The Perfect Pitch

Her breasts were heavy and her vagina not especially tight. I picked the young ones for a reason, because they were easier to mold, because you could teach them to fuck the way you wanted to fuck. But this girl, this girl was already learned in the sack. A little too learned for my tastes. It wasn’t what I was looking for.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a pedophile or anything. I’m not looking for the really young ones. Eighteen is my cutoff. In fact, I don’t even like going that young most of the time. You fuck them at eighteen and soon they’re telling all their girlfriends about it and one of those girlfriends happens to be particularly close to her mother and she confides it all in her and then that mother, after debating with herself for a day or two, calls up your girl’s mother and then it’s just a big fucking mess.

Not that I’m speaking from experience.

This girl was a little different. She was part of the latest wave of teenaged music sensations, stopped over in Boston for a break in her summer tour. The world had hit that pathetic point in the cycle of pop culture, the point where the kids no longer care about music with substance and only bother devoting their attention to the latest, hottest-looking band. I was no big fan of grunge when it happened, but at least some of those bands could write songs. There was some music amidst all the bullshit. The same couldn’t be said for the time when I was screwing this particularly loose girl.

She was a platinum blonde, though her coif must have been darker at one point based on the color of her pubic hair. Her patch was trimmed into a small arrow that pointed towards her genitals, instructions for the groupies who didn’t know what to do with themselves after feasting their eyes on her nakedness. I wondered how long it would be until my daughter asked me if she could dye her hair that color, about how I would convince her not to do it without coming right out and telling her that dyeing your hair that color communicated only one thing: the wrong thing.

It was around that time that things began to become more difficult. My daughter’s thirteenth birthday was coming up. Puberty was in full swing when she was at my house and I was dreading the day when I would have to go to the store and buy her pads because her mother had forgotten to. Guilt was a daily part of my routine. If I was fucking these girls now, whose fathers thought they were dropping them off for a piano lesson, what was to stop some perverted tennis instructor from sleeping with my little girl when she came of age? Or even before she came of age? Not all men take the time to set standards like I do.

All of this was racing through my head, at least to some extent, as I did that little blonde starlet from behind while she kneeled on my piano bench. She braced herself with her hands on the keyboard and every once in a while, when I got her just right, her fingers would leap up from the keys, fall down again, and strike a perfect C chord. It was faintly amusing that she moaned in harmony with the chords she struck.

It wasn’t until she came that I really enjoyed myself, for as loose as she was during the majority of it, she clenched tighter than most at the end. I pulled out and I counted myself lucky as I let myself drip onto her back. I had almost come inside of her and that is where accidents begin. That’s where my daughter had begun back in college, when controlling myself was the least of my worries.

The starlet took a quick shower in the downstairs bathroom, then came back in tight blue jeans and a vintage Madonna t-shirt to begin her lesson. The other teenage divas were all learning to play guitar, to expand their horizons and add a little something musical to their shows. She’d decided to be different and take up piano. It would be ‘slamming,’ she told me, if she could play piano on the live version of her latest record. The crowd would go nuts. I asked her why she’d chosen to take lessons here in Boston when she could’ve done so in L.A. or New York. She told me something about her ancestors coming from the Cape and how her great-great grandfather had moved his part of the family down to Jersey and how she liked coming up to Massachusetts because she felt a deep connection with her past up here. She went on for about fifteen minutes in that all-too excited voice of hers, and I was sorry that I asked.

On the plus side: my little starlet learned fast when we sat at the piano, and she took a real interest in everything I showed her. This I respected. It wasn’t merely about how to look convincing on stage. She really wanted to learn.

That first lesson went quickly, ending when her handlers came knocking at the door, telling her she had a signing to go to. She said that she loved the way I taught and she would be back for another lesson in a week. I smiled and told her I would look forward to it.