Playing on the Black Keys

(Okay... so in commencement of having my one hundredth post on this website I've written a new short story that has taken me awhile to write. I could have wrote more, but I now like it just the way it is. It's racy, extremely racy for those who are a bit more traditional, and borders on the erotic. So with that said, open your minds, and definately your hearts, this is post one hundred!)


Playing on the Black Keys

I perform tonight. I am extremely nervous. It is my first time- to stoop and caress the keys of ivory infront of a mass. But I'm ready I think. I'll have friends and family in the crowd, beside my profile: the one that they will have of me. Onstage. Playing. What have I done?

What have I done creating this? I put myself here- out in the open. On a stage. We torture ourselves I think. I wrote this for people, but never fully believed that I would have to give. That they would have to recieve. I can't play to them. Not all of them. I can't give them all of me.

Mary told me today to play to her. I didn't know if I could do that either. I never told her that. I think it would have crushed her. I may try to play to her. Maybe. If I must. I feel like I must be forced into doing something rather than actually motivating myself to do it. That's how I composed this. How I composed this composition of notes. I'm confusing you more. Too many beats I'm including. Remember? Pianist. I never fully informed you of that. I apologise. But the sheets. They made me write them. Furious and hot I wrote them, in the languity of months. But the show.

It's now. No turning back. Maybe I'll play for Mary. I played it for her earlier. I played it for her in the sheets. Quick sticatos, and lush credendos, as I plucked and inserted my fingers into her cunt. I don't think she realized I played her like ivory. I hope she didn't. I hope she doesn't know I wasn't there with her, but with my keys. Forcing each new chord, and note, tangling in her hair at times, breaking the beat, but never the function. Her eyes didn't show it. Didn't show my deception. I don't think she knows. I hope not.

Tuck those tails, beneath myself, between my self and the stool like a rubber sheet to pick up the spill. I had that on the floor. That sheet we use in bed so we don't have to wash the linen. And I made her melody slippery with inaudiblity, so that I could hear my own music. So that I wouldn't have to hear her moans. I hope no one can see I'm showing. I smile at Mary. She knows I'm showing, just as I can tell from the countless times of seeing her wash the deeds in the shower that she too is showing. We'll be married in a month. It won't matter. Premature. But truly on time. I think to the woman behind her. The one with the similar view can see me showing. She licks her lips and then moves her hand to her husbands thigh slowly. He looks over slyly, regaining her rupt attention believing to be her hand's cause. That's my hand. And Mary looks back. Not at the couple. Thank God, not at the couple. But into the stands as if to querry who has entered. I look back at the keys in nonresponce.

Please don't announce me.

I can't stand up with this. It's too much, with the rubber beneath me and the tucked material bunching around the anus. Why'd you have to touch me there Mary? It wasn't like this before. Before you touched there I was ignorant of myself there. And now I know. Why did you discover me? Fish me out? I hate that you found it before me, and now I'm left to deal with this: the bunching material, playing on the black keys.

I stick my hand in my pocket to pull out a cloth to wipe down the keys. Truly shuffling and shifting with my hand the errection to a better position so it can't be seen. Mary's disappointed now. She likes to see me embarrassed. The red hot flushing to my face as it does on the rubber, that is still creeping beneath me- shifting itself. And Annouced.

I'm annouced. I stand. I bow to the audience and look to the doors again. Mary looks again, and back to my face: that I've turned, so I don't have to look at her, yet again. I face down sticcaos, and full octanvaed stretches that only induce the average man's pinky to curve and disjoint, but mine, my pinky stays rigid straight. My teacher broke it that way. The key resounds sharp on me. But I think it falls flat on the audience. They know nothing of this.
My other fingers curl to chop the keys, and fall straight again to renounce another bell.

My penis throbs on each chop, lifting the material a snatch. Causing the woman and my wife to place their hands in their laps. A smile on each face. Kneaded Bread. Foldling their linens. Opening their doors.

The door opens. I shouldn't stop. I've been taught not to as such. I've been taught not to let the latecomers distract me.

But I do. I stop. Allow him to take the spot next to my wife. We are married next month you know. Mary and the woman's hands have stopped kneading in his presence. That was my kneading. That bastard stole it. I wonder if they can hear me. I wonder at times if people can hear me. I wonder at times if people can read my thoughts- if they were transmitted like sound, like music, across the airwaves and that when people give you a glance, a short one, that they've heard you. They've heard your private and dirty thoughts. The good and the bad ones about themselves that you repeat to yourself in you head. He glances at me and my chopping and then to the pulse in my pants. He squeezes Mary's hand and then smiles still staring at my pangs and the chords.

I look away again. Mary's eyes on me- my erection. Why'd you do this to me Mary? Why'd you touch me there? The skin so delicate and full of nerves. It eradicated thought- I thought I'd had enough, but after I said no I truly wanted more. Why'd you stop Mary? Why did I tell you to never do it again? Why did you not do it again the next night when I asked you? Was it because I asked you to stop the first time? Mary, forgive me. i just wanted more.

I pang louder and louder, my crecendos lost and my mind just furitavily increasing the speed and volume. Mary's legs are crossed, my God woman, it's just the first overture, but I can't blame you; I'm getting there too.

I want to stand up, for the rubbing of my testicles and anus to stop, for the folds of my suit to stop slickening my cocks head, and my fingers do this to me on the board. I press the ivory tusks and they slicken too. They slicken and smooth and then turn fleshy in my prints. They moisten and open into 52 tiny cunts and black cocks. And I dip my finger into each one, everyone of them breaking apart and lubricating my fingers, each one forming and falling, touching and calling, tightening and releasing, and I press on for more, Mary's cunt on each key, my finger in each one, I don't know if I'm even pressing the right cunt anymore, they all look the same, the melody just continues, I could be pressing any cunt and never know, but the music keeps coming, and I can do nothing to stop it and the climax is coming, the final transition to the chords and it happens:




I stand up bruntly and make my way off stage. Everyone gasping at my actions. I wonder if they can see it all. If they can see it all running about underneath my clothes. I look down. Nothing. But I can feel it sloshing about my underwear. It smearing and lubricating everything much more drastically than I'd expected, and I double over as I reach the curtain. It feels so good. The stagehand holds out a cautious arm wondering my next move. I stand up, feeling pangs of tingles set in my crotch again and mak my way to my room. The room they gave to me for this night and the next three nights to come.

I shut the door. The hallways empty. Except for the miscrients that have no where to go but the darkened backstage wings, I walked here alone.

Tissue. I grab for tissue. Everything is slowing down now and the notes are suddenly very far away as I reach into my bag and grab an extra pair of pants and a new pair of underwear. I peel off my wet offerings and wipe down myself with the tissue. My head still sensitive. Oh one more song. One more chord. One more pang on the ivorys: cunts, assholes, and all.

The knock. Knew it was coming.

Throw the damp clothes into the bag and quickly redo myself to make the deed unknown. Open the door now. It's her.

"Mary."

"That was wonderful! You played right to me," she looks down, "I could tell," meeting my eyes with promise.

His head pops out from behind the door.

"Peter came! Isn't that wonderful?"

"Yes, wonderful. How are you Peter?"

"I'm well. You played wonderfully tonight. Mary can't stop telling me about how much you practice. She says you play her your music everynight."

The bitch knows. The bitch knows I play her cunt. I want to die. But she smiles. Maybe this is worth it. Maybe this is nice that this is out. That I don't have to hide her pressure hips and silky keys.

His hand has crept onto her shoulder.

"She's worth it."

"Excuse me boys, but I have to go talk to Lydella, excuse me, "she pushes past Peter.

I go to shut my door, half expecting Peter to leave with Mary but he steps in.

"It was very wonderful you know?"

"Thank you. It takes hard work and will power."

"I would have never have guessed the latter from the show you put on tonight."

I don't have to take this. I turn away and walk to the corner I believe to be the furthest from Peter.

"Oh don't get so angry. We said this wouldn't become awkward."

"You said this wouldn't become awkward. I had no part in that contract."

"You agreed when you let me touch you."

A hand at my back.

"Please, don't touch me there."

"How about here?"

Unmentionable.

"Fuck, Peter! Why? Why the fuck, why?"

Silence.

"I didn't do this you know."

"I know."

"So don't frustrate me."

"Just leave Peter. Mary did this to me."

"Mary?"

What?

"Mary, did this to you?"

Yeah.

"Mary fucking made you come to me?"

Yes.

"Answer me!"

No. I won't. I don't like this game anymore. I don't want to play it. The pieces have become confused and the directions are all wrong. Playing on the black keys. Mary touched me there. I wanted more. What's the next beat? The tempos sped beyond control. Why is this cresendo not making it's leap into a silence? It should be silent now. But it keeps on ringing in my head. I have no answer. I have no responce to the noise that I created. Who speaks to music- to art, and expects an answer? He does. He doesn't get one. I won't.

"Yes, she did."

Why did I say it?

"She did? Mary made you come to me?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's nice. Nice that she could make such a wonderful union."

"Is it now?"

"Well, we can stop. This all ends here now."

Why?

"I think that's for the best Peter."

Why'd you touch me there Mary?

"I agree."

This can't be leaving me now.

"Goodnight Peter."

I can't be refused again.

"Goodbye."

And it's gone. The music has stopped. And I can relax.

The door is closed. And again the music has stoped. And I can relax. I'm relaxing. And the show begins again tomorrow. And the music has stopped. And the show begins again tomorrow. And the music has stopped. And the show begins again tomorrow. And the music has stopped. And the show begins again tomorrow. And the music has stopped. And the show begins again tomorrow. And the music has stopped. And Mary is at the door. And the show begins again tomorrow. And she is in tears. And the music has stopped. And it's never coming back.

What an empty cunts my piano has become.

Matthew Koutzun


Readers;

Hopefully you enjoyed my latest short story as much as I enjoyed writing it. No I didn't enjoy it that much- haha. But yeah, thank-you to all of you who have been so kind to leave wonderful comments and great critisims of my work without destroying my heart! Your guy's generosity of spirit makes this what it is, and really puts the fun into writing. Cause isn't that what it's all about? Being heard? Relating? Shits and Giggles?! Well thanyou all again, and I hope you'll all stick around for the next one hundred posts of poems and shorts!

Best Regards,
Matthew Koutzun