It was a simple touch of the hand that started everything. A touch that I'd experienced literally hundreds of times over the years as a student, and now a teacher, of the piano. When the teacher guides by example, finger brushing against finger, hand placed on top of hand to feel the correct movement. Almost always, that touch was completely innocent, even routine. Not this time.
OK, sure, so there had been that brief, hot affair with my piano professor in college. But that was more a case of a curious co-ed responding, in the heat of the moment, to the attractive, confident older man who took brief leave of his senses to misuse his position of authority. It was never destined to last more than a few months, before I graduated and moved on. Three years had passed, and it was nothing but a distant memory.
This, on the other hand, was a full-blown obsession, an all-consuming passion. Although my schedule was filled with the work of a freelance musician - teaching, driving around town to various rehearsals and gigs, practicing when time allowed - I began to imagine my schedule as revolving around his visits. His weekly appointment. What had begun as a 30-minute lesson, for which he paid me the standard rate, had since expanded to an hour, and, well, the rest will be spelled out as this story progresses.
Back to that first touch. August 14, it was. He had started lessons in May, as the typical adult who hadn't touched the piano since childhood, but was finding his life empty in spite of professional success, and had therefore made the decision to return to it. I quickly learned that, in addition to being confident and attractive, he actually had a great deal of talent, and it wasn't long before he was making quick progress.
At first, though, I enjoyed his lessons on a purely professional level - enjoyed his quick progress, the way in which he would respond so well to the ideas I'd had over the week for how to introduce a new concept. During that fateful lesson in August, I was watching him play his assignment when I realized there was something fundamentally wrong about the way he was positioning his hands. I resorted to a method I'd used many times in the past - asking him to position his hands on top of mine as I played the music for him.
As I moved from my chair to join him on the bench, he scooted over to make just enough room for me. I positioned my hands over the keys, and he gently placed his hands on top of mine. As many times as I had done this before, I had never felt such instant electricity. I fought to concentrate, fought myself to remain professional, as I was sure what I was feeling existed entirely inside myself.
"Wow, Joanna, that was amazing."
"Thank you, Josh," I replied, turning to look into his eyes, assuming he meant my playing. But as our eyes met, and I could literally hear his heart pounding, as close as we were to one another, I realized he had felt the electricity as well. I still didn't dare to make the next move. Even though we were both consenting adults, I still felt obligated, as the one being paid in this scenario, to maintain my cool.
Before I could move away from him, our hips still touching, his hands still resting warmly on top of mine, he surprised me with a passionate kiss. I froze momentarily, before melting into him, and he responded by moving his hands from the keys to my face, stroking my cheeks as my lips parted and his tongue pressed into my mouth.
My heart was racing and I found myself breathless as he pulled away from me and once again looked into my eyes.
"I'm sorry, Joanna, I shouldn't have..."
"No, Josh, I'm glad you did. I've never felt such a powerful attraction to someone before, such a desire to make love right here on the piano, but I never would have acted on it if you hadn't made the first move."
