Meant To Be Together, I'm the One

I'm weary of my friends and family trying to fix me up with women they thought I'd love to have as a girlfriend. Only, obvious after the first few minutes of boring dialogue, I have nothing in common with the women they arranged for me to meet. Wanting me all for herself, no doubt, my mother is the only person, who didn't try to fix me up with a woman.

"There's not a woman out there that's good enough for my son," my mother always said, while clutching me to her breasts.

Yet, not wanting to be known as a Mama's boy, even though I was, staying strong not to have incestuous sex with my mother, even though she wanted me to, I rejected her, as I did all the other woman, who threw themselves at me. Saving myself for my dream woman, wherever and whoever she is, I needed to find my one and only. Better off taking control of my love life myself, now that I'm taking a break from my education to concentrate more on my research, before returning to school to earn my Ph D., and now that I'm settled in my career, it's time I marched in step with the rest of society. It's time I had a woman in my life. It's time I married and had children. It's well past the time that I lose my virginity and have sex not only for the sake of love and to make babies but also for the sake of fucking and cumming on a routine basis, other than with my hairy hand.

Leave it to me to do everything ass backwards, when all my friends did it the other way around. Having girlfriends since high school or college, they got the girl before completing their education and settling in their chosen career. I wonder, if they did a scientific study, who'd be happier, those who waited to have sex to focus more on their education and career or those, who had sex with their high school prom date, got married, and had children?

With marriage conflicting with them going to college, while I was earning my degrees, my friends were making babies. None of them have a good paying job and all of them are struggling with their finances. Yet, even in their misery, obviously envious that I'm able to live my life in the way that I want, they've always pressured me to find a woman, get married, and have a family. Apparently, they aren't happy, unless I'm in the same sinking bankrupt ship and upside down in a mortgage, and financially drowning at sea, as they obviously are.

A turn off seeing those friends that married too early, now just the opposite, instead of pressuring me to find a good woman, marry, and have children, they all tell me that they wished they had waited to marry. With so very many hot women out there, they wished they had finished school. They wished they had become this or that or married that one or the other one. Now, stuck in their jobs, their marriages, and weighed down by their sad, little lives, they hope to win the lottery, as their only hope of pulling themselves out of the muck.

It's funny how they all wish they had more money. With money not my motivation but education, I never cared as much about making money, as I more cared about my career. I more cared about my research than I cared about how much money I made. If I could afford it, should budgetary constraints at work become an issue, I'd work for free to continue my life's work. In the way that money came natural to me, money escaped them. They tell me how lucky I am to have a career and how they wished they were me, when sometimes, especially when I'm lonely and hear the clock of my life ticking away my time on Earth, I wish I were them. Sometimes I wonder if anyone is truly happy.

Not much of a drinker and not blessed with the social dating skills that I'd, no doubt, need to woo and win a woman's heart, instead of continuing to strike out, when trying to pick up women in bars and clubs, I decided to try one of those online dating sites. Much in the way of Brad Paisley's music video, Online, with Seinfeld's George Costanza, Jason Alexander, I posted my profile with an old photo and instantly had a bevy of women writing me. Figuring that I'd meet one or two nice women, someone who is much like me, a nerdy egghead, I was surprised by the immediate and overwhelming response of hot, available, and lonely women. If I did a study, plotted a graph, and charted the number of women that responded in the time frame that they responded with an algebraic equation, X times Y, well, suffice to say, just in a twenty-four hour period, that a lot of women responded to my profile.

"Wow! Look at all of these women."

From women my age and younger to women my Mom's age and older, cougars, now more preoccupied with playing sexy games with women online, instead of looking for love, it was fun to write anything that came to mind, that is, until I realized that the women responding to me may be doing the same thing, too. A self-defeating proposition in trying to find my love match, what good is it not being honest with them and them not being honest with me? Perhaps, as only a way to end my virginity, no doubt, by hooking up with a woman for a roll in the hay, by lying to them, I'll never meet anyone of moral character and superior quality this way.

"Duh, how will lying about who I am and what I'm not help me to find my one and only, my special someone? It won't. Already middle-aged, I don't have the time to waste."

Lonely and horny, always so very lonely and so very horny, I didn't want to spend another winter holiday alone and humping my hand, as I just had, while watching my favorite porn movie. It was when I agreed to meet a couple of the women for lunch that I realized, just as I had lied to them about being 6'4", having a full head of hair, and being rich, they had lied to me about being naturally blonde, busty, and beautiful. With me lying about my height, hair, and wealth, not that I was poor by any means, they lied about their hair, age, and looks, not that they were homely. Still, lying was not a good way to begin a serious relationship.

Defeating the purpose of why I was online to meet someone, I decided to start over again with the real me. I posted a new page with a new name and a more recent photo of myself. Receiving much less of a response, now the women that wrote me were more professional than slutty. Women closer to my age, able to compose grammatically correct sentences, they more had college degrees on their walls than tramp stamp tattoos on their asses.

Then, Michelle, a 35-year-old woman, who didn't even have a picture posted, wrote me. As if two strangers passing on the sidewalk, instead of connecting online, just an innocently innocuous note, all she wrote, was one word and one syllable, "Hi." Deciding to play her game, I replied to her e-mail. "Hi," I said, relieved somewhat that I didn't have to go through another long explanatory e-mail of who I was and what I was looking to find in a woman.

After reading the long winded e-mails of women, her concise note caught me off guard. Yet, to be honest, it's impossibly difficult to connect with someone, who doesn't post a photo of herself with her profile, never mind who doesn't write much of a clue about herself, other than the unrevealing word, "Hi." Without having an image of what she looked like, with all these other women sending me photos of themselves in all manner of dress and undress, I didn't pay much attention to Michelle's message, in the way that I paid attention to the other women with photos. Besides, I was already writing to Diane, Carol, Beverly, Mary, and Janice.

Not knowing what she looked like, I wondered if she was tall, short, shapely, heavy, beautiful, or ugly. Wanting to satisfy my curiosity that was now shrouded under a veil of mystery, looking for and hoping to find love, much in the way of looking for a black hole in the vast Milky Way, I decided to follow my instincts and answer her. The first time she responded, with only three more words and three more syllables, with brevity her strong suit, she wrote something that hit my heart more than the other five women had in all they had written.

"I'm the one," she wrote.

What? Huh? I'm the one? What does she mean by that? She must be crazy and I thought she was when, before I even had the chance to respond to her second e-mail, she sent a third e-mail.

"We were meant to be together," she wrote.

Comparatively speaking, a hugely more revealing e-mail, when compared to the other two, being that I'm and have always been a Star Trek fan, a Trekkie, actually, and a dedicated viewer of the award winning Big Bang Theory situation comedy on television, knowing that everything has a purpose and anything is possible in our uncharted universe, for the sake of love, I was willing to believe that I was the one and that we were meant to be together. Being the virgin that I am, with my lack of sexual experience, who was I to question her? As I do in my lab with my scientific research, I defer to those of superior intellect and, obviously, although I may have known more about the physical alignment of the planets in the universe, this woman knew more about the astrological alignment of the stars. Without doubt, by her one revealing sentence that we were meant to be together, with me having never been in love, she knew more about love than I did, so who was I to dismiss and/or question her?

"Besides, what if she's right? What if she knows something that I don't? What if by turning her away, by not answering her and not believing that I'm the one and that we were meant to be together, I'm changing my destiny and ruining my one and only chance at love and at getting laid."

Willing to give her a chance, imagining something psychically paranormal happening between us, even though I didn't have a clue what she looked like, but for her brief physical description she had posted in her bio of race, height, general weight, and hair and eye color, just as I imagined her being attractive, I imagined her being the one. Just as she already believed, I wanted to believe that we were meant to be together. Without even knowing what she looked like, being so lonely and so sexually frustrated, if only just a sexual fantasy to give more fodder to my masturbation sessions, I imagined being with her. Getting caught up in her little game that I was the one and that we were meant to be together, forsaking Diane, Carol, Beverly, Mary, and Janice that I had been corresponding with for weeks, I imagined falling in love with Michelle.

Whenever driving to work, taking my coffee and lunch break, and driving home from work, the song Michelle, by the Beatles, would come to mind and I'd sing the lyrics, as if singing the song to her. I imagined people asking us how we met. I'd tell them of how she wrote me without including a photo. I'd tell them that, at the time, I had no idea what she looked like. I'd tell them that she got my attention by telling me that I was the one and that we were meant to be together. I'd tell them that it was in the stars that we were supposed to meet and live the rest of our lives together.

"Wow! I'm the one. We were meant to be together. How romantic is that?"

Willing to forsake my search for my perfect woman, willing to defer to her better judgment, I had second thoughts. Because of the scientist that I am and in the way that I over analyze everything, I thought, did she mean that I'm the one or that she's the one? Why were we meant to be together? How does she know that? Is that assumption just a theory or is it fact? What scientific support does she have that I or she the one and that we were meant to be together? With me being the scientist and she being the fallible human, the woman, what if she's wrong? What if I'm not the one and we were never meant to be together?

Changing my thought process from negative to positive, going with the flow, and deferring to her more experienced judgment in matters of love and romance, my lust took over my training as a scientist and, instead of using my bigger brain to make a more informed decision, something I've never done before, I allowed my penis to do the thinking for me. With my cock overruling my brain, I imagined her being beautiful. I imagined her being sexy, sexual, and sensual. I imagined her giving me as much sex as I wanted. I imagined us falling in love. I imagined us getting married and having a baby. Now, convinced, I truly believed that I was the one and we were meant to be together.

It was only when I was lonely, horny, and masturbating over my favorite porn flick, Mother and Daughter Does Daddy's Virginal Best Friend, that I wondered what her mother looked like. Admittedly and immorally, always having been sexually attracted to my mother, even more so, after my father died, I controlled and masturbated my incestuous urges away, not an easy thing to do, when Mom was so willing to cross the incestuous line. Instead, as a somewhat more appropriate person for my lust and psychological relief, in my need to fulfill my Oedipus complex, even though in my circumstance my Dad was already dead, I misplaced and transferred my sexual desire for my mother to Michelle's mother and manifested my lust to her, even though I had no idea what she looked like either.

Having suddenly become such a pervert to fantasize about having sex with a mother and daughter, perhaps because even though I wanted to, I knew it was wrong to have sex with my mother, especially when I've yet to have sex with any woman. Nonetheless, not able to compare in beauty and sexuality to my mother, as a repercussion to my misplaced sexuality for Michelle's mother, I feared that I'd may subconsciously reject Michelle, if her mother isn't not only as hot as she is but also as sexual as is my mother. Unable to release myself for my apparent need to have a sexual relationship with mother and daughter, I feared my relationship with Michelle was doomed, before it even began.

Ah, what a perverse web I weave. What's wrong with me? Why must it be so hard for me to get laid? Wishing I could stop thinking and just go with the flow, why must I allow my mother and now her mother, a woman I never met and don't even know if she exists, interfere with my decision to make a love connection with Michelle?

Yet, in trying to peel away my psychological issues, as if my imagined sex life was an onion, what does my mother or her mother have anything to do with whatever relationship that develops with Michelle? I don't know. Maybe she doesn't even have mother. Maybe she was adopted or her mother is dead. All I know is that I've been working too hard and I need to relax. At this point in my life, whether for love or for lust, I really need to have sex. I really need to get laid.

Then, seeing through this ruse of love and romance with logic, I imagined Michelle being an old, wicked witch, who had cast a love spell over me for me to fall in love with her. Even though I wanted to believe that we could have a loving and sexual relationship that spanned this dimension of reality to another dimension that paralleled our universe, even though I truly wanted to believe, I wasn't convinced that I was the one and that we were meant to be together. Still skeptical, perhaps because of the scientist in me, rejecting her theory, I needed conclusive proof that I was the one and that we were meant to be together.

I wondered. Don't tell me that she believes we met in another life? God, I hope she's not one of those. Either she's a little psychic, a little crazy, or a little or a lot of both. Not wanting to be stalked by an insane women online, I was hoping she was more psychic than crazy, more beautiful than ugly, and more shapely than obese. With the excitement of meeting her winning over my caution, eager to meet her, I was interested to learn more about her.

Even without a photo of her, in hindsight, perhaps the photo would have gotten in the way of a developing an honest, open, loving, and real relationship, I was intrigued. Wanting to know why she wrote that comment that I was the one and what she meant by that comment that we were meant to be together, it was then that I took Michelle at her word and viewed her more seriously. Not even needing her photo to connect, from that point forward, we wrote regularly over the next few weeks and talked for hours at a time on the phone. Talking and writing about everything, we discovered that we had so much in common. Maybe I was the one after all and we were meant to be together.

Though I thought more than twice about doing it, wanting to be open and honest and, in hindsight, maybe revealing a little too much to her too soon, I revealed my sexual fantasy to her of having sex with mother and daughter. I even told her about my favorite porn flick, Mother and Daughter Does Daddy's Virginal Best Friend. Unfortunately, just as I said it, I wished I hadn't. Afraid now that she may think that I want to have sex with her mother, too, I feared she'd think less of me. I feared she think that I was a pervert and admittedly, I was, no doubt.

Before even meeting her, thinking that we had the relationship, where we could tell one another anything, when I confessed my perversion to her over the phone, I was hoping she'd confess her sexual peccadilloes to me, but she surprised me when she confessed none. By her not telling me her sexual preferences and/or perversions, figuring she didn't have any or didn't trust me enough to share them with me, she made me feel perversely uncomfortable and terribly self-conscious. Then, when she suddenly fell silent, before changing the subject, I knew then that I shouldn't have told her about my sexual fantasy. I should have waited, at least, until we met in person and made a physical connection, before telling her about my sexual fantasy. Hoping I hadn't ruined things between us and prematurely torpedoed our blossoming love/sex relationship by confessing having sex with a mother and a daughter was my sexual fantasy, silently swearing to myself to never mention my masturbation perversion and favorite porn flick ever again, I was relieved when she said what she's been saying all along.

"You're the one. We were meant to be together."

Oh, my God, comfortable and unsettling at the same time for her to write that and tell me that over the telephone again, it was as if she knew me. Maybe in the way that a star shines so cosmically brightly, before becoming a red giant and a white dwarf, when its mass collapses upon itself, and before cooling to become a black dwarf, maybe we were meant to be together. Maybe in the way of the brilliance and undeniable power of a supernova, we knew one another in some other life on the far side of the universe and were meant to be together again now.

Then, when Michelle sent me a photo of her standing with her 58-year-old mother, Diane, I was shocked. Much better looking than my Mom, hard to tell one from the other, the genetics in that family is amazing. Oh, my God, Diane looked like Michelle's older sister. Having the same pretty face, blonde hair, and hot, busty body, if I was in bed, under the blankets, and in the dark, I imagined that I wouldn't know, if I was with mother or daughter.

"Oh, my God. Wow! No frigging way. Are you kidding me? Michelle is just a beautiful as Amanda, Dan's daughter in my favorite porn movie, Mother and Daughter Does Daddy's Virginal Friend, and Diane was equally as hot as Elaine, Dan's wife."

Could this be the relationship that I've been looking to have all my life. A reason for everything, is this the reason why I'm still a virgin? Remembering after I confessed my fantasy to her of having sex with mother and daughter, after she fell silent without commenting on my confession, I thought it strange that she'd send me a photo of herself with her mother. Was she teasing me by the photo or was she trying to make me see the reality of my perversion by showing me how much more desirable she was than her mother? Nonetheless, removing my imagined sexual content from the image, getting my mind out of the gutter and looking at the photo, as nothing more than a photo, I chastised myself for having perverted thoughts about Michelle's mother, Diane. Promising myself not to think anymore about it, especially after seeing her photo, I didn't want to ruin my relationship with Michelle, before it even began.