Fun_People Archive
26 Sep
A Musical Revue (warning: sexual content)

Content-Type: text/plain
Mime-Version: 1.0 (NeXT Mail 3.3 v118.2)
From: Peter Langston <psl>
Date: Fri, 26 Sep 97 16:49:35 -0700
To: Fun_People
Subject: A Musical Revue (warning: sexual content)

[I thought that warning might get your attention; it's true, of course...
 -psl]

Forwarded-by: mis@seiden.com (mark seiden)
From: bigbug@hooked.net (Gil G. Silberman)
	http://www.hooked.net/~bigbug


 Two accounts of the same event:

 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  ANXIETY - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 I've always felt piano playing to be an intimate act, usually done alone.
 But sometimes I commune with Beethoven, and sometimes with an audience.
 You play a man's piece enough times and you see the inside of his mind.

 Somewhere around bar 137 I heard a noise coming from upstairs.

 Does anyone else have this problem?

 It made it hard to concentrate.  So I played louder.  This only encouraged
 them.

 I ended the peice in a fast, loud frenzy, playing hard, trying not to care.

 And then what?  A fugue?  Some Chopin?  No.... I decided to sightread the
 second movement of the Pathetique.  This is where the melody for eres tu
 comes from.  But I am a bad sightreader, and there was much pressure on
 me, knowing that if I stopped some kind of spell would be broken, a mist
 would lift and in the daylight it would not seem like such a good idea...
 no longer would it be love, romance, passion.  It would be stone cold
 mechanics... a fumbled note, levers pressing on moment arms, two people
 fucking in earshot of a third, fingers getting stiff... So I slid into more
 comfortable territory, a couple Ginastera pieces that are Bolero on
 steroids.  . My wrists were loose and my fingers hot and oiled.  I played
 Creole so fast it was nobody's business, and ended it with a heave and a
 sigh.

 Moments later she came down, tying her sash, cloth falling off her shoulders
 and down her back.   Shit, she was beautiful. .

 She floated through the room with the bliss and a fertility of a woman
 still under the blush of an orgasm.  The sash had untied itself, and she
 pressed the robe to her stomach with her forearms to hold it on.  She
 leaned against the piano so I could see her bare shoulders, her back, the
 top of her breasts, and she stared into my eyes, smiling contently, until
 I became uncomfortable.  "Thank you," she said.

 Jesus.  Somebody has to tell her to go back to girl land, or wherever it
 is that succubi go during the day.  I hear she is some kind of a financial
 analyst or a web designer or something, when she isn't being miss
 sex-in-c-minor.

 Bad for the brain.

 Bad for business.

 Not so good for the piano.

 Must concentrate.

  - - - - - - - - - PERFORMANCE - - - - - - - - - - -

 Who's playing Cyrano in this scene?  Rostand himself might be confused.
 I wonder momentarily if Beethoven wrote the Pathetique for just this
 occasion.  Beethoven's gone but his music lives on.  Eine kleine fuckmuzik.

 This isoscelesian adventure was her idea.  "I want to make love while he
 plays for us," she said yesterday, casually but a little mischievously, as
 though she could just as easily have said, "I want champagne for dinner."
 In our few (too few) days together, I've thrown her onto beds from over my
 shoulder, spanked her to orgasm, taken her in elevators, on rooftops, in
 the car on an otherwise peaceful residential street.  And I've had plenty
 of sex up here in spite of his hanging around down there.  So her request
 wasn't comparatively decadent.

 The pianist is just over the balcony.  She's looking down on him, elbows
 on the ledge, rapt by his music and wrapped in a silken robe with which
 I've draped the naked skin of every woman who's gotten naked around here
 since the one who brought it to me from China left me naked and alone with
 it.  It looks particularly delicious on this one, though.  Angelic.
 Heavenly.  Let us pray  I kneel and worship.

 Or is it confession?  When she chose to be with me two weeks ago we broke
 the heart of a friend of mine who I knew to have pined for her.  So I
 suppose I'll deserve it when she breaks mine a couple more weeks hence.
 And while a more careful man might have seen that coming, the only coming
 I care to see right now is hers, and the only thing I'm breaking is her
 heart-shaped eucharist where it self-divides.  Heaven's gate.

 My holy hostess arches her back coquettishly, insistently, religiously.
 Presenting, zoologists call it, a reflex to arousal in females also called
 lordosis.  "Oh lord, sis," I think, pooling silk at her hips, and go down
 on her from behind while she looks down on him from above.  We both take
 her, orally and aurally.

 He's communing with a composer two centuries decomposed.  His piano
 thunders ancient witchcraft.  Music so thick we are buoyant on it.  He
 pounds out resplendent incantations, calling up the dead, waking Beethoven.
 Presently I pound out a few myself, on her, in her, communing with our own
 rutting ancestors, saluting the millennia of copulation that made us, the
 genealogical gynecology, the family fuck.  And when I first invoke in her
 that other death that essential death that imperative don't stop kill me
 now or I'll die death, le petit mort, the little death that begets life,
 her whimpers become shrieks and her foremothers back to Eve sing harmony.

 Her accompanist (or is he mine?) hears my little soprano (or is she his?),
 counters, plays louder.  When he hesitates, slips up, I fill in, fill her
 in, fill her up.  He resounds, I rebound.  He crescendos, I crush.  "Go
 deep," commands the quarterback in the huddle with his piano.  And I, in
 pretty deep already, take the endzone, plumb the backquarter, plow the back
 forty, sow where I hath reapt, and scream, and the piano screams, and she
 screams.  Go team!

 From her panting breast I daub beads of sweat that would prefer to trickle
 to sultry southern vacation spots where all music is born.  She refrocks,
 goes to thank him for the serenade, the almost-menage.

 My Anglo-Saxon fathers blow shimmering kisses at her Korean mothers, who
 blush and sigh and smooth their silken skirts.

 And somewhere Rostand gives Beethoven a high five.

 - - - - - - - - - INTRODUCTION TO THE DOVER EDITION - - - - - - -

 Another most unusual and valuable feature of this edition is the fingerings.

© 1997 Peter Langston