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I scrunch my face up in embarrassment. “You do?”
“Yes. Only I can’t hear it well. I’d like you to sing for me. I’d like to hear the sound.”
“Kirtan is call and repeat.”
“But you sing alone, right? To practise. So, just do the same for me.”
Dammit, the way he says “For me”makes my body light up like the freaking Rockefeller Center Christmas tree.
“I’m singing a spiritual meditation. It’s all very hippy dippy yin energy that men like you won’t compute.”
“Maybe you can educate me, Indigo.”
Yeah, right, I mutter internally, wondering if a multi-gazillionaire, or whatever he is, who looks like God and no doubt has gaggles of women throwing themselves at him could open his mind enough to even understand chanting meditations.
I frown, taking note of his earnest expression. I inhale a deep breath, my fingers taking their place on the instrument as I close my eyes and I begin to sing my favorite kirtan meditation.
Om… Namo… Bhagavate… Vasudevaya
My voice is weak at first, but gets stronger each time I repeat the line, my chest and throat opening up, my diaphragm dropping, loosening, my voice reaching high then low, my body undulating gently, goosebumps tingling my skin as I feel the words.
After a few minutes, I sing the line for the final time, the sound of my voice mixed with the beautiful instrument reverberating through my chest before stopping. Despite the vague ridiculousness I feel at this not exactly being my target audience, I inhale a breath of gratitude and open my eyes.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked… moved.
“That was beautiful. Thank you.”
I smile lopsidedly.
“What do the words mean?” he asks, still gently stroking the very happy pussy.
“Well, there are different interpretations, but… to me, it means…I bow down to the divine light within. It’s really about…surrender. Surrendering to something more powerful than us.”
“Thank you, Indigo.”
He lifts Cookie, gently placing her to the side of him.
“You’re welcome.
He gets to his feet and I begin to do the same.
“Don’t get up,” he says, his body seeming to bristle.
As he makes it to the door and puts his shoes on, he turns around to look at me before leaving and closing the door behind him as my body tries to make sense of what this near-stranger does to me.
I sit for a moment, closing my eyes, the hum generated by the sound, by the visceral kinesis of his powerful body, by the fact that I not only had the guts to let a man I don’t know that well into my apartment but also to actually sing in front of him, make my body vibrate with energy that has nowhere to go.
For months, I’ve felt consumed by dark lethargy, having on some days to force myself up, out of bed, to force one foot to step in front of the other, to force myself to speak to people again, to go out, to have sex with Kohl in the hopes that I could feel vaguely “normal” again.
A yoga friend told me I’d “lost my chi” and would get it back unexpectedly.
I don’t know if Greyson is the conduit or if it’s just time, but I suddenly feel my nerve endings firing and heat pouring into me, making me want to move, to dance, to feel… to feel pleasure.
Ten minutes pass as I sit with the arousal still coursing through me and I do something I haven’t for a while. I slide my fingers into my loose mauve pants, delving into the folds of my sex to find myself wet. Not just wet, I’m utterly soaked, the flesh swollen and almost aching from a need for relief.
I press my fingers into my clit and pleasure spikes through the knot of nerves, causing more glossy liquid to pool at the entrance to my sex.
A thought hits me and I get to my feet, heading over to my guest bedroom and closing the door behind me so as to spare the cat from my urges.
