Music is its own language. But there are multiple ways of communicating without speaking. I will now discuss one of my all-time favorite methods of communication: sex through the eyes. I.e., eyesex.
After all, in any ensemble, it’s difficult to communicate during rehearsal. And sometimes things happen which I would like to immediately discuss with someone (namely, Eric). In choir, he sat across the room from me. Solution: ocular communication. Which quickly spiraled into eyesex.
(Eyesex is not to be confused with accompanyingsex. The two can sometimes be related, but accompanyingsex is rarer, harder to do, and a topic for another day.)
Not all eye contact in rehearsal is eyesex. Jessie and I lock eyes and grin whenever Dr. Beauregard says unintentionally sexual things, such as trying to discuss French horn mutes, but that’s just appreciating humor, not eyesex. Eyesex is much more specific, more purposeful. It’s personal and intimate.
What happens during eyesex? Hard to explain, but I’ll try. The act of catching and holding the other person’s gaze connects the two, facilitating silent communication. It’s not usually to the level of words, but rather conveys emotions or (as I’ve experienced it) mutual appreciation of humor. Eyefuckings are nonverbal but can be remarkably rich in meaning. It approaches telepathy; the two of you share a silent understanding. The two of you become one.
The technical language of eyecoition: Eyesex is the act itself. When you initiate eyesex – i.e., you look at the other person and cause the act to occur – you eyefuck them. When you see the other person looking at you and you accept the challenge, you are being eyefucked. Sometimes that’s the best: there’s nothing like surprise!eyesex to liven up a dull rehearsal.
Some of the best eyesex I’ve ever had with Eric was in choir during our junior year. Again, when a person sits right across from you, it’s fair game. It got out of control during our spring mini-tour. We had four specific eyecopulation points in the program. I will list them briefly:
1. The overdone aspirate “h” at the beginning of our Schutz piece, “Hout of the depths”
- 2. The overdone aspirate “h” in a Russian piece, where it sounded thus: “Hand upon them that fear Thy name…” instead of and
- 3. The badly placed breath in a Latin piece, where Dr. Paul (bless his non-Latin scholar heart), had us breathe between omnium and populorum, making the phrase, “… the face of all. [breath] Peoples.”, instead of “…the face of all peoples.”
- 4. The painfully cheesy key-change in our Gershwin. It just about killed Eric with its FAIL. I laughed so hard I couldn’t sing.
We eyefucked each other every night at these exact points in the concert. It was wonderful. It was actually the only enjoyable thing about the whole trip.
During the tour homecoming concert back at school (this was a few days after we got back, so we’d had a little time to recover from the constant eyecoupling), the experience magnified. In the formation in which we stood during the Schutz, Eric was in the front row center, and I was on the end in the back row. Normally this called for a more advanced eyesex technique, in which I eyefucked him at roughly a 40-degree angle and he knew it, though he couldn’t see me. But at this concert, he openly turned his head to look back at me, resulting in the best eyesex we’d ever had. I was aggressively eyefucked during that piece. And I liked it. A lot.
And as a reward for the unexpected, rough eyesex, three days later I got pinkeye…which I now classify as ETD, an EyeSexily Transmitted Disease.
And I was even openly eyefucked by Dr. Beauregard. Only once. But it was fantastic.
During a showcase concert for homecoming weekend my senior year, the orchestra performed Mariettas Lied, an aria from Erich Korngold’s opera Die Tote Stadt, with a concerto-aria competition winner. [If you’ve never heard this aria, please listen to it. It’s heart-melting.] In the introduction, the celesta – that would be me – has a sweet, music-box-ish little solo line over the delicate woodwind chords. The celesta is the only moving line, so in effect, I set the tempo for the beginning.
Before we began the piece, Dr. Beauregard stood on the podium, watching as everyone fumbled with reeds and bows and things. I stood behind Philippe, fingers ready to go. He put the baton up, and we all waited at attention. And before he moved to give the upbeat, he looked at me. He looked straight into my eyes and – I swear I am not making this up – without moving his lips or making a sound, he asked me, with just his eyes, if I was ready. I can’t explain it. But I understood. I nodded with my eyes, not moving my head, and only then did he turn back to the winds, raise the baton into the upbeat, and begin the piece.