The Holroyds, that brother-sister UK couple who wrote The Perfect Pair trilogy, just sent me a “Dear John” letter.
For those of you unfamiliar with the lingo of WWII GI’s, a Dear John letter was a letter from your girl friend telling you what a great guy you are, and how she’s glad you’re defending her freedom, but while you were overseas fighting The Hun or The Yellow Menace or The Gooks, she met this really nice guy who isn’t being drafted because he has bone spurs, and now he takes her to tennis matches in his convertible…
…in other words, blowing you off. Well, that’s what the Holroyds’ have done, when they realized I’m really a ZOOPHILE.
Just for the record, the New Oxford American Dictionary defines a zoophile as “A person who is sexually attracted to animals.” Yeah, that’s me. I’ve been married twice, mostly successfully (I’m sure my daughter would like to think so), because I was able to expand my definition of acceptable partners to include women, the human species of female that comes into season more often than any other mammal on Earth.
In addition to having nice, smooth skin free of fur or bristles, women can drive cars (despite what they say in Saudi Arabia), raise children (often with a man’s help), balance check books (some of them) and perform other useful household functions that will puzzle a dog or even a cat. Don’t leave home without one!
I don’t go out of the way to advertise the fact that I’m a zoophile, but I don’t try to hide it either, because I’m lousy at lying, hiding or disguising anything. I wear my heart on my sleeve, where it belongs.
I also could fault the Holroyds for not reading Wet Goddess, or watching Dolphin Lover before they adopted me to carry their standard, but what’s the point? It’s kind of moot, now. They need me like another hole in the head.