Watch the Stick by John Benson I walked out from the wings for the rehearsal with the score for the symphony cradled under my arm. My steps sounded sharply in the vastness of the empty concert hall which, without the absorbent mass of an audience, echoed like a stone cathedral. Instantly, like a field of sunflowers turning to follow the light, ninety-five pale faces turned to watch my progress towards the rostrum. Once there, I put down my music, picked up my stick and looked sternly over the symphony orchestra in front of me. I had just been judged ninety-five times. Beginnings are such delicate times. Authority is won or lost, respect gained or thrown away in those first crucial seconds. Some conductors try to win over an orchestra by smiling, acting casually in a futile attempt to convince their musicians that they too are part of the decision-making process; that every one of them has the right to speak out and be heard. Nonsense. You only have to look at the structure of an orchestra to understand that the entire, giant enterprise was invented to focus and express the will and genius of one man: the conductor. And a visiting conductor, irrespective of his international reputation, has precious little time to take control. Often, as in this case, the time you have with an orchestra is strictly limited: one or maybe two rehearsals on the same day as the concert. There is no time for discussion, no time for compromise, only blind obedience: a benevolent dictatorship if you will. That is why I always look for a trouble-maker, for a talker, usually at the back of the ranks of the violins or among the brass. One stern outburst and then, like a group of unruly schoolchildren, they bend to my will. This orchestra was no exception. Almost immediately, I saw a candidate at the back of the violas, chattering away. In passing, I also saw a pair of bright eyes among the cellos. Late 20s, fair hair, and a strong, muscular build that hinted strongly at hours spent at the gym, working on hard biceps and rippling abs. I knew that look; I had seen it before. The tingling in my groin also told me a connection had been made. In a flash, the entire course of the evening ahead rattled quickly through my mind. The nervous drinks at the bar in the Green Room. The invitation to my dressing-room during interval. And then, oh then, the glory of glories: the long, slow blow-job, still dressed in my white tie and tails, followed by another careful walk out through the orchestra, to the applause of the audience. Stepping up to the lectern, feeling the warmth and satisfaction in my pants; smiling at the cellos for a moment before waving my baton and hearing the first honeyed harmonies of the Brahms symphony wash over me. I was so lost in my little fantasy about what the evening held in store that I almost forgot about the talkative viola player. Most of the orchestra, including my prospective toy-boy, were already looking at me with curious expectation. I did not disappoint them. “Perhaps,” I growled nastily at the violist, a superannuated blonde (or was it a wig?), “you could finish your little discussion after the rehearsal?” An icy silence filled the hall as my victim’s face turned quickly to a deep shade of red. You may think that such an opening smacks of primary school; a kindergarten mistress scolding her unruly charges? Exactly! Many classical musicians never leave emotional adolescence. Condemned to spend the better part of their adult lives in cramped practice rooms, they never progress beyond the tittering inanities of high-school girls. “I did not accept the invitation to conduct this orchestra,” I continued, “to be made to look like a rank amateur. I would like you all to remember that.” I looked fixedly in the direction of the viola player, who was now on the verge of tears. This little piece of theatre produced the desired effect. Again, the field of pale faces in front of me turned, but this time focusing on one of their own, the woman in the violas. I must have chosen the right candidate; she was obviously not the most popular musician in the band, and now that I had singled her out as a scapegoat, the single player embarrassing the entire group in front of an internationally acclaimed conductor, I had given them the opportunity to vent their spleen. Feeling the heat of their resentment concentrated on her, the viola player’s nerve broke. Tears slid down her hot cheeks silently as she gathered her handbag and walked quickly into the wings, mumbling incoherently about the ‘ladies room’. I let the stunned silence that followed hang for a moment before speaking. “Well, well,” I mused in a more jovial tone. “Our first solo of the afternoon. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a viola play so well”. On cue, the entire orchestra burst into laughter, including the viola section who, just like their Irish counterparts, were too accustomed to being the butt of derision in the musical world to care. Looking around at the puerile faces laughing at the loss of one of their own, I was reminded of a flock of mindless sheep. But I could also feel that they were mine now. I could feel that they had surrendered to me, allowing my authority to flow into them like so many empty vessels. “And now ladies and gentlemen,” I added with a paternal smile, “that I have your undivided attention, if you would be so good as to turn to the second movement of the Brahms. I would be very interested to listen to the intonation of the wind section.” As one, united under my single will, ninety-five shining instruments of wood and silver, ebony and brass, lifted magically as if attached by invisible silken threads to the tip of my quivering baton. “Now remember to stay on the stick,” I warned gently before we began. “Let me decide the tempos.” Obediently they followed with their eyes as I began to beat them in. But even as I did so, I became aware of another pair of eyes staring at me. Right behind my muscular protégé with his inviting lips was a female cellist staring at me not with the blank receptiveness of the rest of her section but with a hard intensity. Of what? I thought to myself. Admiration? Hatred? Or...no, I realised with a start, it was something else. Something that I had not felt from a woman’s eyes since I had been a repressed adolescent: sexual desire. At first, I found the heat of her gaze distracting, even annoying. I almost stopped the rehearsal to dress her down too. But then, and maybe here it was the power of Brahms’s harmonies seducing me, I began to feel flattered. Not that there was any chance that I would reciprocate or act on it (I had long ago fixed my copious lust upon members of my own virile kind), but there was something in her unwavering gaze that pleased me. Physically she was certainly not unpleasant as women go, with long chestnut hair, high cheek-bones and deep red, laser-cut lips. That wasn’t it. I wondered if it wasn’t quite simply just her directness, which formed such a refreshing change to the simpering, uncertain advances of my usual diet of self-effacing male musicians. The rest of the rehearsal went exactly as I had hoped. The orchestra was attentive and followed my instructions as to phrasing and dynamics to the letter. You see how such a little investment from the outset can pay such handsome dividends!
I was also given the opportunity to show my magnanimity when, some twenty
minutes into the rehearsal, the banished viola player returned to the stage.
Her arrival was heralded by a slight tittering from the percussionists
who, with so much time on their hands, always act as look-outs for the rest of
the orchestra. I paused for just the
time she required to regain her place, and then flashed her the briefest of
complicitous smiles. She smiled back
gratefully at this unexpected gesture, completely taken in by my little game,
and then raised her instrument dutifully along with her colleagues. In fact, I had so thoroughly impressed my authority on them all that the entire orchestra applauded as I walked off the stage at the conclusion of the rehearsal. Well almost all. Even as I strode off into the gloom of the wings I could feel, without looking, that the lovestruck cellist was still following me with her dark, haunting eyes. But I brushed that small aberration to one side in my mind and congratulated myself on a highly successful outcome (I pride myself on being outcomes driven). I had, I mused as I reached my dressing room, missed my vocation. I would have made an excellent motivational consultant: one of those obnoxious Americans with a microphone headset and overly white teeth prancing about on stage to an audience of businessmen and politicians. The thought so amused me that I called in my personal assistant, Trevor, to share it with him. He laughed his usual ingratiating laugh. Hoping that I might allow him to return to the bed which I had thrown him out of only two months previously. Not that there was any chance I would take him back. In fact, as I watched his tight buttocks squirm their way back out the door, I realised that it was probably about time that I replaced him. There is nothing so stultifying as having to look at the same empty faces day after day. The rest of the evening went exactly to plan. I had only been in the Green Room a few minutes before the male cellist with the inviting eyes came over, his body language speaking reams. “Maestro, I thought your interpretation of the Brahms was, well, breathtaking.” I acquiesced with a small nod of the head. “If you’re really interested, I could show you some of my notes later on…perhaps during the interval?” The boy was ecstatic that I should show him such marvellous condescension. But surely he must also be aware of the sexual currents already building between us? I noted with approval that my initial assessment had been correct: he had the body of regular gym-goer. I could already visualise those rippling muscles on his chest. I granted the young man the barest of smiles as I looked into his keen young features. He understood exactly what this meant, despite his youth, and smiled back. The matter was settled. I rose, seeing Trevor beckoning from the corridor leading to the rehearsal dressing rooms, brushing so close by my protégé that I could smell the cool breath of his after-shave. “See you later, then?” I murmured conspiratorially. Then I hardened my features once more into a mask of authority as I strode through the milling crowd of musicians to where Trevor was waiting for me. “The soloist wants to talk to you about the tempos for the concerto,” he mumbled hurriedly in response to my glowering looks. I would have far preferred to remain flirting with my new conquest, but soloists are always the same. More than others, they keep their little illusion that they are in control of the performance. Nothing could be farther from the truth! Their part may be more important than, say, a lowly bassoon at the back of the winds, but they are still just one part among many. I should like to hear them play without the orchestra! But it is important to keep them happy, so I acquiesced once more to spend over an hour with the nervous violinist who, I noticed, looked as if what she really needed, more than a moderate tempo in the slow movement, was a good solid bang to calm her nerves. I made a mental note to suggest to Trevor that he consider offering his services. That way he could see whether he had a chance of at least satisfying someone with his clumsy paws. Yes, I decided, that would really be quite fun. The concert began badly. The Mozart overture was a disaster, with the winds atrociously out of tune and the strings completely failing to pick up my tempo changes. Even worse, they then proceeded to rush ahead during the fast semi quaver passages like some sort of eager dog anxious to make amends. Luckily, my prudish little soloist came to the rescue during the concerto. Seemingly from nowhere she pulled out a desperate, passionate performance that had the crowd on its feet after the echo of the final chords had faded in the giant hall. I smiled warmly at her but received no reaction: she was so drained by her effort that she had to be half-led, half-carried off the stage by Trevor, who had come out to hand her the usual bunch of flowers. The thought crossed my mind, when I saw the care with which he was treating her, that perhaps he had decided to act on my advice. I toyed with the idea briefly, but then rejected it out of hand: Trevor simply didn’t have the balls. It was more likely, I mused as I too threaded my way off the stage and into the wings, that Freud was right about sublimation and how the sex drive is redirected to artistic expression. Which made, I concluded, the great soloists of our time merely a series of sterile vases, constantly refilled and emptied over the audience’s docile, uplifted faces. Laughing at my own sophistry, I entered my loge, shooed away Trevor, who could sense from my own excitement that something was afoot, and sat down in front of my mirror to await the arrival of my young cellist. I also loosened my tie and removed my cummerbund, both of which actions were enough to send a familiar thrill through my body. A few moments later, there was a knock at the door. “Come in!” I called out, perhaps a little too eagerly. To cover my embarrassment, I swung the chair around so my back was to the door. I heard it open behind me, then close softly as someone entered the loge. I held up my hand without turning around. “Don’t speak!” I commanded softly. “We don’t have much time.” I sensed a hesitation behind me, so I waved my hand, closing my eyes as I did so. “Come over here.” I smiled as I heard the footsteps padding over towards me. I had already freed my belt with my other hand and felt the pleasing rasp of my dress shirt and its starched waffle-board cloth against my skin. Closing my eyes added a delicious dimension to the experience: the rustling of material as my new lover kneeled down in front of me, and then the cool softness of his lips. I uttered a low growl and allowed my other arm, which I had kept raised in the air (seduction has its own theatre after all), to drop softly onto the shoulder of my new (and oh so skilled!) lover. I was surprised - he was not as muscular as I had first thought. I ran my hand inquiringly down onto his chest, hoping to feel the hard ridges of his chest, but was shocked to find my fingers sinking into a soft morass of flesh. My eyes snapped open. I found myself staring not at the back of a young man’s close-cut locks, but waves of lustrous dark hair! Suddenly, the meaning of the softness of that mouth became clear. There was a woman, red polished nails flashing in the light, with her head bobbing between my legs! My first reaction was to say something; to protest against this strange misunderstanding. But to do so would also mean stopping the undeniably pleasurable work that she was performing. Glancing to my left, I caught sight in the mirror of the unbelievably erotic scene taking place: the tousled, shining mass of the woman’s hair rising and falling in my lap, her gown and my own reclining figure in the chair, dressed in tails like a depiction of some Belle Époque bordello. Simultaneously, a wave of her exotic, female perfume reached my nostrils. I drank it in, inebriated. No, I thought to myself, I wouldn’t say anything. What was the point? The girl wanted to pleasure me, and obviously had some experience in the matter. I leaned back and relaxed, feeling my pleasure mount, and smiled. After all, a mouth was a mouth and time was short. Once I relaxed, my excitement grew quickly. But she cruelly abandoned her work just as I reached the critical plateau. With a small cry of disappointment I opened my eyes to find her standing in front of me, her eyes hard and demanding. “Please,” I begged. Keeping her eyes locked onto mine, she reached behind her back, unzipped her black concert ball gown, which slid to floor in a rustle of expensive chiffon, and stepped out of it. Underneath, she was only wearing a black lace-brassiere and suspender stockings.. It was a truly erotic tableau and I suddenly realised what an attractive women she was; yet I didn’t even know her name. “Come, Maestro,” she said clearly in a husky alto, “Fill me, take me.” As she said this, she backed slowly to the work table in the middle of the room and lay back on it, spreading her legs. The unaccustomed sight of her female sex, opened like an exotic flower between her legs, shocked me profoundly. I rose to my feet, confused. She sensed my hesitation and stretched out her arms invitingly. Scared by the intensity of feelings which were now running through me, but unable to resist, I took two uncertain steps towards her. Slowly, she took my arms, drew me to her until I could feel the heat of her sex radiating in waves from between her legs. With one swift movement, she grabbed my hips and slammed our bodies together. The heat! My thoughts blurred into a mass of frenetic movement. With a sense of horror, I realised I was no longer in control of my body, which jerked and shook in a paroxysm of animal desire. My pants had fallen around my ankles, and as the waves of orgasm began to roll I felt her right hand snake around my buttocks and delve in – fondling, grasping. “Yes,” I heard myself cry, “Yes!”
Then her hand began to tighten, passing beyond pleasure.
I cried out as the long nails dug into the soft skin.
Panic swept through me. I
tried to pull away from her but remained trapped by her vice-like grip,
suspended in mid-air above the table. The
pain was excruciating and I was effectively immobilised.
More perversely, I had already passed the point of no return and despite
the gut-wrenching pain my orgasm had begun. I stared down between my legs and then looked back up to the face of my torturer. I recoiled as I caught the icy blast of hatred in her dark eyes. She also glanced down, smiling cruelly as she watched the last weak spasms, then twisted a little more. I let out a whimper like a small child. My legs could barely support me. “Why Maestro,” she said, “You’re losing the beat.” She gave a final sadistic twist, then released me, pushing me away. I staggered backwards, then collapsed to the floor, clutching my screaming genitals with both hands. Calmly, she stepped back into her dress and then opened the door to leave. I watched her as she did so, still unable to breathe properly and wondering whether I should call for help. But what would I say? She seemed to be reading my mind. She paused and looked back at my huddled figure. “Perhaps, Maestro,” she said with a smile, “We should keep this to ourselves.” Her soft laughter was cut off abruptly as the heavy door closed behind her. I sat in shock for several minutes, cradling my aching sex, until Trevor suddenly knocked to give me my five minute warning. Like an automaton, I cleaned myself up as best I could, retied my bow tie with trembling fingers, then headed back out for the second half of the concert with trembling knees and nausea in my stomach. Head down, I strode onto the platform to the applause of the crowd. Reaching the podium I made a weak bow and turned towards the orchestra. Trying to avoid what would be the sadistic grin of my molester cellist, my eyes as if by mistake fell on the second violist I had singled out during rehearsal and about whom I had completely forgotten. A knowing smile spread across her face. I tried to frown and get on with the concert. I straightened my coat and arched my back, attempting to regain my composure. Then looking down at the rostrum, I noticed that I couldn't see my baton. I lifted the scores with trembling hands searching in confusion. The silence in the concert hall grew increasingly uncomfortable. I was taking too long. When I started checking my pockets, a single and quickly hushed shriek of laughter echoed from somewhere in the audience. I had lost my stick.! |