If ever you have the opportunity to witness first-hand the magnificent spectacle that is Inuit throat-singing, don't pass it by. There is nothing on this planet so cosmically beautiful. Those are the words that kept running through Rusidan's head as she watched the show.

 

On an outdoor stage stood two young women with nothing but a microphone between them. Gripping one another, hands on forearms, they cuddled so close their faces nearly touched. They sang a capella and needed no accompaniment. One began before the other, producing a breathy sound. Lower than low, like a sub-sonic pant, the beat of her chant pushed forward like a freight train. How could a female voice produce tones so deeply resonant?

 

Her partner joined in, filling the gaps. The second starter vocalized at a higher pitch, singing in fleeting, orgasmic sounds. It was like nothing she'd ever heard in popular music. The effect was intriguing, transfixing, visceral. It resonated in the core of Rusidan's being.

 

Rhythmic vibrations rumbled her body like the bass line at a rock concert. Who'd have thought throat-singing could be such a turn-on? Sexual and spiritual, it was the sound of divine union.

 

Those women must have been romantic partners, Rusidan thought. The way they focused on one another, with their faces so close they could kiss, gave them away. They rocked one another's bodies, pushing and pulling outstretched arms along with the music. They danced to the very song they created. It was stunning. Beyond stunning. It was spellbinding.

 

With a burst of laughter, they broke away from each other. The second partner giggled, giving the first a playful push as if to deny their beautiful act had ever taken place. Throat-singing represented pure female sensuality, to Rusidan. It seemed almost tawdry that she should witness their show of intimacy.