I’m not a student of classical music and know even less about opera, but tonight, I’m in the box to the left of the stage on the second level.

While the orchestra tunes its instruments, my restlessness grows.

Shh, don’t make a sound, don’t move.

His voice behind me is a warm whisper in my ear.

Though my heart jolts, I stifle a gasp and make myself sit still.

Gently, my hands are taken from my lap and my fingers wrapped around the spindly legs of the chair.

My breath hitches.

Don’t let go, he whispers.

My short skirt is gathered up and bunched at my waist.

First, one foot and then the other is pulled to the side and firmly placed outside the chair legs.

I whimper.

Don’t move, his voice admonishes.

Fingers stroke my folds, “Nice!” He praises and kisses my earlobe - I’m not wearing panties.

Pleased, I exhale a shuddering breath.

Gently, his left hand fondles, teases my clit, while his right hand strokes, tunes my folds.

I bite my lip, but a small gasp escapes.

I lean my head back, briefly close my eyes, and unsuccessfully try to slow my breathing.

The Maestro enters the pit to much applause. He taps his lectern, raises his baton. The music begins.

Keep watching the show, he orders softly.

His hands and his fingers flawlessly follow the music and play my body as if it’s a cello.

Every adagio, every arpeggio, every crescendo is replayed on my body and felt deep within.

The music and lyrics live through his hands. They teach me to soar, take me to ecstasy, then guide me down into despair. We dip and glide, dance and fall, reach and fail before we land safely at intermission.

Don’t move. I’ll be watching.

A quick bite at my neck. He’s gone.

Frozen, I stay in my seat. Gradually, my breathing evens out, even though my restlessness and anticipation do not abate.

When the Maestro and the orchestra return to the pit and the curtain lifts, he returns.

Skillfully, his hands force me to feel everything—the actors’ hope, joy, bewilderment, horror, grief, reconciliation, and ecstasy. The music guides his virtuosity, controls my breathing, the beat of my heart, the very pulse of my body. Again and again, he takes me to highs and lows I had not felt before and teaches my body feelings I didn’t know existed. Over and over, he fills me with passion and love for this music and story.

I am boneless when the curtain comes down.

Hands smooth my skirt, a warm breath feathers my neck, and teeth nibble at my earlobe. “Thank you.”

And I’m alone again.

As the audience slowly shuffles out of the theatre, I’m slumped in the box, desperately clutching the chair, panting, trembling. I don’t trust my legs to hold me.

The curtain at the back of the box parts. My husband asks,

Did you like this performance better, dear?