Dear Elle,
As your name implies, you have many manifestations. You are a letter; you are a woman; in France, you would be a pronoun. In Paris you gobble up your steak tartare, the beautiful raw yolk of an egg curving on the verge of spilling out all over that beautiful meat.
Oh, yeah, that's it, baby.
Who would have thought you were also an Australian?
And you gave me my first boner, though I did not know at the time it had a name. All I knew is that, like rock and roll, I liked it. It was Scott Cochrane who told me it had a name: Boner. We used to hang in the suburbs, watching Top Gun, RAD, and Def Leppard videos.
I thought Def Leppard was a band composed of disabled people. This was on account of the word "def" in their name (perhaps that was the singer) along with the presence of a one-armed drummer and the band name spelled in a manner symptomatic of a learning disability. "Pour Some Sugar On Me" was perhaps a sexual ode to the placebo.
At the time I thought, "I don't really like this... But I suppose it's impressive, considering they are disabled." I was more into the impish athleticism of Gowan.
Shall I compare thee, Elle Macpherson, to Def Leppard? You have both your arms, and, as far as I can tell, not a single flaw (but what hides behind those grains of sand sticking to your perfect breasts?).
I remember the first time I saw you. It was in a magazine called "Elle". Puberty is a confusing time for a young man, and this didn't help.
Anyway, what I want to say is, "Thank you for the warm and lovely boner, Elle." It was my first. When I compare it to my most recent boner, there are many superficial similarities. But, ever since I divorced your feeble replacement, Laura, they have lost their beautiful simplicity
Yours,
- Nigel Tewksbury
