XVIII. The Moon.
Illusion, fear, anxiety, subconscious, intuition
The Rite of Spring went extremely well – too well. It was savage and violent. I could feel Beatrice stirring as the Chosen One danced herself to death, and I confess that I was well lubricated by the end of all three performances, marinating in my own juices. Beatrice is the destroyer, and she is destroying me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so horny.
If it was just the urge, I could handle it, but the conductor for the concert was David Henshl, a young English conductor that I’ve fancied since he conducted us last year. He’s also conducting a Bruckner Symphony next weekend.
And thanks to Beatrice tinkering with my biological clock, he’s noticed me. I’m having dinner with him tomorrow night. I should have refused. Fuck! That’s exactly what Beatrice wants, and he won’t know what hit him.
Tonight’s dream was me, bathing (naked, as usual) in a pool filled with honey, with David conducting me from the diving board, bare-chested. I woke up around 1 am, and couldn’t fall back to sleep. And now Tommy is signalling me with his flashlight. Time to throw up … um, some clothes on.
Putting some clothes on just to go to the end of the garden to have sex … eek … converse with someone who sees right through them (and through me, I think) seems like an anathema, but what if his parents woke and came out to see what he was doing? The new symbols apparently make me even brighter and clearer to him, and they change color according to my mood. He sensed my fear.
He touched me.
He didn’t need to speak. As I rested my hands on the chain-link fence, placed his hand on mine. Could he see my tears?
“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” I whispered.
“What are your options?” he asked.
“I can remove the henna, and submit to her,” I replied, “or I keep fighting until we find a solution to this problem.” Submitting, of course, had some advantages: regular sex, a long life as a twenty year old, a brood of children (all girls). “I feel like I am losing already.”
“You won’t win every battle,” he said, “but you can win the war. Always look for the big picture.”
He kissed my hand and went back inside. I slumped to the ground up against the fence, and cried for about an hour. I am a fifty-something disguised in a 20-year-old body. He is a wise ancient inhabiting a 13-year-old. I don’t understand.
It’s past 3 am now. His touch eased my fear, but what compromise is going to be required of me? I find that disturbing on one level, but I can feel myself … falling … asleep.