I lay there in bed as she makes a humming noise from the kitchen where she is preparing a meal fit for a king; a sexual king who’s been up all night riveting and turning the screw within. What a joyful task.

There is music playing from her living room. A beautiful sound of classical music. It could have been Bach or Mozart or that crazy German Beethoven who, in later years, could not hear a single note, the poor bastard. All that music in his head to drown out the silliness of others only to hear marvelous symphonies connecting purely to the heart, no discussions by pseudo intellectuals pretending to be well read, well educated, well hung. All of society tossed out on deaf ears. Ludwig, you lucky sonofabitch. Cursed in one way and blessed in another. May I be that fortunate some day.

Of course, I say this fully, knowing that I, too, have become somewhat deaf. Deaf to the struggles of men in mines trying to survive. Deaf to famine and the diseased. No longer do I hear the crying out in the streets of Calcutta or Bogota, or Lima, or definitely not Chicago, where the poor are poor and the rich along the Gold Coast are truly rich with old money and old ways.

Her body is wrapped in a white towel. She carries to me a tray of oranges and ripe melon and granola with vanilla yogurt. I am famished, and I eat like an animal as she stretches her hand under the sheets and begins stroking my cock. She smiles and says, where were we?

For the life of me, I can not remember her name. I look around the room as she slides me into her mouth. Frantically, I look at pictures of her, and others, hoping a name appears, a soft wondrous name that is full, and I can truly wrap my lips around. A name that I can’t wait to say, like an infant trying desperately to utter his first words. She grabs my face and kisses me. She then leaves the bedroom, and I hear a cello playing a lovely piece. She is stroking the instrument with her bow. It stands between those beautiful legs of hers. She is now naked.

You like? She asked. I tell her very much. She continues to play. Softly at first then in dramatic fashion, she caps off the piece with a loud crescendo. I feel as though I will burst. I have burst. Only a feeling of ecstasy fills me.

Every morning, I practice in the nude, she says. Naked to the world. The only way a true artist can become one with their art, she said. I have become one with my art.

I sit and listen to this cellist with long red hair and freckles on her breasts. I am captivated. She tells me she plays in the Chicago Philharmonic. She says each night she is paid to climax on stage in front of a large audience who truly appreciate her. Imagine that, I say to myself. Imagine that.

Upon leaving, she hands me a matchbook with her name and number along with a large pair of red lips.

Cleo, I say to myself. Her name is Cleo. I kiss her goodbye and whisper till next time Cleo into her ear. Till next time, she says. Till  next time.