Now that I am finally getting laid again
my piano playing is improving. What else
would I do in those moments of waiting
bathed, perfumed, satinned, variously
analgised and anaesthetised?
It seems impossible to me now, that
anyone could play Bach without thinking
of sex. More than the insistence of that
pulsing left hand chord, it’s the way we move
from key to key as if harmony were a body.
My fingers are getting nimbler; I can dream
of grace in those quick passages, almost
believe that nerves could heal. I’ve noticed too
that these days sex ends like a chorale, a single
note slipping into the home chord: a-a-men.
by Helen Clare in Mildly Erotic Verse
photography of unknown author
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