of Jacksonville, Florida—something from Covington Women’s College? Then she smiled. It was probably a copy of the alumni newsletter, featuring a notice of her upcoming wedding. Grateful for a little light reading, she opened the envelope. But instead of a newsletter, she pulled out a cover letter enclosing a purple envelope that seemed distantly familiar. Intrigued, she scanned the letterhead—Dr. Michelle Alexander.
Zoe frowned. Her former college instructor?
Dear Ms. Smythe,
You were a student in my senior-level class titled “Sexual Psyche” at Covington Women’s College. You may or may not recall that one of the optional assignments in the class was for each student to record her sexual fantasies and seal them in an envelope, to be mailed to the student in ten years’ time. Enclosed you will find the envelope that you submitted, which was carefully cataloged by a numbered code for the sake of anonymity and remained sealed. It is my hope that the contents will prove to be emotionally constructive in whatever place and situation you find yourself ten years later. If you have any questions, concerns or feedback, do not hesitate to contact me.
With warm regards,
Dr. Michelle Alexander
Zoe laughed to herself. The Sexual Psyche class had been called Sex for Beginners by all the students. She remembered the class, the smothered giggles and eye-opening lectures, the confident, curvy instructor. She also remembered the confess-your-fantasies assignment, but she couldn’t recall what she’d written.
Fingering the purple envelope, Zoe was suddenly nervous. She was on the verge of getting married. Was this really the best time in her life to review what sexual desires had once stirred her soul?
2
ZOE STARED AT THE ENVELOPE holding the letter she’d written to herself ten years ago and scoffed at her fears. What was she afraid of? The purple envelope wasn’t exactly Pandora’s box—it wasn’t likely to unleash some sort of unforeseeable chain of events. Instead, she’d probably get a good laugh over her schoolgirl musings.
She glanced at the passengers sitting on either side of her—the woman to her left was awake, but reading a book. The woman to her right was juggling a sleeping toddler. With her privacy assured, Zoe slipped her finger under the flap of the envelope and pulled out two folded sheets of stationery. The handwriting was hers, neat and slanted. Pulled along by nostalgia, Zoe read the letter she’d written for her eyes only.
Dear Zoe,
It’s me—your twenty-two-year-old self writing to say that when you get this letter, I hope you have everything in our life figured out. I hope you’re married to a great guy and contemplating a family. I say this because I hope between now and then, you will have explored the world and yourself, and will be satisfied that your choices are good ones.
Dr. Alexander asked us to write down our sexual fantasies because she says that unless we know what turns us on physically, we can’t ask for it or expect it from our partners. And that we’ll never be truly fulfilled in a long-term relationship unless our partner knows and understands our innermost fantasies, no matter how outrageous they might be. She says that the strongest emotional connection comes from an intense physical connection, and a strong physical connection is the foundation for intimacy and fidelity. If someone is getting everything they need from one person, Dr. Alexander says, they’ll have no need to stray.
I like the sound of that because fidelity is very important to me. On the other hand, I wouldn’t want someone to be with me and not be completely happy…like my parents. Arguing is their only form of communication. I want to ask them sometimes why they stay together because they obviously don’t like each other. I hope they’re not together for my sake because they’re miserable, and I’m miserable when they fight.
Anyway, I haven’t had that much experience with sex. I’m not a virgin, but so far, to be honest, sex has been disappointing. Every time I’ve gone all the way with a guy, I hoped it was going to be the way I imagined sex would be—mind-blowing. Like a drug, something you can’t live without. But it never is.
Maybe it’s my fault. Because I’m outgoing and I speak my mind, I think guys assume that I want to take control. I’ve never told anyone that what I really want is to give up control. What I really want in my secret of secret places is to be tied to a bed…to be handcuffed…to be strapped down. And to be made love to six different ways.
Zoe looked up from the letter, her face heated. The words made her squirm in her seat—it must have taken a great effort for her to write them ten years ago. And if she remembered correctly, a great relief. With no small amount of trepidation, she continued reading.
It sounds dirty, which is why I’ve kept this to myself. I’m not looking for someone to mistreat me—I don’t want that kind of man in my life. But someday I hope I’ll meet the right guy to share my fantasy, someone I trust not to hurt me, someone who won’t judge me, who won’t think any less of me for wanting to explore the darker side of sex, the pleasure and the pain. Someone who knows when to stop, and when to push beyond. Someone who is also looking for that deep emotional and physical bond that Dr. Alexander described to us.
So, Zoe, wherever you are, I hope you found that guy. For both our sakes.
Zoe glanced up from the letter, her heart thudding. Her mind sifted through the internal revelations unveiled in what was supposed to be an innocent letter written by a naive college student. Instead it planted seeds of troubling thoughts. What if the naive letter writer had had more insight and wisdom than her grown-up self? She put her hand over her mouth, shaken by the prophetic words she’d written as a young woman.
“Are you okay?” the woman next to her asked kindly.
Zoe turned her head and registered that the woman was beautiful—short, spiky black hair with a pink streak and oddly colored eyes. Maybe violet? It was hard to tell in the low lighting. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“I hope that isn’t bad news,” the woman said, nodding to the letter.
Zoe hastily refolded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope. “No. Just a note from an old friend, that’s all.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Is it someone you miss?”
Zoe considered the question and her mind went back to the person she’d been in college…full of optimism and adventure, determined to meet the world and people in it on her own terms, determined not to settle for less than supreme happiness and a one-of-a-kind love.
“Yes, I do miss her,” she said wistfully.
“Then maybe you should plan a little reunion.” The woman winked and turned back to her book.
It was an interesting suggestion, Zoe conceded—getting in touch with the woman she’d been ten years ago. Curious, carefree and thrill-seeking. Traveling all over the world, fearlessly sampling different cultures. Then one day she’d looked around and all of her girlfriends had paired off with men they planned to marry. Zoe’s mother began to pressure her to settle down. Someone introduced her to Kevin, and they’d hit it off.
And somewhere along the way, she’d become a paler version of herself, like a favorite shirt that had been laundered too many times, but was still serviceable enough to wear to the grocery store.
Yet before she gave in to the panic tickling her stomach, Zoe stopped. Did she still feel the same way about sex and love? Did she still entertain the same fantasies?
Yes, she realized with a sinking heart. When Kevin made love to her, she closed her eyes and imagined all the things he wasn’t doing to her.
So had she made a good choice? Had she found the right man to marry?
She visualized telling Kevin that she wanted him to tie her to the bed or to lash her down with his leather belt. He would laugh at her. Kevin was a congenial fellow whose mind didn’t go to dark places, especially where sex was concerned. He’d been scandalized when she’d once suggested they rent an X-rated movie on pay-per-view. He was a meat-and-potatoes