by Sandrine Lopez
The view from the stage is always frightening, awe-inspiring, but you grow to live with it. Maybe a hundred expectant faces, full house again, waiting for you to entertain and enchant them.
To rapturous, colourful applause I take my place in the loud spotlight, mike in hand, thank the staring unknowns and begin my song. There's a buzz as their eyes falls on me, like a swarm of lazy bees.
'The colour of your words,
The sound of your gaze,
Whispers become tinctured.
This, my song, conveys...'
One gaze on me has the sound of a pitch-perfect tuning fork, lone note among the swarm. My eyes search among black murmurs and scarlet whispers an unvoiced sound. Dark urgent scratches on paper. Nearby to left.
I swirl a little dance, scanning the audience, and catch him in the periphery of rainbow vision. An artist sketching, his intense study whines up and down as his eyes bounce between the stage, me, and his pad.
Found out, deep blue eyes moan into disappointment. He closes his pad and, at the end of my song, as the cacophony of clapping builds up into mixed spectral encores, my artist ups and heads for the door.
The scrape of his chair, the sound of his footfalls, black with sadness.
One chance. I sing and make up the words, the tune, a cappella, as the musicians glance pingily at each other for a cue that will never come.
'Mr Artist, please don't go,
Your sketches enthrall me so.
Show me your etchings,
And I'll sing for you please.
Quiet drawings, loud paintings,
My days are filled with these...'
The crowd are surprised, follow my own silently pleading stare at his back. He turns, aware the crackling spotlight of over two hundred eyes, as well my own, now hold him as unwitting star of my song.
I don't even know his name. But mine is picked out in red posters all over.
A stage name but I know no other now.
I applaud for him, and let him return, resigned to meeting me, as the audience clap too. But I want a private viewing of his work, and introduce the next act before the manager's angry screaming glare kills me, so I can led my artist to my dressing room and see.
"What's your name?" I ask, as the applause fades to grey, and we dodge the dancers waiting in the wings.
A single deep name, blue as his eyes, tinged with passionate purple.
I bite my lip as he tentatively, shyly, shows me his sketches. Only in grey pencil but they are alive with song, not necessarily mine, capturing what I do best. Even if I alone hear it. Maybe his talent will make others think of the music his art inspires.
He has waited in silence, as I scan the few pages he had time for before I outed him. I flip up the next but his hand slaps angry red over mine.
"Please... don't look at that." Frightened, pink shy urgency.
But I already have.
Fully detailed drawings of two lovers entwined in different positions. They are beautiful, well observed and crafted. Then the likeness of them strikes me with a noise like thunder.
The woman is me. And the man him.
My excitement at being the focus of his art had already swelled and wet my appetite.
I'm flattered and scared at the same time. He is handsome, slightly wild, a dream I can never have. And here he is, right next to me. Tears fall from my eyes not because I'm hurt at the pencil premonition, but because it can never be.
"I'm sorry." Lucas apologises, "You shouldn't have seen that... until... "
He can no longer stop my hands as I flick through his pad. More indecent yet astonishingly vivid depictions of us. My face one of bliss, his of untold need and rapture at his cock, hidden inside me and undrawn, only hinted at in blurs of implied sketchiness.
"I want you, Chantal."
I shake my head because, oh my dear God, I want him too. "I can't."
Lucas closes his pad greenly, naively getting the wrong impression.
"Because," I explain simply, greyly, "You might kill me."
His place, later. Not a date but the dropping of delusion.
"I have synaesthesia." His confused stare whines like an anxious puppy.
"It means my senses are mixed. Sounds have colours. Sight has noises. I thought you might have realised from my signature song... "
The Colour Of Your Words, The Sound Of Your Gaze...
"Oh." Lucas replies, his penny not only dropping but rolling around the floor in dizzying, bemused circles. "So you weren't just being lyrical?"
"That's how it is for me." Explanatory azure.
"So why would that kill you?" Puzzled purple.
I sigh a deep yellow sigh. "My synaesthesia is so intense, anything beyond simple experiences could drive me mad. Or my heart just stop beating with shock. Or open up more synaesthesic pathways. Could you handle scents that feel like touches, a field of flowers groping you? The heady bouquet of wine throtting your neck? Tastes that are so strong they deafen or blind you while eating? A sensory overload... It's bad enough now, coping with small audiences, even with therapy to stay focussed at so many distractions. Singing is one discipline for the sound."
"Are you sure?" Queerly coloured question, its meaning multi-hued.
"I'm not a virgin." I sigh, this time sepiaed with history. "I learnt the hard way... "
His name was Vic.
I was 17, he 18.
I thought it would be wonderful, his sweet nothings painting vivid, beautiful colours around us, as he held me, made love to me.
And at first it was.
His cooing, caring whispers were subtle hues and shades in our bed, the like of which I'd never heard before. The soft sound of him in me was warm reddy-orange. The gentle slappy-slap pummelling of his stomach on mine peachy.
His gasps were colourful butterflies dancing in air, my moans and sighs rainbows for them to circle.
All is love. All is hue and light. Fluorescents and pastels.
We did it over and over, new young love wrapped in every colour known. I was too inexperienced to know what 'plateaus' were but each time he satisfied and fulfilled me, I needed him more until my whole body trembled audibly. Then I screamed a long kaleidoscopic cry of absolute ecstasy as he filled me with his heat. Warm hues bled like mixing dyes and crackled together like flames.
I felt his eyes on me, concern he had hurt me. It was the most lifting, pleasurable experience ever. Every part of my soul burned with his love. I felt I would die if he ever left my side.
I very nearly did.
The noise started.
His deep meaningful, caring gaze seemed to hum in my ears. It grew louder, more intense. I must have looked in pain.
"What's wrong?" His look one of traffic loud intenseness.
Make the noise stop, please...
"Tell me what's wrong!" The questioning stare roars like a crowd cheering a sport.
Hands clapped over ears. Stop it, please... !
His eyes terrifyingly penetrated mine. A cacophony of angels singing, bells ringing, the whole noisy world in my head...
Sight became noise became colour became sound.
Over and over.
"It must have been like going insane." Lucas murmured almost inaudibly, neutrally. Understanding.
"It took me months to just acknowledge being alive." Brown statement. "Years before I could even begin to be among people again. Each synaesthesic state set off the other. Singing helped. I could control notes and tones, not let them control me. But that's why I can't be with anyone. Losing that control could..."
Colourless, unfinished. Another sketchy implication.
Lucas spins round on his feet, his swinging gaze dopplering loud then quiet like a resonant lighthouse. He finally stares at the open pad, its most intimate sketch bared to us both. "Then that drawing is as far as we go, together."
"Unless you get me some earplugs. Blindfold and gag yourself so you don't look at me or speak to me." It's intended as a humourless joke. More browniness.
Lucas may be creative but it's not a kinkiness, even as necessity, he can accept. He wants to see the full blossom of my womanhood under him, on him. More inspiration for his sketches. And if I could, I'd be a willing model. He has inspired me to sing once, and I'd like to again.
But for now we have to part on those terms. He is always welcome to my performances, just don't sketch me again.
Strangely I dream in black and white, like old movies of fragments of my life now and then, distorted in that cracked mirror of the subconscious. The only time sound isn't coloured.
I awake with a start, in total darkness, the weird silence only 2a.m. can bring.
Nothing to see, or see me. No sound to be heard, or coloured.
Revelation is black.
Over the phone, Lucas' filtered words have scratchy, child-like scribbly colourings.
Life had dealt me a hand that could have been a gift but had become a gilded cage. I'm working on an escape. Taking back control so I may lose it with him.
A gamble, admittedly.
I wear the dress Lucas sketched me in on stage. I feel like a teenager again, the one who lost her virginity and sanity as one.
Only this time I want it to be different. The sanity part at least.
That nervous tingling anticipation, senses dangerously heightened as my thighs tremble, knees knock a unusual shade of green, until the doorbell rings gold.
It's nearly midnight, black and quiet in the deserted cul-de-sac where home is. Lucas is in shadow but his "Hi!" is brilliant red.
The lighting is low throughout. His gaze a muted murmur of indecision. He knows the stakes too.
I explain quickly, simply, whitely, and can only wish you accept. Together in darkness and silence. Our bodies as one, but never seeing or hearing.
A clutched straw. Sanguine in colour and hope.
We strip by bedlight and lie beside each other before switching it off.
In the near soundless dark, Lucas could be anyone. We daren't even say each other's name yet. But I set about memorising the unique contours of his body with my fingers and lips, that take the place of sight. His artist's eyes sightlessly, noiselessly, paint passion on me with muted kisses and caresses.
It's been over ten years since I last did this. I've read books and magazines, seen films, and tentatively played with myself in place of having no other. Delicately, carefully making sure I still had control where desperately I needed to lose it to enjoy fully. Frustration redefined.
Ten years of wanting, needing. As crammed into these moments as the noise had been in my head, way back. A decade of control fighting to be lost. I think the musical scales to keep me focussed as Lucas' fingers slip their way inside, so big and long compared to mine, yet gentle.
I want to do this, never having the chance before. Take his cock in my palm, cradle it like a microphone, and sing my silent song. Mime to the unheard music with my tongue and lips. A performance to die for.
When he cums, I give a slight pinky hum of surprise as I savor his taste. Hoping to God my pleasure, as well as his, doesn't trigger another unexpected, unwelcome sense. Fuck, his flavour is amazing. Swallow loudly, an off-white gulp.
Lucas lays me back and I let his body cover mine, my thighs wide and welcoming. Our breathing has become all, memories of butterflies and rainbows now vividly re-enacted. Fluttering blindly in the dark, strobe flashes of faint colour.
I want to say his name and can feel he aches to say mine, only once if not over and over, as his damp recovering hardness strokes against my soft yielding pussy. Finds its way in.
"Lucas!" I gasp. His name glows like orange fire in the night. His lips find mine, smooching me into silence again. I'd like to think he's being passionate and lustful but have doubts it's simply to keep me sanely quiet.
Any movement causes sound, and our bed creaks lightning blue flashes. Liquid splashes as he fucks me swirl aquamarine, like sunlight underwater. The scales in my head grow discordant, undisciplined.
With Lucas spent once already, I'm ahead in this race now. I tear his lips from mine.
"Fuck me, Lucas, fuck me... " Blood red, electric blue, vivid violet.
His terror is tension within. My nails claw his back. Insanity's rainbow.
"Chantel..." My name picked out in horrified hues, exploding like a firework. Then he lets go with every fibre of his body. As he fills me he gags me with his tongue again. This time its my other lips singing against the mike of his cock. Sensations and sounds ripple back and forth. His feedback is awesome.
Insanity possesses me, but it is the madness of desire and need, pent up over more years than I care to count. I roll Lucas off and straddle him.
By now, our eyes have grown accustomed to the dimness, and while we don't, shouldn't, see each other properly, we are silhouettes in the dark bluey grey, hints of reflected highlights from the moon through the curtains on our glistening skin.
The bed continues its electric spark creaking, as Lucas bumps his hips up into me. The pleasured pain as he grips my thighs, spreading them wider as I grind myself all over him, is a mix of tastes, all sweet. I squeeze on his shaft as I bounce like a young girl on the trampoline of his groin.
Lucas rests one hand inside my thigh, his thumb rubbing on my clit, his other hand cups a shivering breast and caresses a nipple. Drives me wild.
Being crazy has never been better.
Finally, best of three, he dogs me. Slams my face with a whooshy, feathery lilac thump into pillow, which I bite to stifle my growing need to cry out.
His noise behind me, slappy, thumpy, grindy, is like purple and pink heartbeats. I'm no artist but draw and colour my own version of Lucas' sketch of us doing this in my mind's eye. Detail with psychic pencil every contour and vein of his cock inside me, which the delicate, sensitive folds of my cunt magnify and map out. Try to capture the wetness and vitality on paper. Watercolour would be better, perhaps.
I'd do it better in song. Let the pillow fall from my teeth...
'Mr Artist, fuck me please,
Grind into me, let me squeeze,
Against you, inside me, more.
Pound me Lucas, be real dirty.
Want you to fuck me, for sure.
Cum now, cum sweet, satisfy me... '
And he does.
Where I expected painful spasms in my head I get delicious ones everywhere else.
His hands, one slapping my bum, the other steadying my shoulder. Sour and sweet.
The shuddering thrusts as Lucas's cock gushes into me flavour my tongue with sparkling wine. As intoxicatingly heady. The sensations as I cum too, vibrant ripples between my thighs and stomach, splash like crystal clear spring water in my mouth. Jumbled clutchings at my waist, as he lets me milk every last drop from him, taste like different coloured jelly beans, one after the other, then mixed together.
Finally, like honey, he sticks to my back. Sweetmeat of his skin on mine.
Touch has become flavour. Acquired tastes.
Perhaps with Lucas, I don't mind.
Satisfying himself I am still sane, still his, Lucas cuddles me to sleep. His arms round me, our legs entwined, recall every flavour I've ever enjoyed, each first new satisfying, fulfilling texture on my tongue.
When we wake, still in curtain-pulled semi-darkness, I tell him of my new taste in him. He worries. So do I. But that's life.
I make him promise to teach me how to paint, control colour. If song works with sound, we may cope.
My song gets new last verses.
'The bright hue of your cries,
The taste of your touch,
Sweet flavour 'tween my thighs.
Want you, need you, so much.'
'The quiet song of your look,
I once said never, but then,
Under you my body shook.
Lucas, please fuck me again...'
But they are one-off performances, only for you.
Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog