Romeo and Juliet on Match.Com

Harry Hogg
Aug 24, 2017 · 4 min read

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Dear Romeo-

Your profile is intriguing. I’ll admit. But are you the Romeo of my dreams? Can’t we be young again? I read your words, and I feel young. But the truth is, I’ve become a certain kind of woman, the same way that all women grow to be women; a great deal of curiosity, children, experience, and hardest of all the tragedy. I’ve somehow arrived to be content with myself. It wasn’t always this way; sometimes it was tough and agonized. You remind me of a beautiful man I once knew in my youth, it flows out of your words. Last night I snuggled up on the couch, a glass of my favorite wine, and wondered about this man who writes to me so poetically. Could it be that same man, a happening in the universe that puts us together? I feel like I know you, know your words , as if they see through me, see my faults, know my desires.

Perhaps you don’t really exist, merely my fantasy. Someone who will never share my world; never be a part of it except for the time I spend thinking about you. If you are real, if your words speak a quiet truth, then you are indeed different to the men I’ve known. I cannot read your words with people around me, I like to take a bath, wear something soft and light, let your words touch me, stroke me, and tease me with neck tingling tenderness. Won’t you come forward, and be a part of my world? But you are not part of my reality, are you? Yet, for all that, for all the mystery in your words, I feel myself trusting you. Is that right? Should I be more careful?

Dearest Juliet-

Would you protect yourself from the warmth of sunshine if you were cold? There is no mystery here, just a man living his life. I am not in your imagination. I am not anything more or less than I tell you. If there is beauty, let not one of us be responsible. I want to be the chill that sends you racing home for hot chocolate, or the warm air that has you slipping into something light, comfortable and sexy. The truth is, we are just an idea of God, set free in the world to experiment, to explore, and do what we can for each other. Sometimes it doesn’t work, that’s all.

Dear Romeo-

For so long, my world has been lived in my imagination. It holds me like a father holds his daughter. It challenges me the way beauty has every right to do. It has not very much to do with reality, but I am real and have to live with reality the same as everyone. Perhaps I choose to live in a way that protects me from harshness and cruelty, but only because I’ve lived there, too. You’ve created a place in my heart that is yours, your words lie by my ears at night, sometimes sliding off my shoulders and downward, downward until I’m reminded that my body desires touch. I’m scared of love because I once gave everything, risked everything, dared everything trying to find that which is hardest to find. It’s scary — but I’m ready to be touched by your gentleness. I feel shy, once having youth, a body that was a banquet. It is a bittersweet memory. You’ve awoken in me that sensual supremacy, that moistening of the imagination where once only arid lips survived. You’ve brought dampness to my thighs, but this is not enough. Is there a need for my fingers on your face, my lips to pressed to yours, the comfort of my breast against yours, for this is reality? Will you ever really need this habit of human warmth?

Dearest Juliet-

Who, or what I am, is not important. What we do, what we learn, what we share, that’s what is important. I did not come into your life simply to take the place of someone in your past life. I come fresh and new and interesting. I think we were bound to collide in this space we call our world. I seek not to change you, simply to awaken, and to grow with you; to love you. I will challenge you, anger you, frustrate, and amuse you. Tonight, in your dreams, I will make love to you, and the ocean will hear our cries and the moon share our delight. This man who talks of magic, of creatures real and invented, has need to talk about his desires, his needs and his feelings. It’s just me meeting you and not truly able to tell you how I feel — like I’m not in command of my flight toward or away from you, like I’m a pilot in a new universe called Juliet.

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Written by

Harry Hogg is a pseudonym. I was born in London, lived my youth on an island off the west coast of Scotland and now live part time in California.

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