It was then, Mr. Gorbachev, that I knew I had to have you.
I imagined our romance; nothing fancy, no jewels exchanged, no lavish rendezvous in palatial settings; just simple passion acted out in neutral territories. You would be a little bit shy. We would blindfold our translator. When you had to return to the Mother Country, I would be brave and try to understand; with tears in my eyes I would watch your plane fly away on television, and await your letters, delivered to my door by KGB agents disguised as Amway distributors. You would miss me terribly and arrange many summit meetings so that we could be together. Eventually, your popularity among my countrymen would soar, fueled by your frequent visits, and by your increasing mastery of the English language (thanks to me, your private tutor). Phrases like “let’s take the phone off the hook and watch Pee Wee’s Playhouse, honey” would flow easily from your lips. Soon you would be happier and more comfortable in my country than your own. Eventually you would realize your true calling: to run for president of the United States.
I would set up campaign headquarters in my apartment. You would be the first sexy candidate since John F. Kennedy. Because of your natural animal appeal and your campaign slogan (“Fur Hats for Everyone”), all the woman of America would vote for you. You would win the election. To show your appreciation for their support and personal aesthetics, you would banish all nuclear firearms and pass the ERA. Raisa would of course become the new General Secretary of the USSR, and America would become best friends with Russia. Ballet dancers, intellectuals, toothpaste, and beauty tips would all be openly exchanged. Refuseniks, armed with many drink tickets, would be sent to Key West for vacation. We would pool our resources and solve world hunger. Peace would settle on the seven continents. Outer space would be safe, too, since you will have appointed Shirley MacLaine as director of the space program.
So you see, Mr. Gorbechev, it isn’t just for me that I long to hold you close, stroke your face, and cover that thing on your head with my body; it is for the people. Your people, my people, the people of the world.
I have enclosed a photo and phone number. I await, in my own personal Siberia, your call.