They wonder in their plight if their karmic half truly exists. Why fate has not intervened and guided them together. Does he exist, does she exist? And the daydreaming; the longing to share their primal urges. In the night as they close their eyes, their bodies wrestle with the thought of each other until they find their addicted, their needed, release. That release which allows sleep.
Waking, the scene of the new day; groundhog day like. Like some electronic zombie, their thoughts reaching out through some spider web of fantasy, waiting for contact; a contact it seems as impossible as capturing a radio wave from some unknown world; some unimaginable universe.
They frown, they smile, they laugh, they aww, they hope; as they manipulate the dials on this ancient, antiquated transistor radio; searching for that one elusive signal; searching for new life in each other. Searching for an up to now unrealized resonance that can only be tuned in by some all consuming, unspoken love.
They have their own check lists. She longs to check the box that lays out how he can finish her thoughts; or how his eyes can pierce her heart. Of how his glancing touch can quicken her breath. He longs to check some box that reveals how she understands his nature; understands it's part of him, and how the both are more fulfilled for it. Where is the box that describes that place that his hand, his mouth, his taste, his cock takes them too; or how her insatiable desires are some winged vessel that transports them to their own orgasmic kingdom. They both wonder about that box that reveals things hidden by two eyes alone, but by four eyes clearly seen. The box that imply's their need to dance together to some slow, rhythmic, favorite song; instead of jerking uncontrollably apart, by some machine made electronic beat. No, their check list different in nature, they muddle through the popping, crackling speakers of time, chasing a better tomorrow; living alone, separate, in the today.
Both introspective, they examine what has brought them to this place in life. They wonder if their tarnished attitude has blinded them to possibilities. Wading through page after page of response to her ad, she can't help but question how many times she has deleted a response that may have been him. Conversely, he wonders if he has failed to respond to some, that may have been her.
Living in rural America, they have reasons to guard their anonymity, that big city people more likely than not, could not understand. Private types, at times feeling cursed, they love the country, finding refuge in nature, yet somehow they feel left behind by what the city offers. Both incarcerated by this life that they crave, yet both have devoured the freedom of it's experience.
Looking back, less than ten years ago, when the electronic age was still young, infant in nature, both easily found the like minded; yet today, what once was, seems like a memory. Thief's of hearts have stolen from all until that once upon a time child like openness vanished; the majority standing guard against each new approach. What once was, now desecrated by time. They wonder in their hearts if they are the only ones who have noticed this, or if they are all that has changed; the world passing them by. Who knows, maybe a combination of both. They once cared about friends, about lists, and networked this web, but today they wander aimlessly in it's desert of sand.
Both still imagine, both still hope; matches made, the beauty created in one against all odds, the underdog wins, type of connection. Knowing in their hearts when something inside says; her, or him is different. The smile, the comfort found in possibility. Waiting like a child for that response from someone who has caught your eye. Watching as the hours fly by; lost in talk, lost in flirting banter. Relating, sharing themselves in freedom that they both know exists.
Understanding perfection, a charade; both can taste, smell, touch, hear, and see through the layers of insincerity. Like a simple onion, they peel away, they expose with a constant I and me, or show me your tits, or talk of their imagined ten inch cock. They fuck themselves with stories of him, self importance, what once was, or act as if their pussy is somehow made of gold. They fuck themselves by closing their eyes to their very own mirrors. The mirror that truly reflects themselves. They seek the truth. Him seeking that pussy that flows from his thought, and her seeking that cock she can alone temper with her mind. Yes, days of quantity left behind, rendered impotent, they wait to sun themselves in their shared cure. To tan their souls in some hot, steamy, tropical miracle.
Both their desires still rage, thinking age may somehow curb their lust. Mistaken again, time alone somehow only acting to make them more aware. Smiling, he remembers his high school boners. Them braless hippie chicks driving him insane. That always hard cock that couldn't be beaten down. That mechanical, ignorant slab, hid behind text books in high school halls. That chance teenage fuck that drove him through those days. Grinning, her remembering this bodily power she held over boys. Her first clumsy blow job, her first what's the big deal fuck. She remembers them first man induced convulsions. His prize; that milky, thick cum, burned within her memory. That first cock she went out of her way to please, and his first cunt that grabbed to him like a vise, begging for more; yes, I can't get enough, yes more.
