The Beast in Me

His fingers sure did things to me; how deftly
and expertly, he coaxed the peak of his crescendo –
his eyes...the bluest of things green – half closed,
adrift in another world. His body rising… falling. Sweat,
in beads, adorned his forehead, and how I should have loved
to mop that brow, were I not otherwise engaged.

He ended with a flourish, and a trill – took
a leisurely bow from the stool. Fondled the lid
of his punctilious baby grand, and then there was me
amongst the strings; legs in their usual ungainly pose –
knees wide apart to accommodate ‘the beast’. Always knew
I should have opted for the violin – way
more romantic than the cello.

“Encore!” they shout; his tailcoat brushing past my dress
and back again. Do I dare give him a rose, or would that be
too presumptuous? He turns, and those eyes of his...the bluest
of things green, meet mine. Starts his reprise; Night on Bear Mountain.
Take up my bow, how sweet, his diminuendo; feel the beast
between my thighs begin to tremble.