Tuesday
He is just like they told me. Tall, pale, with dark curly hair glued down to his scalp quite slatternly (I know they have dyed his natural ginger). Unusually high cheekbones, slightly slant feline eyes, set rather far apart from each other. He sits awkwardly, stooped like a little boy. His loopsided smile is broad and shy. He clearly has no idea why I had to sit down and pull my knees abruptly together when he entered my studio. I wonder how long it will take till someone makes him aware of his own exotic charm and ruins a great deal of it. I've seen this happen.
If I didn't mind to teach him play violin? (His voice, surprisingly, is a very deep, rich baritone; it sends shivers through my backbone). I don't, obviously. If only because teaching violin to actors is a not insignificant part of my income. I have developed a special technique for such cases: it comes down to virtuously and inspiredly faking the violin play; most of my clients in this category come expecting nothing else. My new student wants to learn it in earnest and he means it. I look at his stubborn pout and see a diligent, hard working school boy with lots of ambition. I am sure his mother is invariably proud of him, and quite rightly so. I smile and warn him that I am a severe and demanding teacher. He nods, he is OK with it, and again, he means it. I supress another smile. His face is of an unearthly, solemn beauty when he means things.
And still, most probably it would have been a regular assignement, nothing special, a lucrative bit of faking. But then, the hands. Big, sensitive, emanciated hands of a Michelangelo saint. Most graceful, very long, gaunty fingers with pronounced knuckles; a bit off-standing, bony thumbs. His hands are a piece of art by whatever god charged with human perfection. They fly around his face, touch his ear, scratch his shoulder, his knee, they hover above his head drawing explanatory circles. They brush over his full lower lip, trace and retrace the impeccable Cupid's bow. These are eloquent, expressive hands. Exhausted, they will always return to the same spot, - on the either side of his croach, - and rest there cosily interwoven, thumbs perked up.
We discuss formalities: he will be coming twice a week, on tuesdays and thursdays; this at least one month long. We practice the right position of the body and the hands. I focus on my words, control my face muscles and look straight in front of me or where the moment requires. In the end, he nods off, shy and respectfull: apparently, I have lived up to my self-proclaimed stern reputation. Which was a joke. When he leaves, I draw a shaky breath.
For the rest of the day, I put him out of my head. I do my houshold routine and prepare for tomorrow. I watch TV dutifully. I iron the linen.
I decide to take a bath late in the evening. This is when I pull my knees apart, positioning my feet on the edges of the bathtub. I have no choice but to loosen that heated and swollen knot pulsating in my underbelly. I have to get some sleep tonight. I draw small circles around the button that seems to be connected to every single nerve in my body. I let my fingers slide inside me, pull back; I spread myself as open as possible; bath water filling me is excruciatingly hot. I savage my most sensitive spot the and shudder with rapturous pain. It is a torture, and it is delightful. I come undone with a gasp. I dry myself thouroughly with a fluffy towel.