orgasmic

Bows glided in fury. Masses of red locks wildly thrashed. Black gowns creased and rumpled over quivering legs excited by cleanly executed trills. And Poulenc did cartwheels onstage.

Oboes pedaled up in silky restraint. Young, white, feminine muscles on bare arms contracted with every agonized pianissimo. Eyelashes flitted like flies escaping the swat. And Prokofiev limped gaily with one leg.

Flabby cheeks shook jelly-like with passion. Worn-out leather shoes traced the rhythm on the carpeted floor. The uncontrolled tittering of a half-Japanese, half-French violinist infected the crowd with mirth. And Debussy jacked off in front of us.

“She must have had jutes, that girl,” my seatmate, a classmate in German class, was referring to the giggling half-Japanese performer. Maybe I had jutes, too. I could feel it. Either that or the wine I had gulped in the lobby was now tickling my brain cells. And my limp body was surfing the air thick with the wailing of strings.

One more number and I was already one of those animals in Saint-Saëns’ Le Carnaval des Animaux, jumping about in ecstasy, cavorting to the bassoon’s gossips.

The French performers had requested that the aircon be turned off. It’s bad for the instruments, they claimed. The Francisco Santiago Hall of PCI Bank was, therefore, a bit warm that night. Add to that the heat generated by the young musicians whose passion seared the walls, and of course, the hot, heavy breathing of the guy seated on my left, who was already seeing talking cellos and walking clarinets in his dreams.

The zest of the performers was contagious. It was clearly their life. And they were living every note of it. Every flick of the bow, every dizzying cadenza, every squirting glissando was relished. They were enjoying the whole experience, and so was I.

Fingers stabbed the ivory keys. Applause attacked the ceiling like drugged bats. Seats clinked and creaked as the audience rose for an ovation. And I had an orgasm.