January 19, 2012
The perils of camsex
I am a pip. It’s like the song says…everything happens to me. What now, you ask? Have I been robbed again? Have I broken my fingers, preventing me from earning my modest living? Have I reconciled with my wife only to break up again?
No, no, and no. It’s worse. You see, I am a camsex failure.
Let’s back it up. A year and a half ago I bought my current laptop. At the time I had noticed that it came with a webcam built into it — I think most computers these days have this feature. Of course the first thing I thought of was, great, I can have unlimited camsex!
The trouble was I was still with my wife. Even though we were all but broken up by then, between her and the kids there wasn’t much of a chance.
But, as those of you who are my faithful readers know, I have been in my own place for the past two and a half months. Which means…
Cue the unlimited camsex!
There was only one problem. I didn’t know anybody with whom to cam with.
Until I met Sheri, She had responded to a craigslist post of mine, and even though we never got together, I couldn’t help but notice the little camera icon next to her name in gmail chat.
Last Friday night I came home from a gig and when I logged onto my email I noticed that Sheri was online. This was my chance! Quick as a flash I changed out of my gig clothes, stripping down to a tshirt, and I hit chat.
I asked Sheri how she was doing and she responded that she was online shopping for comefukme boots. After a few more minutes of idle chat I suggested that we cam, and although she didn’t sound crazy about the idea, explaining that she was tired after a long day, she agreed.
After a few aborted attempts Sheri’s image finally emerged into the chat box. She was a very pretty African-American woman in her late thirties, but she looked even younger. She had short hair, a lithe figure, and a beautiful smile. Needless to say I was dumbstruck at my good fortune.
For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of using gmail chat, it is a terrible program. I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to make the image full screen, so I had to settle for a picture that was the size of an eighth of my screen. What’s more, the chat dialogue box was blocking the lower half of the image. It was like watching a moving postage stamp, albeit a sexy one.
We were talking and exchanging pleasantries, but in the meantime I was getting to work on my junk — you know, multi-tasking – figuring that at some point I was going to have to deliver the goods.
Everything was going fine until my computer crashed.
OK, stay calm Woody — it’s a mere setback. You’re one reboot away from nirvana.
I rebooted, which for me means a five-minute delay. So what’s a camsex dude to do? Duh! Play with himself. I was stroking away so that I could be at full attention when I reconnected with Sheri.
We reconnected, but just then I felt a familiar rush of adrenalin. Something was bubbling up — coming to the surface — and it wasn’t old faithful.
Oh no…
I immediately stopped stroking and began to think of my mother in law, but it was too late. Elvis had left the building. Show’s over, folks, move along — nothing to see here…
Sheri must have seen the look of horror on my face because she asked in an amused and surprised tone, “Did you finish already?!”
What does one say when asked that question? I hadn’t been asked that question since I was sixteen.
“Why no! Of course not! I was just, um, remembering that I left some laundry in the washing machine. Gotta go!”
So there you have it. Cam sex: It’s not as easy as it looks. That being said, for those of you with a cam, a good sense of humor, and a whole lot of patience, I am here for you. Let’s cam!
December 22, 2011
Mina
I don’t know if last Saturday night and Sunday morning really happened. I don’t have memories as much as I have feelings. By the time Sunday evening fell and I was starting my third gig of the day, it hardly seemed possible that a mere twelve hours prior I was in her presence.
On January 27th, 2011 I wrote a post in craigslist with the subject,
Cute guy for woman with small breasts,hairy pussy,and little stomach
I am an attractive, in-shape MWM (soon to be separated) who is interested in exploring my sexuality with a sensual woman. I realize that my subject is very specific — I just wanted to post about the kind of body that turns me on. I have always been attracted to petite women with small breasts and large nipples. I also like breasts that sag just a little bit as this is so much sexier to me than the rock-hard breast implants that are de rigueur for many of today’s workout-obsessed women. Although I’m not into obese women I do appreciate a slight tummy.
Of course if you don’t have to look exactly like this. Sensuality and a nice personality trumps all!
I didn’t expect to get a response. On a lark I had decided to post about what I write about in this blog. I said to myself, ‘what the heck, I’ll just ask for what I want.’
Four days later, much to my surprise, I received a response from a woman named Mina. The letter began,
It seems to me I might be the person you are seeking. But I’m not sure if you are the one for me.
That’s Mina — succinct and direct. I would come to discover a kind of poetry in her to-the-point, matter-of-fact style of writing. She has an ability to speak the truth while avoiding superfluous small talk. I would come to learn in her letters, as well as in person, that she will at once hold you at arms distance while engulfing you in her warm presence.
The letter went on to state that she too would like to explore her sensual side, but with the right person — someone worth her time and energy. She described herself as a petite Asian living in San Jose who was 39 years old, divorced, and educated.
Thus began our correspondence. Our first few letters were mostly about our sexual preferences. After three or four emails we exchanged photos. The photos that she sent became incrementally more sensual. They were artfully done black and white photos which she had taken herself. She was indeed pretty, but her photos, much like her personality, had a certain mystery. In some, her entire face was not visible. Other’s were nudes taken at interesting, but demure angles.
We did not meet. San Jose is over an hour south of where I live, and I was still living with my wife, so it didn’t make sense to arrange a meeting. Or it could have been that we never found the opportune time.
Still, we emailed, usually once a week, but eventually tapering off to once a month. We became pen pals, and though our letters became less sexual in nature, they always had a heartfelt intensity. When I was brooding over Amanda last summer Mina was there for me, understanding and comforting.
Last week I received an email from Mina saying that she was coming up to the East Bay on Saturday night and she asked if we could meet. I was working that night and wouldn’t be off until 11. I had a gig the next morning at a church but I told her that if she liked she could spend the night so that we could spend a little more time together. I had to leave very early, but she would be able to leave at a more reasonable hour.
That Saturday at 11:10 I found Mina parked near a hydrant just outside of the restaurant I had been playing at. I knew from her photos that she was pretty, but I was unprepared by how beautiful she would be in person. She had long black hair, full lips that had an indentation that lent sensuality, and an easy smile that lit up her face. She talked animatedly and she used broad hand gestures that made her seem even more engaging.
I asked her if she would like to get a drink but she said she was worried about driving after alcohol so we went back to my place where I had some beers in the refrigerator.
We were strangers and yet we already knew each other. We sat in my living room talking and eating pretzels. Our conversation was easy and friendly, yet there was an unspoken tension in the air as bedtime neared.
I had promised her in my emails that there would be no sex. To this end I donned my red flannel pajamas. Between my t-shirt, underwear, and pajamas, there were several layers of safety separating us.
Mina, on the other hand, had forgotten to pack sleepwear. At first she said she would sleep in her clothes, but in the end she laughed, saying, …you can’t sleep in jeans! I gave her one of my t-shirts and she took off her pants and climbed into bed.
I’m smiling now as I recall how she asked which side I liked to sleep on. Of course I didn’t know — I had only ever slept in this bed on my own. We spent a few minutes debating which side was best and finally I took the inside, nearest the wall. Mina tentatively climbed into bed and lay down with her back to me. It was at that instant when I realized that there were not enough layers in the world to keep me from putting my arms around her.
I went to kiss her and our lips brushed, but she turned away. We went back to lying down and my hand rested on her bare leg. I pulled her close and my lips found her neck while my hand caressed her legs. Then I could feel her begin to move, her ass undulating just above my left hand, and my heart began to beat faster.
My hands began to explore her body, feeling her breasts through the t-shirt, all the while my lips on her neck. She smelled so sweet — not a sharp perfume — possibly a subtle bath oil, or the shampoo she used.
All of my feelings were intensified because this did not feel like a random one-night casual encounter. This was someone I knew — someone I had shared my life with, and who had shared her life with me.
My hand slipped into the back of her panties and felt the smallest, firmest ass. I could not stop myself. As I reached further down I found her pussy which was wet and my fingers slipped easily inside.
At this point there was still a small part of me that thought I could stay true to my word and resist temptation. A very small part.
Ten minutes later she lay naked on my bed and I beheld the loveliest, most sensual woman I had ever seen in my life.
Do you have a condom?
She lay on her back and I simply knelt facing her, awestruck by the vision before me. I did not want to move – I wanted to remember. I think, had she allowed me, I could have stared at her for hours. I must have looked comical kneeling over her in my fireman-red pajamas while she was stark naked.
Do you have a condom?
How could I go through with this after my promise? The sex would be incredible, but how much better would it be if we waited? But what if I never see her again? Wouldn’t I regret this for the rest of my life? But does my word mean nothing?
Do you have a condom?
I did have a condom and my word means nothing. It felt like it took fifteen minutes to peel off all of those layers, but finally I was naked and I entered Mina.
There are not enough words to do justice to sex with Mina. Her body was a river of sexuality and it responded to my every thrust. Her gorgeous breasts, small with the most subtle of curves, had pointy, dark brown nipples. Her pussy was beautifully natural — hairy, wet, and tight. It was heavenly. She looked at least ten years younger than her age. Her skin was luminous and soft, and always her sweet and musky scent.
How wonderful to be inside of her, and afterwards how comforting it was to fall asleep beside her. There is a sadness and joyousness about this person. I wanted to cry and I wanted to possess her.
Four hours later I awoke to my alarm. Mina lay asleep beside me. I got up, showered, dressed, made coffee, and had breakfast. I had to wake her up to say goodbye. Half asleep, as if still in a dream, she said,
“I’m cold.”
She said it so sweetly and so innocently — like a child. I turned the heat up, pulled the covers tight, embraced her, and left.
When I returned to my apartment at midday she was gone. Her only remaining trace was the t-shirt that she had worn, now discarded on my bed. I held it to my face and inhaled, and as if to confirm the events of the previous night, it smelled like Mina. I will forever regret not having worn it to bed that night. Now it has been laundered and its scent, like Mina, is gone.
December 20, 2011
Dangerous times
I know that overall I’ve been a lucky guy when it has come to casual encounters. I have slept with strangers. I’ve gone into some bad neighborhoods, not knowing what would be awaiting me when I arrived. I have put trust in my fellow-man and have managed to avoid mishaps.
Until now.
Last Wednesday I received an email from Farrah, a woman who had responded to a post I had written a month ago. She asked if I would like to meet for a drink later that night and I agreed.
We met after my gig at 10:30 at a bar nearby my house. Farrah was in her late 30s — a brunette who was attractive, full-figured, and large breasted. We sat down and began some easy conversation.
She, like myself, was separated and had three kids. We talked about our ex-es, our children, and our lives in general. I felt comfortable with her, and though there was not much of a personal or romantic connection, I was attracted to her. I invited her back to my place.
We had sex. We were at it for about an hour and a half and I thought it was good experience — especially since I hadn’t really had sex (except for that one recent, curtailed encounter) for a long time.
After we had sex she fell asleep. I couldn’t sleep with a stranger in my bed and I knew, since she had mentioned it earlier in the evening, that she could not stay the night.
At three AM I decided to wake her. She got up and I walked her to her car and said goodbye. I thought it was a good experience, both the hanging out, and the sex, and I thought I would like to get together with her again sometime.
Two days later I was at the market and was about to pay for my groceries when I noticed that my credit card was missing. At that point I also noticed some cash missing as well — as much as $60.00. I was thinking that my son, who had borrowed my card two days earlier, might have forgotten to give it back, when suddenly a dark feeling came over me. Could it have been Farrah?
I called my bank and alerted them. When I checked my account there was no suspicious activity. Still…I couldn’t help wondering. All weekend I was hoping the card would turn up — hoping that this stranger that I slept with on a moment’s notice, was not a thief.
On Monday I went to my bank to cancel the card. The teller was able to check activity that I couldn’t see online, and she saw that several purchases were attempted with my card over the weekend, all of which were denied. One was from a market in Alameda. Farrah had told me she lived in Alameda.
How did she get into my wallet? My apartment is tiny — she could not have gotten to my wallet without me having seen her. Unless it happened when I went to the bathroom. There was also one point where I got her a glass of water — it could have been then.
But why, if she had the money, did she have sex and go to sleep? I didn’t think she was faking it — she really seemed to be enjoying it. But then, just because she’s a thief doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy sex. The two are not mutually exclusive. On second thought, if she is stealthy enough to steal a credit card from a distance of six feet, then she probably has the ability to fake orgasms too.
Could she have stolen the money on her way out, right in front of me? Magicians are known for misdirection — maybe she just stood up in front of my desk, shielding my vision, and pretended she was rummaging for her clothes.
The fact that it was done a few feet from me is more disturbing than the lost money. I feel like a dupe and I feel way too gullible for a man of 51. I also feel lucky because it could have been so much worse. What if she had a gun? I could have had more money — or she could have gotten away with the credit card charges.
There’s no easy answers. I’m horny and I want sex, but I don’t want a relationship. I want to feel a connection to someone but I don’t want to commit. You can have joyless sex, you can have great sex, you can get rolled, and you can feel like an asshole. All for five seconds of ecstasy.
Nothing is free.
December 16, 2011
Sharing
When you’re married to someone for a long time you become used to sleeping next to her, and over time you become comfortable with the way it feels to share a bed. You develop a rhythm — which side of the bed you take, where you position yourself, and who’s responsibility it is to turn out the lights.
The thing I miss most about living with my wife is sharing the bed with her. There was something comforting about having her next to me. It felt right and it felt complete. Even when we weren’t having sex, which was most of the last two years we were together.
But sharing the bed with a new partner — that is a different story. It’s like learning to drive a stick shift after only ever having driven an automatic. That is to say it takes some getting used to.
I remember the excitement of having sex with someone for the first time — the passion, the adrenalin, and the sheer joy of it. But then when it was over, you were tired and spent from the sex, but you just couldn’t fall asleep because of this stranger in your bed. (or conversely, you in a stranger’s bed) For all my complaining about wanting someone to hold me, I don’t think I could ever fall asleep with someone’s arms around me.
I remember Lacey, one of my first girlfriends. We were at her house after a date when we finally slept together. After it was over I told her I was going home and she began to cry.
“Why are you crying?!”
“I feel like a floozy!”
That was an instant classic. Something about the use of the old-fashioned colloquialism, and the genuine tears forever ingrained that scene in my mind. What choice did I have but to stay the night? I didn’t sleep a wink, but we had great morning sex.
You see, I’m discovering things here. I don’t want to dive into another deep relationship, yet I still dread the sleepover. Now that I’m single again I am loving my space. I like my little apartment which seems to have just enough room. It fits me just right. I don’t want to share!
December 10, 2011
Thoughts from a confused mind
I’m still trying to figure things out, but having a good time doing so. That’s the thing about life — it’s never predictable and it’s never boring. Well, it is if you have to listen to a twenty minute speech from a vintner discussing the various bouquets and aging techniques of Chardonnay. But you know what I mean — in general.
It has occurred to me that even though I am often the goat of my posts, that I do, in fact, set myself up as a kind of anti-hero. That is to say, even when I act wrongly, I want you guys to root for me, so I portray myself in a positive light. As a writer I am speaking from my point of view, therefore you get these events filtered through my lens.
I have tried to be as honest as possible because I think that the truth is inherently interesting, and therefore more readable. It would be boring to read about conquest after conquest — it would read like a porn video. (to tell you the truth I wouldn’t mind writing about one damn success story!)
Every guy will tell you about some friend who will relate conquest after conquest. You feel jealousy, but after a while you feel disbelief. Nothing in life is perfect. Either this guy is making up stories, or he’s sugar-coating them. Or he’s George Clooney.
The hardest thing to realize, even at this age, is that life moves at its own speed. I tend to think like a little kid – if I believe I want it bad enough, then it will happen right away. It’s like believing in magic.
You never know when fate is going to step in. The only thing you do know is that it will do so on its own time.
December 8, 2011
Woody gets lucky…sort of
Does it ever bother you guys how much I refer to myself in the first person? (Or is it the third person?) I guess it’s because my name is not really Woody, so sometimes I think of myself as a character in a story. Yet these are true stories. You can tell they’re true because I’m almost never the hero! If they were fiction I might actually get laid once in a while.
Which brings me to tonight’s post. I got laid. Sort of. Does it count if you don’t cum? DON’T ANSWER THAT! I can practically hear the ladies screaming at me from here.
Let’s get started. A month ago I put up a post in the regular dating section of craigslist stating that I was separating and that I would like to meet a nice woman for drinks, possibly at one of my gigs. I received a response from a woman named Kathy who lived in Berkeley. We emailed back and forth but were not able to find a time to connect.
The Friday of Thanksgiving weekend I received an email from Kathy asking if I was playing anywhere that night. I wasn’t, but I suggested we meet for a drink.
That night we met at a bar nearby my apartment. She was a little heavier than she looked in her photo, and she was tall, a good inch taller than me. Truth be told I wasn’t that attracted to her, but we sat down and we got along well. The conversation, though not deep, flowed pretty easily and there were few lulls.
At some point – I can’t remember how we got there — she started talking about women’s undergarments, in particular pantyhose — why people wore them, and how they are now out of style, etc. This morphed into talk of girdles and panties. Finally I couldn’t resist:
“What underwear are you wearing?”
“I’m not wearing any.”
Then she asked me what underwear I was wearing and I responded that I was wearing boxer briefs and a tshirt. She put her hand on the inside of my shirt as if to confirm that I was, in fact, wearing a tshirt under my sweater. Then I put a hand on her leg, and all of a sudden she was kissing me full on the lips.
I’m not a big one for public displays of affection, especially in my own neighborhood, but this came straight out of left field. Five minutes later I asked Kathy if she would like to come back to my place and she said yes.
Ten minutes after that we were naked in my bed having sex. She had a nice body — her ass was firm and her breasts were pert — I guess she wasn’t that overweight after all. I thought things were going well, but fifteen or so minutes into our love-making she got up to go to the bathroom. When she emerged she began putting on her clothes.
“Where are you going?!” She mumbled something about having to get back because she lives with her mother.
COME ON!
One, that is a bullshit excuse, and two, COME ON!
True, we both had a lot to drink that night, but you would think that she would have at least taken the time to explain herself.
Two minutes later I was standing naked in my apartment by myself with my jaw agape. I mean, this could only happen to me, couldn’t it?
Crazy thing, though. I didn’t brood about it. I wasn’t attracted to her, and if she was going to be so erratic then maybe it was better that I found out so soon. She actually gave me a few erotic memories to look back on. (as long as I blot out the part with her getting up and leaving the apartment)
What are you going to do? I’m still figuring this stuff out. I’m not ready to commit to a relationship anytime soon, but damnit, a little middle ground wouldn’t hurt.
Still, I’m counting this dysfunctional experience as sex. As crazy, and ego-deflating as it was, it still beats a blank. And it yielded this post. So you see, everybody wins. Chalk it up!
December 1, 2011
Back on my feet
Wow. I knew I had been neglecting this blog, but I hadn’t realized it had been over six weeks since my last post. That is, by far, the longest I have gone without posting since this blog’s creation. One of the reasons for my lack of posting is that I do not yet have wireless in new place, so the only time I can post is either remotely from my phone, (which is a pain and time-consuming) or at my old place, where I am most days helping out with the kids.
I have been in my new apartment for two weeks and so far I like it. It is small but cozy, and best of all, it’s mine. I feel a kind of pride that I handled this situation on my own. It’s all furnished and I even got the curtains up.
As predicted, it was not easy to tell the kids, but now that we have, it is a big weight off of my shoulders. After a rocky start, especially with my oldest boy, they have adjusted well to the change. I’m only a mile down the road, and the truth is that I am at my kids place most of the time — just not at night, and less on the weekends.
I actually have a couple of stories to recount, both somewhat depressing, but the latter one more odd than depressing. Tonight I’ll only have time for story number one.
About two weeks ago — in fact it was my last day at my old place — I posted on craigslist about having sex while listening to jazz. It was a whimsical post and I didn’t expect to get a response, but lo and behold I got one. The first thing I saw was the photo, which was of a pair of lovely breasts. The subject read, I’m interested.
We exchanged several emails, and it seemed she really was interested. I was gigging the next night and she said she would come to see me play and that we would take it from there.
The next night my gig ended a little early and she — Cathy — had not yet arrived. I figured she wasn’t going to make it, so I went to get my car to load my keyboard. When I arrived back at the club I saw a woman standing outside looking around.
“Cathy?”
She was a very attractive blond woman in her late thirties, elegantly clad in a stylish dress and a low-cut blouse which showed a lot of cleavage. She was tall and thin and she smelled like bath oil.
The place I was working at was closing up so we decided to grab a drink at another place down the street. We made small talk and it was a little awkward, but considering we were virtually strangers, it wasn’t so bad. She was in real estate which didn’t help matters conversation-wise.
Finally I steered the conversation towards my post by complimenting her on her breasts in her photo. I decided to be bold and I told her I would love to taste her nipples. She said that she would like that. I told her I would love to lie with her in a 69 position with her on top, my hands on her ass. She said that we would have to try that sometime.
Since it was getting late I figured that Ihad to act fast. I asked her if she would like to come to my new apartment, and much to my delight she said yes.
That was the high point of the evening because a minute later she did a u-turn, saying she would like to take a rain check and that she was too tired. Of course, you and I both know that is a bullshit excuse, but why did she have to tease me with that initial yes?
I can understand if she felt no attraction — I also realize what a big leap of faith it is to go home with a guy who is, in essence, a stranger. I just wish she hadn’t gone through the trouble of putting me through the ringer.
Needless to say it was a depressing first night at Woody’s brand new man-cave. It could have been, however, a night for the ages.
October 21, 2011
Curtains
I bought curtains which were too large, and returned them for ones that ended up being too small. While at the new apartment I realized that one of the tension rods was missing a part and I would have to get a new one. When I returned to the store I figured out that the curtains weren’t too small, but that I had to buy twice as many since they were only one panel curtains. Duh! Too tired to go back to my new apartment, I threw the re-purchased 64″ curtains into the trunk and returned home.
All the while with a lump in my throat. So much stress and so much sadness over the end of a 21 year era. How will we tell the kids? Will we make this work?
I now own a table, an end table, 3 chairs, a lousy lamp, one plastic glass, and two house plants.
On the plus side, the apartment’s front door was painted a pleasing shade of red, and the apartment gets plenty of afternoon light since it faces west.
I need to get laid.
I now have a table
October 17, 2011
Work and play
I now have an end table, a kitchen table, a cheap lamp, and three chairs. I don’t know what to do about a bed. Should I just get a mattress? It’s a pretty small room — a queen sized bed might be too big. I made up my mind to start humbly and to gradually get furniture that I like and is useful. For now I just want a place I can move into and with which I can feel a modicom of comfort.
What a feeling of limbo this is — still living with my family but preparing to move. In the meantime I’ve been gigging like crazy — between four and six a week. I just hope I can keep up this pace and that it isn’t an aberration. The work is great because not only does it earn money, but it helps to take my mind off of my personal travails. Not to mention that fact that makes my playing strong. Being able to play almost every night with good musicians is invaluable. You can’t only practice at home.
The woman I wrote about a few posts back — the 26-year-old — has been coming to many of my gigs. I see her about once a week. She has a way of appearing out of thin air. Last night she said she wasn’t going to come, but after the gig ended I happened to check my email and there was something from her that said, “I’m at the bar.” I walked a few feet around a partition and sure enough she was there — like magic.
She has shown no interest in me romantically and I have not made any advances. I think she’s a bit of a loner, as well as a little lonely, and since she likes jazz, and likes to study Japanese at the bar, (she was a language major) I serve a useful purpose.
From where I sit I think it’s kind of cool to have a friend. I like her quirky ways, as well as her boyish looks. I’m hesitant to ruin things by making a pass, although who knows what the future will bring. She is clearly not interested in me that way. In fact she has confided in me about this ongoing affair she’s having with a married man. (believe me, the irony is not lost on me) Also, I’m twice her age. Jeez.
Time to get going. I’ve got my Sunday double header!
October 12, 2011
Singing and lusting
I have been crazy-busy with gigs lately which is a good thing considering my pending single status. One of the gigs I have been doing is a Sunday night jam session not far from where I live. I play in the house rhythm section and various musicians — both horn players and singers — sit in with us throughout the night.
I like jam sessions. While the quality of the players can vary widely, you never know what will happen — from the bizarre, to the sublime. There are great moments, as well as clunkers.
Last Sunday this singer sat in — I would put her age in the mid 40s. She was about 5’6″, had an athletic shape, with perfectly shaped medium-sized breasts, and a heart-shaped ass. She was wearing a slightly low-cut blouse which showed them off to perfection. She had short, grey hair and looked a little butch. Again, I am struck by how much I am attracted to androgynous women.
She sang two songs — a blues, as well as At Last, which is also a bluesy song. She sounded good — she had an unpretentious, yet confident air about her, and the audience really responded to her.
AFterwards she approached me and complimented my playing and took my number. I don’t think she was flirting with me, (she was with her boyfriend) but she was a close talker, and I could feel the sensuality oozing off of her.
The thing about accompanying singers, or any musician, be they male or female, is that it’s an inherently intimate act. Singer and accompanist must work together, to discover each other’s rhythms. In essence you are doing your best to pleasure each other. There is a tension and release to music which I have long equated with sex. There is a sexuality to music, and I think that musicians are a little more open because of it.
Perhaps I should say that we are more willing to let our guard down. Being a good musician involves a willingness to be vulnerable — a willingness to try to new things with the idea that they may succeed or fail.
In a sense, isn’t that what sex is? We are at our most trusting and most vulnerable during sex. We take chances and sometimes they fail, while other times they are sublime.
That’s my rant for today.
