In the the Archives, Message 1950, March 16, 2000, Nonnie wrote this especially for Connie, but the rest of us enjoyed it as well.
Here's Nonnie...
With deepest apologies to Diana Gabaldon, who is a better writer than I will ever be, but whose lovely arse presents such an inviting target.
I sat down in the Louis XIV chair, it's gilded ornate carved back in contrast to the stiff horsehair cushion which fitted my ample arse. The style of Louis XIV furniture reflected the Sun King's appreciation for the improved workmanship and materials available at the turn of the century and demonstrated the continental European preoccupation with classical themes and allegorical decorative motifs. The chair, like all of the furniture to be found in Parisian houses of the upper middle classes of the time had been manufactured in a furniture mill probably owned by one of the many Comtes who where lusting after my body and which I had described in detail even though not one of them furthers the plot in the slightest way. The furniture mill was likely situated 6 miles from Paris along a rutted road. The building in which the chairs were made was surely a two story wooden structure, held together by flat-headed nails. The nails had been made in an iron-monger's shop, or, as they were called in Paris in the eighteenth century, "un Woolworths" and had likely been hammered into the building by dung-covered peasant men with toothless hagged wives and snotty children.
My reminiscences were interrupted when Jamie awoke and tore off his kilt.
"Oh Sasquatch," he exclaimed, looking up from between my legs, "You are my heart, my soul."
"Man, that is so cool!" I gasped.
"You are my eternal other, the best of me, the worst of me, the day and night of me," his muffled voice continued.
"Awesome!" I panted.
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine..-"
"Shut the Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ up!" I snapped.
Afterwards, we engaged in sparkling repartee.
"Why did the Scotsman cross the road?" Jamie bantered wittily.
"How many Scotsman does it take to change a light bulb?" I countered saucily. Overcome with hilarity, he tore off his kilt and we went at it again.
Suddenly Jamie's face creased into a paroxysm of agony. He leaped up and tore off his kilt and threw himself onto the cold hard floor. One of the multitude of completely irrelevant characters, la Comtesse des Imbéciles avec les Grandes Fesses, dashed in and made a grab for Jamie. "C'est comme un éléphant!" she shrieked. I hustled her back out into the hall to wait with all of the other hopefuls and returned to Jamie.
"Is it Jack Randall again?" I asked reaching for my bag of dried herbs, crystals, voodoo dolls and ace bandages.
"Aye," he said, shuddering. "I'm recalling another wee bit of information about that verra verra terrible time."
"Another?" I exclaimed. "That's the fifteenth wee bit of information you've recalled this month. In fact, in the past week alone, you've recalled over 15 hours of new memories about it and the whole incident only lasted 3 hours in the first place."
"Well, Sasquatch, ye may be right on that one, but this whole male rrrape thing is verra titillating, ye ken, and unless ye think that anyone would believe that the swine would kidnap and torture me again, I'm verra much afraid that I'll be reliving it for another 600 pages."
"What did you just remember this time?" I asked, pounding the mixture of valerian, lungwort and teasel into a fairly creditable version of Prosac and downing it.
Jamie sat up, holding his handsome head in his great huge hands. "Well,..." He began softly, making a helpless gesture with his extremely long fingered hands,"...he made me play Parchesi." He rubbed his enormous feet with his massive hands.
Overcome with sympathy, I went over and grabbed his monstrously large ...hand. He tore off his kilt and we had another session of deeply satisfying sex interspersed with intensely romantic and completely novel avowals of undying devotion from Jamie. Really.
It was 9:15 am. Our day had just begun.
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times since March 17, 2000.