Diary Of A Groupie: Mistress To The Music

There you are, up on the stage. You are a star and you shine upon me your amazing light. Your sweat pours from you body and creates a sheen that makes you shiny and sparkly, so alive and real to me. You move to the rhythm of what you are creating, your body one with the instrument in your hand or before you, spread out like an eager lover waiting for you to play her deeply and truly.  

Your energy comes out of the speakers. Loud, punctuating, pulsing; entering into my ears, into my brain, transforming itself into pure & utter lust and love for you and how you make my body feel with the music that you make. I thank you for the sexual electricity, the vibe, and the pure energy of sound. It’s the most amazing love I have ever had and you give it to me freely: Music.

To All The Guitarists: Soaring, flying, so free with your spirit. The notes and riffs coming off your fret board sending pure joy into my heart. I feel you entering into my body with your twang and shred. My soul flies to the highest heavens with every note and every “wah” and every high and with every low you produce. You are like a knife with your sound, slicing me up and killing me softly with every lick and stroke of your strings. You are the Lover of Cosmic Sound.  

To All The Bassists: You are so much more deep, nasty and guttural then the guitar, more melodic than the drums. You are the pulse of the music. You are edgier & darker, the sexual energy more apparent. You keep the rhythm flowing through my veins, it flows into my lower regions of depth and desire within my body. You are the Lover of Pulse.

To All The Drummers: Your ancient talent takes me to a primal place. Your rhythmic banging to keep the time so in tune with my own womanhood. You blast me, you shake me, your heartbeat keeping in time with mine. You are the Lover of The Beat.

To all the Horn Players: You are the sass on the brass. You are the whisper in my ear that speaks of dirty things that are always fun though not necessarily legal. Your screams and squeals are what we hear through locked doors in seedy hotels. You are the Lover of Secret Vices.

To All The Singers: You yourself are the instrument. You yourself are the one entering into me so deeply with your words and voice. The intimacy you create with your own body’s instrument is so profound and alive in the truest sense. Your words fill all my senses, they fill my brain with wisdom and my heart with consolation and understanding. You are the Lover of My Intellect.  

To All Of The Musical Magicians, every single one of you with whom Music is your muse: You are all my lovers, you are all my loves. What you give to me is so precious, so profound and it creates such magic in my life. I thank you deeply and truly for your gifts.



Moonmama says: Weee haaaa!