Chapter 164

15

“Governments have always tried to crush reform movements, to destroy ideas, to kill the thing that cannot die. Without regard to history, which shows that no Government have ever succeeded in doing this, they go on trying in the old, senseless way.”
—Emmeline Pankhurst, My Own Story

WE GOT TO THE THEATER at ten and set our charts on the stands that were in the middle of the space with a couple of chairs and stools. The audience risers had apparently been pulled out by a night crew after we left. There were no chairs on them yet, but I could see people would have pretty good sightlines in the U-shape of the layout.

“Let’s do one run-through of everything we’ve identified and see what we’ve got,” Cindy said. When it came to rehearsals and music direction, she easily took over. Donna, Sophie, Nanette, Emily, Beca, and Britt positioned themselves in different parts of the room while Desi, Remas, Cindy, and I arranged things so we could reach our instruments and get timings. We started at the top of our playlist and ‘ran through’ it. In a few instances, that included stalling on a piece, backing up, starting over, and even discarding one we didn’t think we could pull into shape. Cindy and I both had all the charts for our music on our iPads, so we had just about everything to choose from. We finished playing the new piece from Glory with Sophie and Brittany dancing a little before noon.

“You have plenty of material,” Donna said. “I figured about eighty minutes. So, you have room to pick and choose a little.”

“That’s good news. I wasn’t comfortable with the Riley piece,” I said. “I’ve always struggled with that transition.”

“It’s good for you,” Cindy laughed. “You’ll expand your abilities and we’ll be able to play more stuff.”

“You’re always a comfort, Piper. How about we leave it out for this week?”

“We can do that. What did you like or not like, Desi?”

“Well, I only really have two pieces to be concerned with. Something we couldn’t try in the original performance, though, was playing GBU from three different positions in the auditorium. I’d like to try that and see if the composition holds up with us farther apart instead of face to face,” Desi said.

“I could see that working, but we’ll have to make sure everyone can be heard from every angle,” I said. “Remas? Any suggestions?”

“Thank you for letting me join in on the Mozart 11. It feels almost improvisational, just building on the general theme of the concerto. I’m glad the Glory piece still sounds fresh and solid, as does I read the manual.“

“Girlfriends?” Cindy called out. Her voice was just a little louder than normal speaking voice when she called to them but didn’t come close to matching the volume of her orgasms.

“I know the purpose of this performance is the Glory piece,” Em said after conversing with Beca for a minute. “We think you should still consider putting Mozart 11th Piano Concerto at the end of the show. Maybe even use it as an encore like you did in Cindy’s first recital.”

“And can Desi add her voice into that piece?” Beca asked. “I liked what Remas added and think you could cut loose on an improvisational encore.”

About that time, the tech crew came in and we had to walk through everything so they could spike positions on the floor. That meant using pieces of tape to mark where our chairs went and even the path of Sophie’s and Brittany’s dances. We tried out the positions for GBU and were close to fifteen feet apart as we played our parts back and forth. We’d rehearse it carefully later and see if it held together. The techies said it was no problem to ignore a light once it was set but that it was harder to add a new setting since scaffolding had to be moved in to change the lights. They started grousing about it being a ridiculous oversight not to have catwalks above the lights.

About 1:30, Em and Beca returned with subs for everyone and we sat outside to eat before trying another run-through. I liked it and by five o’clock we felt we had the program set. I wanted to rehearse some more, but we had that stupid commission reception to go to. I appreciated them wanting my input, but the schmoozing just didn’t do a thing for me. We went back to the apartment to get cleaned up and put on pretty clothes.

The Arts Club of Washington is a huge old mansion, once the home of James Monroe before he became president. It’s beautiful and is one of the historical sites that makes a visit to the nation’s capital exciting. The venue hosts parties and weddings of up to 400 people, but the front drawing room upstairs was perfect for the forty or fifty guests at the reception. A jazz trio—piano, bass, and drums—played in one corner of the room. Remas went over to say hi to the players.

Our lunch had been light, and we didn’t really have dinner before the reception, so the little sandwiches and fruit were welcome. We all headed straight for the buffet table before we even greeted anyone. I managed a compromise with Cindy. Instead of holding my hand, she placed a hand on my elbow so I could hold a plate of food and we could both eat from it. Of course, we had to finish our food before we could hold drinks. We’d been there for almost half an hour before we talked to anyone but our own pod.

That’s when Dr. Donahue arrived with four distinguished-looking people and we assumed the leaders of the commission had appeared. She sought us out and made introductions. The only name I recognized was Aaron Adamson, the Governor of Vermont and chairman of the commission.

“I’m glad you are able to be with us,” he said as he grasped my hand. He was wearing a campaign button that said, ‘I read the manual.’ Sheesh! “I’m looking forward to our interview and hearing what the sage of reform has to say.”

“Sage of reform?” I laughed. “That’s kind of pretentious. You might be better positioning me as the smartass of Mad Anthony High School.” I realized I’d just dissed the governor and commission chairperson and started to blush. Fortunately, he laughed.

“I’ll be sure to have that put on your nametag. But, seriously, you are in a unique position to influence the rewrite of the National Service. I hope you are prepared.”

“I’ll offer what thoughts I have, sir, but please remember I’m seventeen and my thoughts are colored by impending servitude,” I said. He sighed.

“That’s the thing we messed up most, isn’t it? The service shouldn’t be looked at as a period of slavery. It was supposed to be an opportunity to take pride and ownership in America. How do we go about reforming and revamping it so it isn’t looked at as servitude?” I think he was asking a rhetorical question, but I couldn’t stop my smart mouth.

“Induct old men instead of teens. The service would be reformed in a month,” I said. He looked at me and nodded.

“Perhaps so.”

By the time we left the reception at nine o’clock, we were all dead tired and ready for bed. We’d met a bunch of people, including six others who were called as resources and would be interviewed during the day Wednesday as we rehearsed. Technically, I was the one called before the commission, but they invited the whole pod to attend. We were last on their agenda the next day.

When we got to the apartments, I kissed my lovers goodnight and headed for the bathroom. I was so tired, I didn’t care who or even if anyone joined me in bed. I was ready to sleep. Of course, those plans got interrupted when I crawled into bed next to Remas.

“I’m sure I warned you that if you crawled into my bed naked, I wouldn’t be able to control my hands,” I said.

“Duly noted,” she answered. “I didn’t get a goodnight kiss. From you.”

“Am I the only one you didn’t get a kiss from?”

“Well ... actually ... yes. In case you are wondering, everyone knows I’m in here with you. And, I’m not like Cindy.”

“You mean you don’t scream your orgasms to the world?” I laughed.

“That. And I’m not off limits for other activities. Not required, mind you, but definitely not forbidden.”

“Is that what you want, Remas?”

“When you’re ready, we’re ready.” She looked at me in the dim light from the window. There’s no place in the metroplex that is actually dark at night. “I would like a kiss, though, if that’s okay.”

It was okay. Having Remas naked in my arms while we made out had predictable results, even as tired as I was. I had a feeling Remas was just as tired. That didn’t stop me from thoroughly exploring her breasts with my hands and my lips and sliding a hand between her legs as she stroked my cock. Our climaxes were a little weaker than they might have been if we weren’t so tired, but they were mutually satisfying anyway. By that time, though, sleep was winning out over sex. She lay partially on top of me with a leg over my messy cock and my hand on her ass. That was a good feeling and I went off to sleep.

Light. The same light I went to sleep to made it difficult to tell what time it was. I thought it was about the time I’d usually rise to run. I was rising, but it was to the insistent rubbing of my cock between Remas’s buns. I squished one of her boobs with my hand wrapped around her. She increased her movement, making sure I knew she was trying to get me hard. And succeeding easily. I rubbed my face in her light brown hair until I found her ear.

“Now?” I whispered.

“Yes,” she answered. I rolled back to my back and tugged at her. She got the message and in a moment was sitting straddling my thighs, holding my cock in her hands. She sat there for a minute, looking down at what she held, stroking slightly to make sure I was hard. Then she rose up and positioned me at her entrance and slowly sank down. Hot. Wet. Slippery. Tight. All the usual descriptions applied but the intensity expressed on her face made everything else seem irrelevant. I imagine that is what I look like when I have my first sip of coffee in the morning. I’ve seen the expression on Donna’s face when she bites into a bar of dark chocolate. It’s on Nanette’s face when she crosses a finish line.

Most of my girlfriends are too young to have had an experience that is so physically and emotionally overwhelming it preempts all their bodily functions. Oh, they are beautiful when they climax. That expression of rictus and delight is hard to mistake and is among the most beautiful in the world. But usually, unless Rachel and I are looking into each other’s eyes as we collide in orgasm, the experience is primarily physical. The expression I was seeing on Remas’s face combined the physical high and emotional rapture of a spiritual experience. I was entranced and tried to immerse myself in her experience. It was mystical.

And then it was sexual. We connected and ground our sex together, mounting toward that other peak. In a matter of a few minutes it arrived. She called out my name as I emptied myself into her willing chamber.