My own boy,
Even though a year ago these letters were addressed to someone else, someone that you hated because he wanted me and because he abandoned me, it dawned on me that I did not need to change anything about them, or about their sequence, now that we know the quagmire ought to have been named after you right from the start.
And even though I have often touched you, and held you in my arms, and told you that I love you, and told you that I want you, only once did you whisper, as I was stroking, subdued but hopeful, your erect member, that you liked that, you liked it a lot, and I asked you, subdued but hopeful as you were about to reach a quiet orgasm, whether you meant it, and you said "wouldn't everyone," mutilating the uniqueness of the moment, shattering the epiphany of the orgasm.
I was devastated. And yet I have continued to crave for you. I have continued to love you. Every time I see you, every time I hear you, I want to fuck you so much I am in pain. And every time I see you, every time I speak to you, I say "I love you" for lack of anything more accurate and less hackneyed. And you say "thank you".
So there. See you soon.