A Musical Revue (warning: sexual content)
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From: Peter Langston <psl>
Date: Fri, 26 Sep 97 16:49:35 -0700
Subject: A Musical Revue (warning: sexual content)
[I thought that warning might get your attention; it's true, of course...
Forwarded-by: email@example.com (mark seiden)
From: firstname.lastname@example.org (Gil G. Silberman)
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
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
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
Bad for the brain.
Bad for business.
Not so good for the piano.
- - - - - - - - - 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