Читать книгу 150 Stories - Nataniël - Страница 41

I belong to the choir that sings “Abide with Me” the falsest in the world.

At the back there’s a row of men, we sing sharp. At the front there are two rows of women, they sing flat.

And at the organ is Miss Wilna, the pale person. She’s one of those people you never find in groups, there’s always just one in every town. They’re completely white and when they make quick movements, parts of them turn pink. She can’t be very good, otherwise she wouldn’t have to teach in this town and have this choir. But still, she must know something about music if she finished her degree. So it must be tough.

Sometimes I think she uses cocaine to give her guts, because then she makes us sing without the organ. And that’s something unbelievable.

When it’s very false, I get a hard-on. It’s like when you know something is wrong or it’s really bad, but you can’t get enough of it. It turns me on so much I go crazy.

The best part is when Miss Wilna gets up to conduct.

Miss Wilna is single, so she doesn’t come to practice in her day clothes.

She dresses up in different outfits that she makes every week. Nobody knows why she does it, the choir has only got married men and me.

When she conducts, it starts slowly. First she makes triangles so we get the beat, and then she goes up and down for loud and soft, and then comes the hand thing for emotion. That’s where the bosom starts.

Miss Wilna has got two of those incredibly round breasts that very pale people have. So when you look at it you can’t ever look away again because you’re trying to figure out where the nipples would sit but that could be anywhere, so you become hypnotised completely.

And the more she conducts, the wilder the breasts become until you think they must be looking for the nipples too, because they’re all over the place and then you’re so hypnotised, you just stand there, producing this mass of loud noise that’s so bad, Miss Wilna turns pink and goes completely crazy till eventually that bosom heaves the choir to heights of falseness that would be unthinkable in bright daylight.

And it’s every Tuesday. It’s like we can’t get away from it. We’re just there, stuck inside all this noise, and we just stay there. It’s like Miss Wilna is this farmer who gets hysterical because the rain is coming and he wants to plough his fields but the tractor starts singing and the more the farmer tries to get the tractor going, the louder the tractor sings, and nothing happens.

And the whole time I’m horny.