A sexy older man and a nubile younger woman learn how to make beautiful music together — both in bed and out.
I took up the violin in my teens and dedicated myself to mastering the instrument. Shy by nature, I found it easier to throw all my energies into music than to navigate the turbulent waters of dating and sex. I did have a couple of experiences with guys when I went off to college, but the first man who really held my attention came along later — and he was eighteen years my senior. I met Gene three years ago, when I was twenty-two.
A friend and I were trying a new restaurant, and there he was, sitting on a stool while entertaining diners with his acoustic guitar. He had collar-length dark hair and a neatly trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard. Despite the age difference — or perhaps because of it — I found him quite attractive. And his music — oh my! I was beguiled by the sexy, Latin-flavored songs emanating from his guitar, and the soulful style with which he played them. Five minutes of that, and I was a goner.
Fueled by this sudden, intense attraction, I approached Gene between songs and introduced myself. I even found the nerve to suggest that we try playing together. Gene rubbed his beard and looked me over. I could only guess what he thought of me in my long skirt and high-necked sweater. Petite of frame but well proportioned, I tended to hide my curves in those days. “Myrna, huh?” he said at last, eyes twinkling. “That’s a very pretty, old-fashioned name. You ever see the Thin Man films?”
Guys my own age never made that connection. “With Myrna Loy.” I smiled. “It’s my parents’ fault. They loved those old movies.” He chuckled. “All right, what the hell. Drop by my studio sometime.” He scribbled the address on a napkin. A few days later, I paid him a visit. We jammed for a while, and we really clicked. Soon we were playing local festivals and nightclubs as a guitar-and-violin duo. A lot of people assumed we were a father-daughter act, especially since I look younger than I am. Gene and I joked about it, but inside, I was frustrated — not because of people’s assumptions, but because I was totally, incurably hot for him.
Gene was mature, self-confident and respectful, not to mention tall and handsome. The problem was, he had a girlfriend. I didn’t want to challenge their relationship; I valued Gene’s friendship too much. So I resolved to keep my desire for Gene private. Then, last December, everything changed. Gene seemed different during a performance for a corporate party. His guitar sounded more upbeat, his style more spirited. After the party, he told me that he and his girlfriend had split.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I replied, even as my heart leapt. “Don’t be. She and I are still friends. And I’m enjoying my new sense of freedom.” Well, you can imagine how my outlook soared. I resolved to act on my long-unrequited feelings before the month was out.
On a chilly evening three days before Christmas, we played holiday classics at the local botanical garden. Afterward, Gene suggested that we go downtown for warming cups of eggnog. “The studio’s closer,” I ventured, blowing on my cold hands. “Is that bottle of scotch still lying around over there?” Gene laughed. “Oh, I forgot about that. Yeah, I think so.”
“Well then, let’s go there.”
“You’re on.” Ten minutes later, Gene was unlocking the front door of the studio while I held an umbrella over our heads. A cold rain had begun to fall. I followed my musical partner inside and turned on the lights while he rummaged around in the control room. Soon he returned with the bottle of expensive scotch. I took off my heavy coat and draped it over a chair. I’d begun to overhaul my wardrobe after Gene told me about his breakup; tonight I wore a tight-fitting top and hip-hugging jeans. I may be a shy girl by nature, but it was high time to start showing off my assets.
Gene, eyeing my figure, tossed his jacket on top of mine. “Paper cups will have to do,” he said, sounding a little distracted. He grabbed two cups from the stack by the water cooler and poured us each a shot. I’m a light drinker, but with so much riding on that cold December night, I tossed the liquor back and welcomed the resulting suffusion of warmth.
Gene took a sip and examined the bottle’s label. “This stuff is eighteen years old.” He looked at me. “Almost as old as you, Myrna.”
“But true.” He put the bottle down. “I’m forty-three, you know. Old enough to be your father.” There was something in his eyes now, something he was probably seeing in my own. “So what?” Moving closer, I touched his arm.
“You’re beautiful,” he said softly. “And so damn sexy I can hardly stand it.” He studied my face. “Am I wrong to say so?”