Posts Tagged ‘erotic’

I have this subscription concert series that is a remnant from a former client. The biggest advantage, and the reason I hang onto it is – I’m in love with the seats. A neat pair snuggled into a little corner at an angle nearly all to themselves. But not completely. The couple that sits next to me in the ajoining regular long-type row are very sweet. After years of sitting next to each other, we are finally greeting each other properly and wishing each other a nice evening after the concert ends. If they’ve paid attention to who sits there, they have been able to see the story of my life go before their very eyes. For a time, I would share the subscription with my in-laws, or go with my mother-in-law alone, or with my (ex)husband, a few times with my girlfriend, my girlfriend went with her fiancé, then it was me again, alone, then with a whole series of men before I finally settled down and have now been showing up with the same man on and off for the past two years. I particularly like the male side of my neighboring couple. He’s certainly working on 70, but to me is very attractive (looks a bit like former Bavarian Minister Stoiber). We share the little metal bar in front of our seats that serves well as a foot rest, always taking care not to hog it too much from the other but paying close attention that no one else but the two of us understand this little game of footsies. He also has lovely hands and a very gentle manor that I absolutely adore.

Mind you, these are classic concerts. Philharmonic concerts. With strings and brass and drums and harps and varying conductors. And sometimes even more, sometimes highly unusual instruments, sometimes ingenious solists, massive choirs… and so on. Another little secret and perhaps another argument to hold onto the subscription: I find classical music very erotic. Highly erotic at its best, which happens often, apparently. I sometimes have a bit of trouble remaining in my seat, as it were. I tend to evaporate and float and merge into everything. Become the tip of every bow violently beating in the string section, dart up to the ceiling, into corners and under seats, become the paper of the pages the musicians hastily turn, the coughing person in the upper levels and then come back to just be the glow that is the cascade of discordant unison that an orchestra can be while they are creating this mythical pulsation.

Shame that my escort isn’t really into classical music and just sort of comes along for the heck of it. Until he begins to feel, and I suppose experience, what happens to me. Every concert seems to tweak a chord somewhere in him. The strangest music will now make him nod in satisfied approval. Last night’s fare: Janacek, Chopin and Sibelius. Now, I am no expert mind you. I just go to listen and fly. I’m no good at memorizing names and histories. But I do know that these three composers are very different men coming from very different places - so I expected some amount of bumpiness in the program.

To my immense surprise and thrill, it went from crescendo to crescendo, rising bit by tiny bit. The middle part, Chopin, before intermission, included a piano solo. Pianos and strings being my favorite types of sounds, I was ready for this like a kid that just got in his seat on a rollercoaster ride. But I was not prepared for what happened, what thoughts began to dance in my brain as this young, energetic pianist gave his nod to the conductor. Suddenly, at the beginning of his piece, it was as if he had not fingers but ten penises. Penises varying in size and width and strength and reach, but all working together. Madly. Passionately. Patiently. Playfully. Hitting what seemed to be every key, up, down, dwelling for a bit in the middle and back and back and back again. Playing the glorious grand like a lover, taking her and pleading with her, the music flowing from her, sometimes it seemed even unwillingly, until he bounded into her like a madman, tickling and teasing until they literally became one and I was zapped into a wonderment I can only begin to describe as divine.

The proof came in two instances. The first was that during the intermission, my partner and I walked closer and then closer and then like the lovers we are, touching parts of each other most people don’t in public. The small of the back, the cheek, the belly. Nothing inappropriate, mind you. It was just… no one else was doing it the way we were. We were blissful. Strangely high. And Sibelius did the rest. We glided home peacefully, had a wonderful leftovers dinner and continued the dance in a horizontal way that will surely remain one of the more unforgettable lovemaking sessions of my life. Reason enough, I think, to continue my study of and devotion to classical music.

The second piece of proof came the next morning. For some reason, this was exactly what I was feeling that night, indeed feel very often and am never really able to describe. She only scratches the surface because she is describing the creation part, and she does so with aplomb, bless your gorgeous soul, Elizabeth! The part she doesn’t describe is the enjoyment that comes with consuming, imbibing, partaking in someone else’s creative process. In this, case, all the members of the orchestra, a pianist and a conductor who, essentially, let us witness them in a highly skilled sensual dance turning them into one singular, moving, powerful entity. A entity that evidently is willing to take on passengers.


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