Can Helpless remain friends with the woman with whom they had a sexting affair?
Also, how does modern-day sexting hold up when compared to smutty letters from lovers of yore?
Some copy from the sexy letters:
Henry VIII to Anne Boleyn:
MINE own SWEETHEART,
this shall be to advertise you
of the great elengeness that I find here
since your departing ; for, I ensure you
methinketh the time longer since
your departing now last, than I was
wont to do a whole fortnight. I think
your kindness and my fervency of love
causeth it ; for, otherwise, I would not
have thought it possible that for so
little a while it should have grieved
me. But now that I am coming to-
wards you, methinketh my pains be
half removed ; and also I am right well
comforted in so much that my book
maketh substantially for my matter;
in looking whereof I have spent above
four hours this day, which causeth me
now to write the shorter letter to you
at this time, because of some pain in
my head; wishing myself (especially
an evening) in my sweetheart’s arms,
whose pretty dukkys I trust shortly
Written by the hand of him that
was, is, and shall be yours by his own
James Joyce to Nora Barnacle:
I got your pitiful letter this evening telling me you were going about without underclothes. I did not get 200 crowns on the 25th but only 50 crowns and 50 again on the 1st. Enough about money. I send you a little banknote and hope you may be able to buy a pretty frilly pair of drawers at least for yourself out of it and will send you more when I am paid again. I would like you to wear drawers with three or four frills one over the other at the knees and up the thighs and great crimson bows in them, I mean not the schoolgirls’ drawers with a thin shabby lace border, tight round the legs and so thin that the flesh shows between them but women’s (or if you prefer the word) ladies’ drawers will a full loose bottom and wide legs, all frills and lace and ribbons, and heavy with perfume so that whenever you show them, whether in pulling up your clothes hastily to do something or in cuddling yourself up prettily to be blocked, I can see only a swelling mass of white stuff and frills and so that when I bend down over you to open them and give you a burning lustful kiss on your naughty bare bum I can smell the perfume of your drawers as well as the warm odour of your cunt and the heavy smell of your behind…
O, I am so anxious to get your reply, darling!
Henry Miller to Anais Nin:
I picture you playing the records over and over—Hugo's records. "Parlez moi d amour." The double life, double taste, double joy and misery. How you must be furrowed and ploughed by it. I know all that, but I can't do anything to prevent it. I wish indeed it were me who had to endure it. I know now your eyes are wide open. Certain things you will never believe anymore, certain gestures you will never repeat, certain sorrows, misgivings, you will never again experience. A kind of white criminal fervor in your tenderness and cruelty. Neither remorse nor vengeance, neither sorrow nor guilt. A living it out, with nothing to save you from the abysm but a high hope, a faith, a joy that you tasted, that you can repeat when you will.
And, perhaps most importantly, tell us how you feel about Cotes de Provence! Oui? Non? Peut etre?