Dearest Lydia,

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a gentleman is never more attractive than when he drops his exquisitely toned posterior down, on beat, and into the splits.

With one’s four elder sisters married to three strappingly mutton-chopped men and one pianoforte, I shall admit regretting the time I’ve spent yearning for companionship. Years have slipped by during which I’ve dreamt most ardently of the right man to come along, grasp my hand, look deeply into my eyes, and pop his big juicy dump truck down to the floor.

However, I am delighted to write, my sweet sister, that this very eve, such a man appeared before me.

I thought to indulge myself with an evening spent at a public ball, but I found that gentlemen were scarce, and the hour drew late. I feared this would be yet another evening devoid of any frivolity with the opposite sex. However, as the clock struck a quarter past ten, a character of fine breeding strolled in. The quartet began to cover “Dip It Low,” and this gentleman did just as the song demanded, shouting, “Back up, back up!” at the stroke of the cello. Then, gloriously, upon the next beat, he let that booty sang and hit ’em with the splits.

I cleared my dance card at once. We were in Bath, after all, and this man moved me to spend the rest of the evening “taking the waters,” if you know what I mean.

I never thought my heart could sing for a creature who heralds from Essex, but here I am, bewitched body and soul by a man who can shoot into splits that reveal his ass is as juicy as a slow-roasted pigeon pie.

I believe Papa and Mama would adore him. Even our critic Lizzie has always said, “The person who does not delight in a full-grown man clearing out the middle of a party to drop into the splits must be intolerably stupid.”

He has unleashed a terrible beast inside me. I find his felicity, flexibility, and downright refusal to let the party be about anything but him and that sweet melon affect me in a manner wholly new.

Do not think me so foolish as to fall so dramatically at first sight. While he may possess remarkable flaccidity in his lower region, I felt compelled to ensure that he did not possess that flaccidity where it counted most—his mind.

We did, therefore, converse and dance, and I discovered that he had many hobbies befitting a gentleman. He studies French (the inventors of the splits), the natural world (where many cases of the splits may be found in creatures such as the common garden frog), and botany (growing edible plants that enhance the springiness of his already supple hip girdle). He truly embodies all the qualities of a fine young man with superior pliability and an unbounded lack of awareness of the judgment of others. A quality that must be easier to possess when one is dragging around that thick, honkin’ peach.

Sweet sister, I admit I both envy and admire his skill to forcibly command an entire room to take in the miraculous sight of him moving his feet so far away from each other that his big danglin’ balls hit the parquet flooring.

My sisters may be wed to well-situated men and one well-ornamented piano, but my loins are fluttering in more exotic fields. By that, I mean the grassy dales upon which Cody and his fiendishly limber calves may split to his heart’s content—and mine.

Kitty Bennett