The Lied Piper

Story Sent in by Elle:

Chris contacted me online.  He played the flute in an orchestra, and after I asked him more about that, he sent me some videos of himself playing alone and with his fellow orchestra players.  I was impressed, and we talked for a little bit longer before he asked me out.

While we were out to dinner together, I asked him, "Do you ever compose your own stuff?"

He said, "I do, but I don't think you're ready to hear it."

I didn't understand what he meant.  "I'm sorry?"

He replied, "It's too early for me to play you my stuff."

Thinking that he was bashful, I said, "I'd love to hear it, sometime."

He said, "You'd really have to be ready for it.  My agent and manager both say that it's the most beautiful music that they've ever heard."

"Really?"

He nodded.  "Yeah.  They're confident that I can get a solo deal really soon.  I have to be careful who I play it in front of."

"Because of copyright?" I asked.

He shook his head.  "No.  Because the music is so beautiful that it makes people cry, laugh, scream, seduce me, all kinds of crazy stuff."

Hear that sound?  Me too.  That's doubt, crawling in.  I asked him, "Someone's tried to seduce you?  After hearing you play your music?"

He said, "It's been pretty bad.  Not only women, but men, too.  And children.  And people related to me."

"People related to you have tried to seduce you after hearing your music?"

"Yes.  It happens all the time."

"I see.  I really want to hear it, now."

He said, "It wouldn't be right for me to take advantage of you."

I begged and beseeched, and ultimately won him over when the check came.  He insisted on paying the whole thing, and I said, "I don't think so, unless you play me some of your music."  He agreed to that, I thanked him for dinner, and I followed him out to his car, where he kept his magic flute.

He took it out and played.  The music was good.  Not great, and certainly not seduction-worthy.  When he was done, I clapped.  He gave me a funny look, then played another tune.  Also decent.  I clapped again.  He looked at his flute, then at me, then played one more song.  It wasn't anything memorable, although it wasn't at all unpleasant.

When he was done, I clapped a third time, and he asked me, "What the hell is wrong with you?  You should be ripping your clothes off by now."

I said, "Sorry.  They were good, but–"

"Good?" he said, "Good?  They were beautiful!  The most beautiful music ever!  And you, you just stand there and clap?  You don't even try to kiss me?"

I shook my head.  "Sorry.  Maybe if you were Mozart."

"Ugh!" he said, then boxed up his flute, jumped into his car, and drove away.  I was not compelled to follow him, call him, or write him again after that, and that, I think, was the very best thing I could have done.