On one of the few moments my apartment was quiet, I lay, lightly fingering the track pad. There were documents that needed my attention for work, others for my thesis. Instead I looked back at the very beginning of my playlist. I’d passed the stage where so much social pressure rested on my playlist; I was happy to have remnants of my very first pirated albums from the 90s languishing on my computer.
I found a song; a cover of a cover that nevertheless struck memories of a time when I thought it was so cool to listen to a song with a 3 minute intro.
I picked up my vibe, cupping its round form in my palm and letting it begin its subtle purr to the beat.
He was my first good lover, the boy who introduced me to this song. Not in his car, as clichéd as that would be. Though, we definitely enjoyed it there too.
I thought of his self-serious expression when describing micro-beats, almost betrayed by the careless curl of his hair and crafted bronze muscles of his arms, describing the work that went into the sound that now dictated sensations.
The vibrations thrum as the beat picks up, and I buck instinctively. It had felt so good to rest casually on floor-bound mattresses, really listening to music, if only because everyone stopped talking, expecting you to.
His mouth found mine so easily, so earnestly. ‘Listen to this,’ he’d say, wanting to share the thirst and appreciation I didn’t quite share, but was sure existed if only because of his enthusiasm.
And my body filled in the blanks of the rhythm, as it did now, rising to meet and shy away from tantalizing feelings that my hand knows to press forward.
You can’t help but open yourself to the experience, the thoughts encapsulated in a five-minute song urging you to feel something so deep and personal, yet communal. It takes me over, the vibrator now insisting and intense, and I find it with almost comic ease, that meaning that was gushed over by everyone else. It comes to you and makes you be part of it, feelings and now sensation engulfing you and saying, ‘Come, feel, be a part of it.’
I’m being urged along by the vibrations emanating from my hand, the beat of which now overpowering my perception of the song it’s mimicking. ‘The best part’s coming up!’ he’d say, every time.
And it does, the crescendo peaking suddenly with a rush, and me with it, exhaling the breath I didn’t know I was holding and releasing every muscle in my body.
As both the music and vibrations subside slowly, sensation echoes along with the memories of every time I’ve ever heard that song, and I press ‘repeat.’