Pianopornography
Radio and The Death of Sex

Kofi Fosu Forson

Have you heard of a band called The Betty Blues? They sing about love and rainy days. I don’t know if they exist but when I close my eyes, I can hear them coming through the radio waves…loud and clear.

To my knowledge The Betty Blues don’t exist. Are they not my reality? That governed by my creative genes, keen awareness of music, mild sarcasm, I can invent and reinvent a world of my own? We aren’t allowed such madness. Why? It’s the greatest escape. Trouble is we have been forced into a fallout shelter where everything is at our disposal, meaning what you cannot find doesn’t exist.

Pianopornography, I exist in it. The thought of a naked woman behind a grand piano playing feverishly everything from The Beatles to Chaupin! Doesn’t the mind reverberate further into other fetishes?

Is sex dead? The radio is. The conscience that is the voice of the disc jockey planting itself within the mind is no longer a source of disillusionment. The Ipod and the burning of compact discs have fulfilled every notion of the common man as a modern day Wolfman Jack.

Sex is not dead. Sex is sleeping. For some, we continue to waiver the cause between morality, what is art, the intervention of spirituality, Zen and the rest, the plural advantage in abstinence and the overall definition of what is the sexual male and female.

Does coitus remain solely definitive of pleasure? The erect penis and the moist vulva… ‘nuff said.