Guilty pleasures; guilty secrets

I enter the house.

Alone.

I stand inside the front door listening to the quiet.

It somehow seems illicit to be here.

I breathe softly as if I’m in the act of committing a crime.

The house smells clean and fresh but the roar of the quietness is almost overwhelming.

I peer in to the lounge, it’s immaculate – looks like a magazine cover.

I check my watch but I don’t need to – I’m in the house by myself and I know I won’t be disturbed.

So I do the inevitable.

I do what every man in my position would do.

Grinning like a loon I climb the stairs.

I can feel my heart pumping with the excitement, the naughtiness, the thrill.

I walk quietly across the landing to our bedroom.

I sit on the bed and fumble for the zipper

My fingers – trembling slightly in anticipation – find the zipper tab and ease it down.

I sigh with bliss as I slide my hand carefully inside.

It’s there, so smooth yet so firm to the touch.

I take hold of the neck, tenderly yet securely.

I relish the grip, flex it gently; love the feel of holding it in my hands.

Almost get a sense of power from it.

I rearrange myself on the bed.

And when I’m comfortable and I’m sure the moment is right…

I let rip.

KERRRAAAAAANG!

God I love the way that D-Sus-4 chord sounds on my slightly detuned guitar.

D-Sus-4 to G4 to Em to warm up and then suddenly I’m off and running.

Brown Eyed Girl.

Followed by Wild Thing.

And then onwards, deeper in to my repertoire.

Forty minutes later I put the guitar away, fingertips tender but not sore.

I’ve ripped my thumbnail while overextending for a hurried change.

I’d started off hard and fast and then gradually slowed as my dexterity improved.

The slower passages were harder to begin with but as my slightly rusty ability returned, so did my confidence.

And now I feel wonderful tonight.

Just like Eric Clapton.

B.