The weather has changed, and now what was - the steaminess, has lifted,
and we are suddenly into Fall. Only in New York and New England, could this ever be ...
practically an overnight transition.
I, too - am in a transitional stage in my life, as I believe you are.
The climate in your environment has also changed, and now you search out the soul of another ...
hopefully, one whose heartstrings you can pluck, and thus - play your calm but lively tune ...
*****
He listens ... hears the strumming, perks up his ears, and bends them low to the ground,
in order to hear the rumble. It is vibrating now, as the stealthy beat arrives
at both of his eardrums simultaneously.
Now, he grabs a tin, and a pebble ... and starts beating back his own rhythm, in tune with your melody.
Suddenly, you sense his heat, and lower the vibrancy of your song, becoming harmony to his solo.
He hears the receding tune, and now enters his new beat - a series of numbers:
[2-0-3] 7-4-6---8-8-7-2 ... he - gradually, bangs out.
She catches them one by one, and slowly marks them on her harp-strings,
etching them with her long fingernails, the ones she senses she will soon be using on flesh,
as she digs them into his back, feeling his vibration of another kind ....
*********************************************************************************
Another day, some time later ... she finds herself playing another tune ...
there is no city life for her anymore ... she has moved back to Puerto Rico,
and the harp stayed behind - too heavy to transport. But the weather she left
behind - cold and drizzily, is transformed, once again - to sticky and humid.
The opportunities she had back in the metropolis, have also been transformed,
as Puerto Rican life has no access to the big city ... and Madison Avenue, Park
Avenue, and the Avenue of the Americas, are now just memories, along with
Central Park, Ellis Island, the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building,
the UN and the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center ...
all just landmarks of the memory, along with the harp.
She drums gently on the desk, as she remembers back to the wonders, she - now,
- will not see again. Nor will she hear that harp - the one whose strings allowed her
to strum those lovely tunes - the ones which were heard by a poet, who contacted
her when it was too late - for she had already made her long journey back to the
51st State. She had written him, and complimented him on his fine prose. She had
commented she was not used to reading such sensual images, for her life rivalled
that of a nun.
He had been stunned! ... In this time - to find there were still some sensitive souls
who were purists enough not to have read things such as those penned by D.H.
Lawrence and Henry James! ...
He apologized in a return letter - for being so obvious.
She did not know him, and he did not know her. But he had seen a quality in her ad,
which had underwritten his response, and prompted him to follow his nose.
She had seemed open to an excursion into the netherreaches of the mind -
touching briefly on the essence of heart, soul, passion and sensuality.
She had brought it out of him! ...
It had already been there, of course ... but certain wording in her ad - had led him in that direction.
He considered his options now - realizing he'd started something ... SOMETHING ...
he wasn't sure what ... a relationship? ... a novel? ... maybe both ... ???
There was too much there to be just glossed over - she was right ...
he needed to continue.
He needed to use the interchange between them to take it to the next logical step.
He yearned for love, for passion, for the connection of truly sensuous minds.
And perhaps, just perhaps ... he had made just such a one. She sensed his lyricism.
She'd even prompted him to continue - indicating she wanted to read the whole thing
when he finished it. He smiled. In some small way - the venture upon which he'd started
just one short week ago - could yet prove fruitful.
Suddenly, in the distance - he heard a strumming. It was only the whirring of his hard drive,
but the drive within him was inflamed ... and the hard-ness returned ... as the softness
of his mind repelled his paper mache existence, and he focused in on his other passion ...
(Part Two)
There was still so much more to write. She had responded again, and corrected
him on some points, and at the same time pointing out she was fired by the depth
of his wild imagination. Obviously, he had hit a chord within her, and he wondered
now - if he met her, would she be anything like the person she was beginning to
come across to be ... warm, passionate, earthy, sensuous.
His fire glowed, and he felt the hardness rise. She, too, was firm, but she wobbled
in a stance ... a stance which caused her to ride a fence.
She did not wish to close him out, and yet - the distance between them rose in the
distance - higher than the rise he felt in his loins. She was responding to him.
Would she continue? How would it be if they were close enough to touch each
other? ... Would she respond to him then? She had a decided advantage. She had
already seen his visage. He had directed her to his web site where he had posted
pics and some of his best poetry. ... But he did not know about her looks.
He could only imagine. Perhaps she was a raven-haired beauty with piercing
blue eyes. More likely, she had mousy brown hair, dark eyes, and was quite
ordinary-looking. Did it matter? ... She had responded to him ... urged him on,
just as she would urge him on when he took his place between her waiting thighs.
He tremored now, as he imagined his gentle touch on her lips, neck, breasts,
stomach and inner thighs, placing his tender kisses on each part of her body
in turn. In his mind, he mulled it over, painting the scene for her, with careful,
loving strokes, as though his canvas were her body, and the paint he used were
the fluids they'd exchanged ....
Now she knew what he was about. ... A poet - yes, but a sensual soul who
yearned for the touch of a woman who understood his need to express himself ...
who understood her need as well, or even - better, than his own. He knew that if
only he could be with her, she would discover he was a fiery and passionate man ...
perhaps, more so - than anyone she had ever known. Her heart tremored now,
and then the tremor travelled down her body to the warm and moist place
between her thighs ... she reached down her hand and gently touched herself there
... she wanted both to calm the tremors, and to amplify them ...
only SHE would know how she felt ... which ... she would do ...
HE - could only imagine ....
The Connection
By Christopher W. Thomas
[All Rights Reserved]