Dear Shepherd,
I’m alone in the den tonight, gnawing on what you said last September when our little pride lounged poolside in Zanzibar after that terrific Tanzanian hunt. Your graceless comment tore into our celebration when you compared the satisfaction you get from your taxidermy to good sex. Something like that. I was a few konyagi and tonics in and the sun was driving me further toward euphoria, so I didn’t quite catch your meaning then, but here acacia branches sprout from our savanna-tinted walls, the cheetah and lynx you mended and mounted seem poised to pounce. I’m back at that afternoon. How you dared talk about what makes for good sex. How you dared do so with my husband Chase right there. How dare you.
He’s out again, his sights on someone else. No doubt some tender thing. I seem to remember you said that what excites you most about being a taxidermist are your intimate connections with your subject. Your vulgar reveal was aimed at me, though we aren’t lovers. Of course not. I’m just the woman who supports your craft and welcomed you into a group to which you wouldn’t otherwise have access. You toyed with me, Shepherd. Like a lion toys with its snared prey.
You can’t be surprised to know that men used to flock to me. Like wildebeests to a waterhole. Sometimes I think the real savagery of age is losing our freshness. So much worse for those of us who were beautiful. So much worse to rot in this room trying to recapture shooting vacations, when I should be with a man who hungers for me. So much worse. You have the power to reignite faded color and dull, aged eyes. Over there, the lynx, with her amber and kohl-rimmed eyes. Perfection, Chase claims. And there, the cheetah, all sleek, slinky elegance. And here I am, withering without hope of restoration.
I think about your description of the sensuousness of your art. The stroking and petting and massaging you demonstrated on my sun-kindled back and languid limbs that afternoon in Zanzibar. How you dared touch me like that. Although there really isn’t anything more gratifying than the feel of body against body. Mine tingles thinking about it. I look at my cheetah with her flawless dermoplasty. I fantasize your touch, your rising passion, your heat as you brushed her fur, fondled her with your attentive, powerful hands. How you lacquered wet spots to her nose and eyes to make her look alive again. Oh Shepherd, how dare you.
Yours,
Diana
