“Your fly is open,” the tall, beautiful, regal-necked lesbian poet whispered in my ear as she ascended the stage. I’d just drawn her name from the cup. The podium – and my crotch, apparently – had been precisely in her front-row-center line of sight.
Performance interruptus.
The bell rang – ding, ding, ding – 6 lines before the end of my piece. I was perfectly poised to bring it home, deliver the twist, the sentiment that would finish us all satisfactorily, the one that would produce a delicious sigh of contentment. My want, my mounting excitement, my panties, possibly, laid bare, fold after fold unfolding as the reception kept warming. I met eyes all the way to the back of the room. We found a rhythm, coaxed by my words. We paused simultaneously, willing the crescendo ever higher.
Anticipation was palpable. I brought us so close to the end. I had a surprise in store, the climax that would resonate, produce shivers, and bridge, ever so briefly, the ubiquitous gulf of human separateness.
Instead, the bell rang. I gasped. Halted abruptly. My cheeks were flushed with anticipation, wanting, then humiliation. Inescapable, my desire for more. Unmasked, unleashed, unhidden. Exposed.
Satisfaction would have to wait for the end of the next author’s piece, the words of which wafted into my consciousness well before the pounding in my chest quieted. Her dialogue between frustrated lovers mirrored mine, and I wondered how long it would be before my whole-body flush abated.
I had written about the need to see and be seen. And I was.
Wow.