It’s not just what she says.
It’s not even the phonology or the tone of her voice.
I guess it’s not the words, the semantics, the pragmatics, nor the syntax. Even if she would read the telephone directory – which gives away my age (what was the last time you’ve seen a telephone book?) – it would give me shivers. And yesterday, I learned that even the place is of no importance either.
“You’re mine”, she whispered. Normally, she only talks to me that way when we have session in the privacy of my studio. I could feel the warmth of her cheek against mine, while her cherry red lips almost touch my earlobe. Her soft pinch in my left shoulder emphasized her sentence like an exclamation mark. It was only seconds before I went on stage to read from my book. There were about 250 authors and publishers that attended this year’s annual book ball. And there I was; a debutante that just published his first erotic novel. Completely new to the industry and nervous as hell. Those three little words she just whispered in my ear, completely threw me off guard. The sound waves traveled through my ear canal and vibrated in my inner ear. They got transposed into electrical signals to my brain and from there they made a passage to my crotch. There was no desk to hide behind and the bulge in my pants must have been noticeable. At least for the persons on the front row.
But then my attention was caught from a huge moving light behind me. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw myself projected in enormous proportions. Fortunately, the audience was so kind to applaud for 30 or 40 seconds after I was announced. All this time, I held my book in front of me, to cover the result of her whispers. My insolent blushing could have been mistaken for shyness. When the cheering silenced I looked backstage. I could hardly see her, but I did notice how her lips mimicked ‘mine’. I tried to swallow. As the lights dimmed, the audience faded away and two bright stage lights made me feel like I had to read in front of oncoming traffic.
“Fuck me hard”, I read out loud, and suddenly the obvious signs of my arousal weren’t all that misplaced. Again, I looked over my shoulder. It was like I was chased by a giant me. An ogre with an erection of humongous proportions. And while I carried on, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, I am not sure whether it was the explicit wording of chapter three, or the image of the molded shapes of my pants that made the crowd mumble. The agitated writers spoke in hushed tones and discussed their secret messages. Cursing me for my forbidden desires. My words started to hasten and they tripped and stumbled over my lips. But when my story reached its crowning point, the monster in the dark emerged and started to sheer like the orgasm I just portrayed.
It was this instant, that moment, that I forgot for a split second what she had whispered in my ear. Because for that wink of a second, I was theirs. The standing ovation came over me like a warm tsunami. But when I looked backstage again, I was made aware who I really belonged to. And it was she, who made me feel later that night, that that was all that mattered.