This is a piece in response to the Wicked Wednesday blog prompt. Click on the link at the bottom of the page to read posts from other bloggers.
Is there a tune or style of music that gets your juices flowing? Is there an artist who gets your heart pumping, toe tapping, and heat rising?
Time to share a story or comment of the sensuality caused by those opening notes as they slide up and penetrate your ears.
I was twenty-eight and he was nineteen, the ideal combination probably. A male’s libido is supposed to peak at nineteen, and a woman’s much later.
“Is there something wrong with me?” he would say, “I can’t stop thinking about sex every minute of the day.”
“No, you are a normal nineteen year old,” I would reassure him, as I reaped the benefit of his excess sexual energy. But the truth was that he was the first nineteen year old lover that I had ever had. Previous ones were older than me, so I had no idea whether his constant urge to get my clothes off at every available opportunity was normal or not. But I certainly wasn’t complaining.
We met at agricultural college, and had sex in just about every place we could imagine – the hay barn, an empty pigsty, my car. He even had me from behind when I bent over a railing to stroke a calf. Nice surprise! I expect the calf was startled too. Music was important to us both, and was the backdrop to most of our sexual exploits. I liked soul and R n’ B, and he preferred Deep Purple and David Bowie – especially in his Ziggy Stardust days.
The best times we had involved both sex and music, on a single-sized mattress in my very basic flat (I couldn’t afford a bed at the time) while listening to Pink Floyd, which he was crazy about. Thinking about it now still brings shivers to my body, even after all these years. What he lacked in experience and finesse, he more than made up for in energy and recovery time. We found ourselves synchronising our movements to the rise and fall of the music; the sounds surging through our bodies and racing around our blood streams in hot pulsating rhythm, as though we were possessed by it. That is the best way to appreciate music, in my opinion, in the arms of a sexy young man I was crazy about, whose body was honed to perfection from several years of farm work. During our time together we listened to many bands, and he even came to like much of my soul music, but it was the sound of Pink Floyd that nearly always ended in hot, sweaty sex. We did get a bed after a while, but it never felt quite the same as on the mattress.
Music has the power to transport you to another place, and overwhelm the mind and body so that you imagine that the rhythm, the melody, the guitar riffs and the vocals were written solely for the two of you and intended for that exact moment. Music makes good sex into great sex, and made me feel, regardless of what the mirror told me, that I was the coolest, sexiest woman who ever walked the earth.
We were together for eight years, but remained good friends until the very sad and premature end of his life from cancer. One day, some years after we had ceased to be lovers, as we walked across the land he then farmed, he said just two words to me, “Pink Floyd”, and I knew exactly what he meant. There was no need of explanation. I don’t want to listen to Pink Floyd now. I can’t listen to Pink Floyd now. That was then and this is now, and I have made other musical memories since then. But I will always remember how he and Pink Floyd’s music made me feel in those heady days of early love.