It all began at my eighteenth birthday party. My parents just would not believe that I was through with all that juvenile 'birthday' stuff, so I had to endure one more embarrassing round of phoney smiles and worthless gifts from all my parents' family and friends. I am, I have learned since, a fairly attractive guy. Short, about 5'7" and slim but not too skinny, blond, with sparkling blue eyes and a captivating smile that makes me look even younger than I am.
My situation was somewhat unique. I had been going to college for over two years on a special program for 'gifted' individuals. That was fine and I loved it, but I had no friends and no social life. (Well, being a book nerd, I never did have much of a social life.) I had not come out to family and friends, even though I was fairly certain I was gay. Having never had real sex, there was no way I could know for certain. I did know that I loved the sight of a good hard man and a good hard dick. But then, pictures of sex acts and naked women in mags like Hustler, really turned me on too, so confusion sort of reigned in my life. Technically I was still a virgin, not counting fooling around with a couple friends in boy scout tents. (Mutual masturbation and one quick taste of cum.)
Well, anyway, as I was saying. It was my birthday. A lame party. Family. Friends. One of my mom's friends had put together a jazz quartet to play. It was unfamiliar sounds, but I was drawn to the dissonant quality which seemed to fit my life. It was getting late, close to midnight and things were winding down. Dad, of course, was passed out on a chair somewhere, probably pissing himself. Mom had long-since retired for the night. I was hanging out near where the band was set up, loitering and taking in the melodious sounds. Earlier I had noticed the sax player, He was tall, maybe six four and big, but not heavy, perhaps 200 pounds. He was firmly muscled in all the right places, but not the bulging weightlifter kind. I watched his deep brown eyes, his lips caressing the reed of his instrument, the dark shock of hair that danced around his forehead as he closed his eyes investing his entire being in the music. There was a touch of gray at his temples that made it hard to judge his age, but I was going with forty. It surprised me that I was attracted to a man so 'old', but there was something about him, something about the languid, self-assured way he moved his body, and about the way he filled his worn jeans.
I had noticed earlier that he was checking me out, or at least that is what I thought. I was way too shy to approach him, so I merely watched. I began to fantasize about those sensitive hands touching me, those lips. . .
The song, a jazzed up version of Sweet Home Chicago, ended on a long trill and the band began to put up their instruments. The saxophonist looked my way and caught me staring at him. To my extreme embarrassment, he ambled toward me. I felt like running away, but that would have been even more ridiculous. I was frozen in place. "Hi," he said, his voice deep and resonant, "I am Lance. Lance Armstrong. You must be the birthday boy."
"Yeah, uh, er Neal, uh er Scott."
Lance put out his hand as if to shake. Mine was trembling as I put it in his. His hands were fine and elegant, like those of piano player, yet firm and masculine. Did his touch linger just a bit too long? Or was it wishful thinking? "I really love your playing. I never was much into jazz, but then I
never much heard any either. I like the, uh, I don't know what to call it. Dissonance is the word I used in my mind."
Lance laughed softly. "You are right. Anyone who knows music will tell you that dissonance, and that is exactly the right word, is the heart and soul of jazz. Listen, Neal, can I buy you a drink?"
"Well, I , er that is, I don't drink much and, er, oh hell, I am not old enough to drink."
"Well, Neal, How old are you?"
"I am eighteen today."
"Come," Lance said simply, gesturing with his hand, and I did not hesitate. He parked us at a corner table near the fireplace and went to the bar. He returned with two glasses of amber liquid on ice, which I learned on inquiry was called B&B.
We sat and sipped and talked. Lance, I learned was only 34. He said he was an executive with an important corporation, but was independently wealthy. He had three main passions in life, he told me: jazz, sailing, and romance.
I shared with him my love and expertise with literature, especially nineteenth century literature, explaining that I hoped to become a university professor and consultant to libraries.
"Isn't that a dying thing, he wanted to know? Books, you know aren't they becoming obsolete?"
"Not if I can help it! Part of what I do is to insure that truly great books are preserved electronically, so that even if there is no market for them right now, even if no one is reading them right now, they will be there for future generations to enjoy and learn from. You see," I told him. "I am kind of a computer geek, too. I helped develop the software that can read a book and convert it to digital form. Otherwise some geek would have to encode the whole book, letter by letter."
"I heard that you are in your third year at the university, and now you tell me you are only eighteen. You must be a kind of genius, then."
"A 'protege' is what they always say, but sometimes I get sick of it. The demands to produce, to excel, are severe, and well, even with the scholarships, I never have any money. Sometimes I wish I had a job at a car wash or something, like a normal kid."
'Well if you ask me, you are anything but normal. Believe me, you don't want to be normal. That would be a big step backward for you."
"Thanks. I think."
"So when do you have to go back to school?"
"Not for another two weeks."
"Neal, I just thought of something. How would you like to go sailing?"
"Sailing?"
