inside her underwear, her left was just inside the bra, cupping her breast.  He had pulled her hair down over the part of her face that still dripped blood.

Tom looked at his watch.  It was almost twelve thirty.  People would be coming in from their lunch breaks soon.  He stood up and patted Susan on the head, awkwardly.  “I’ll be seeing you around, all right?” he said, smiling again.  He had to get out of here before he passed out.  The stall had grown so hot and thick he could barely draw a  breath without gagging. The hallway was still empty when he crept out of the bathroom. 

He drove straight home. Nobody followed him to his apartment building, no one stopped him on the stairs. He slammed the door behind him and stood in his living room, heart pounding, head pounding. It was just a bad dream. It didn’t really happen. It couldn’t have happened.

The day’s mail was piled up on the floor next to his feet. Hidden between Victoria Secrets catalogues and books of money-saving coupons he found another letter from Susan.  He opened it with trembling hands, expecting to see a picture of her as he left her, propped up in the bathroom stall, blood running down her face, eyes wide and blank. But no—it was a small one of her wearing a short white skirt and a tiny  halter top.  He could tell from the photograph that she was wearing no underwear.

Dear Tom,

her letter began,

It is always lovely to hear from you.  Last night I had
a dream that I was lying out on the beach with my eyes
closed and I felt firm, strong hands all over my body.
I didn’t open my eyes, but I knew it was you from the
way you took control of me so quickly, from the way
you said my name over and over as I pretended to still
be asleep.  Your strong, callused hands gently slipped
my bathing suit top off, and I felt soft lips and a wet
tongue sliding up between the cleft of my breasts….

SHORT BIO: Holly Day is a journalism instructor living in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with her husband and two children. Her most recent nonfiction books are Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Walking Twin Cities. Her poetry and fiction has most recently appeared in The Packington Review, The MacGuffin, and Midnight Screaming.