22 May 2000
Punta Gorda, Florida

Dear Sir:

I recently had the fortune (perhaps good, perhaps not, we shall see) to come across your advertisement in a slightly outdated and mildly mildewed copy of Contacts magazine. (Clipping attached.)

(Is this actually you, and if so, is it a recent photograph?)

Though I find your clothes startlingly plebian and your affectations a little too Dynasty-demodee for my tastes, I felt and continue to feel that your ad is one of the only marginally commendable of its sort to be found in the entire publication. Therefore, I have selected you as the lucky receipient of my first-ever missive to an inconnu.

I am admittedly unfamiliar with the procedures and protocols involved in this sort of introduction service. Nevertheless, my superior breeding makes it practically impossible for me to commit even the slightest variety of faux pas, literary or otherwise. I should therefore like to entertain you with a few tales and anecdotes about my brief but exhilarating life, and at your convenience, I would expect you to respond in kind.

I was born the sole child of an Aboriginal couple who had recently emigrated from the scintillating beauty of Kakadu to the humdrum metropolis of Kuala Lumpur. My mother, you see, hoped to become an airline stewardess, and my father--always the dreamer--was firm in his belief (in retrospect, quite naive) that standing beneath tall buildings clad only in three ceremonial loincloths with hands outstretched, palms upward toward what you likely call "Heaven," would somehow encourage the gods to clothe him in impenetrable golden battle armor so that he might wage war on our former neighbors, the Kadongs, who, he insisted, had overstepped their legal rights when installing a wooden fence that took up nearly a full half-inch of our own, highly valued airspace.

After a year or so of this mundane routine, I decided that in order to escape boredom, I would have to become a dancer. No amount of protest from my parents could persuade me otherwise. So, after my weekly "special time" with daddy, I packed myself in a large crate of wilted lettuce and set off for Paris

In many ways, life among the French was quite different from everything I had previously known. In France, for example, they spoke and continue to speak French--a charming custom I hope they maintain for several years to come. They are also very fond of animals, which are considered neither instruments of torture nor livestock, but rather sub-human members of their respective families. I have yet to witness any sort of ritual slaughter of these "pets," which leads me to believe that the entire citizenry is full of quaint eccentricities such as this.

As my fingers are now beginning to cramp, I will spare you the story of the tragic accident which robbed me of my career as a professional actress/model/dancer just milliseconds before I set my dainty, size 7 slipper upon the stage of the Comedie Francaise (which translates, oddly enough, as "French Comedy," although the performance in which I was then engaged was a quite serious play known in your language as Oedipus Rex) in readiness for a charming dream-sequence ballet with the heroine suicidee, Jocaste--a performance which critics agree would have cemented my star in the Bois de Boulogne. Needless to say, it was a disappointment, but my subesequent debilitation, rehabilitation, and addition to various sorts of painkillers provided ample distraction to see me through.

Now, I find myself in your country--your adopted country, that is--the United States of America, in need of a gentleman who can support my somewouldsay decadent lifestyle while asking naught but the occasional sexual favor in return. You, dear sir, are the current frontrunner in the race for my invariably distanced affections.

At your earilest convenience, I would appreciate a complete and even mind-numbingly verbose account of your own life's work, as well as details of the travel arrangements you will no doubt be making for me to come to your estate in "Memphis." I thank you in advance for your swift attention to this matter and remain,

Sincerely yours,
Moesha Ickalong St. Jacques du Pre