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Dear Riding Crop:

You are the best lover. You sting when I want you to, the sharp pain tingling along my nerves. Your handle is sturdy. Every time I grasp you, it is with full confidence. The leather grip that surrounds you is softened and molded to perfection. And oh, those flaps of pure power, ones that can brush softly and tickle the senses, driving one mad with desire. Riding Crop, you are exquisite. You fulfill all fantasies.

And yet, you remain artificial. Oh, Riding Crop, we cannot talk through all hours of the night. We cannot share the same coffee cup, or a love of chocolate. There are no gifts exchanged, no arms to shelter me from nightmares. There is no promise of forever. You are an invention, and you cannot tell me that you love me. And, Riding Crop, you cannot give me your heart.

Good-bye, Riding Crop, for you are not what I need, even if you are the focus of every woman’s fantasy.