I come from a musical family. Both of my parents are professional orchestral players.

I started studying piano when I was five, and within weeks, I had surpassed the skills of my nine-year-old sister, who’d been playing for three years. I’d apparently won the lottery in the musical gene pool.

Growing up, I enjoyed being around musicians of all sorts. My personal heroes were Chopin and Liszt. As I entered puberty, I was drawn to girls who were musically inclined. My first crush was on a young mezzo-soprano I once accompanied at a recital. As a high-school sophomore, I lost my virginity to a senior girl who played oboe. (No “skin flute” jokes, please. I’ve heard them all.)

After high school, I was accepted at a prestigious conservatory in New England, surrounded by other prodigies. My camaraderie with other students was overshadowed by some intense competition. The one student who seemed more talented than me was a kid in the composition program. If you’re a fan of contemporary classical music, you’d possibly know him by his real name. So for this confession, he’ll be “Curtis.”

Curtis was the kind of kid who grew up hearing people whispering the word “genius” within his earshot, and so of course he assumes he is one. He’d written a prize-winning short opera before his second year at the conservatory and it received a couple of important productions. He was a big deal, and he didn’t let you forget it.

The two of us were tight, though the friendship was always tainted by our rivalry. I conceded that I was the beta male to his alpha. But I didn’t really care about that. It was fun being in the company of a star. Besides, we weren’t really competing in the same fields. He was a composer. I was a pianist. And when you’re a performer you soak up the adulation more directly than a composer would, immediately after you play that final chord.

We became each other’s wingman at the local watering holes where the conservatory’s dating scene played out. It was a fucking intense life. Musicians are passionate people — a cliché, but true. More accurately, musicians are horny fucks. When Curtis and I weren’t rehearsing or burning the midnight oil working on orchestrations, we were going through a revolving door with willing women. I dated some of Curtis’s castoffs. He took up with one or two of mine. All this attention was making us both insufferable.

One night when Curtis and I had gotten a little too drunk and high, we brought two first-year students back to his apartment — I’ll call them Jeanne and Jill. What a bacchanal that was! These women were both sexy as hell. Jeanne was a busty blonde; Jill was slight and dark. In the dimly lit apartment we fucked the two of them until nearly daybreak. It was a little weird for me — my first experience with group sex. Curtis loved it. He was a true exhibitionist. I remember at one point all four of us were together on his big bed. I was furiously screwing Jill’s tight pussy in doggie, while he was leaning back against the headboard, being fellated by the buxom Jeanne.

“Christ, Will,” he said. “Look how hard Jeanne has made my cock.” He pulled his circumcised meat out of her mouth and thrust it out for Jill and me to see. “I don’t think it’s ever been this big and stiff.”

I grew wary of Curtis that night. I felt he was literally measuring his dick against mine, reasserting his masculine superiority. We still hung out some after that, but the wingman thing tapered off. By the end of that semester, I was seriously dating a young woman named Leigh who wasn’t a music student. Curtis was still constantly on the prowl.

He finished at the conservatory a year before I did and went to California. We kept in touch but didn’t talk often. He had a song cycle performed in LA, and I thought about going out to hear it but couldn’t afford the trip. He now seemed like a distant acquaintance. But that changed last year, when I had a phone call from him.

Curtis had written a Christmas cantata. “I’d call the fucker an oratorio,” he said, “but they’ll think I’m trying to out-Handel Handel.”

A big, moneyed Episcopal church on the East Coast was premiering the piece, which was written for piano and voice. There were sections calling for a small choir, but the lead vocal role was for soprano. Curtis’s new girlfriend — we’ll call her Ada — would be singing the part.

“She’s spectacular, Will. You’ll fall in love with her.”

More prophetic words had never come out of his mouth.

Ada — originally from Houston — was big news in the music world. The two of them had moved in together soon after that. I’d seen Ada’s press photos — she looked gorgeous, if somewhat aloof. She was a blonde — slim and a little austere, but somehow crazy glamorous at the same time. Her eyes were smoky and mysterious. And her voice! When I heard the lieder album, I wanted to take her voice to bed with me.

Curtis wanted me as pianist for the Christmas gig.

“Only you can play this one, Will. You know my music. You know where it comes from. From my belly. From my groin.”

He was as full of himself as ever. From his groin? Seriously?

I agreed to the gig. But I felt trepidation. I could tell it was a brilliant creation. But it was also extremely difficult. Still, how could I say no? If I declined Curtis’s offer, I’d always wonder what might have been.

I fell hard for Ada the moment I met her. It was the weekend after Thanksgiving when I arrived in the city where the cantata would be presented. We’d agreed to meet in a coffee shop near the church where the piece would be performed.

Ada’s photos hadn’t captured her full beauty. Her skin was flawless. Her eyes were dark gray — nearly charcoal. Her smile had mystery in it. And her speaking voice was as smooth and crystalline as her singing — with only a slight twinge of Texan twang now and again. I’d reached to shake her hand, but she embraced me coolly. But considering that Curtis’s greeting had been an over-aggressive bear hug, Ada’s embrace seemed relatively welcoming.

“Curt has shared recordings of your playing,” she told me. “I cannot wait to hear you play his music.”

“And I can’t wait to hear you sing it.’

“It’s a phenomenal composition,” she smiled. “It’s also a motherfucker to sing.”

I hadn’t expected salty language from that honeyed mouth. But it immediately endeared her to me.

“It’s a motherfucker to play, too. Believe me.”

She laughed nervously. Curtis, meanwhile, glared at us.

“Their first conversation, and already they’re dissing the composer.”

“You’re going by ‘Curt’ now?” I asked. He’d always hated it when people shortened his given name.

“No. Only Ada gets away with that,” he said. “I put up with it during bedroom talk, but it spills over sometimes.”

There it was, a not-so-subtle reminder that he and Ada were fucking. He knew me well enough to know how I’d react to her. After all, he’d told me over the phone I would fall in love with her.

I’d noticed immediately that Curtis had changed. Physically, he was the same — though his hair had thinned a little. But he’d become more aggressive, almost combative.

The next day we met at the extravagant house where he and Ada were staying. It belonged to one of the Über-wealthy church families who were in Europe for the holidays. There was a grand piano there that we could use. I was being housed in the church basement, in a small but nice apartment usually reserved for visiting clergy.

The first rehearsal began well. The opening part of the cantata took its text from Isaiah: “For unto us a child is born,” Familiar, right? It was relatively easy to play, and my heart beat fast as I heard Ada sing live for the first time. Fucking angelic.

Soon, though, things went to shit. The middle part of the cantata was a monster. Curtis had written things that a pianist born with three hands couldn’t play. Before long, he was steaming.

“Well, that was disappointing.”

“Damn, Curtis, I said, laughing. “Your music’s not easy.”

“What’s the problem with it?” he snapped. “I’ve had two players far less talented than you who can perform it flawlessly. Your notes are there. Mostly. But it sounds labored.”

Stung, I muttered: “I just need to work on it.”

“Clearly.”

The next two weeks were highly frustrating. Curtis was mostly civil, but I had the feeling he was extremely unimpressed with my performance. Apparently, so was Ada. She seemed distant, unfriendly.

The next Saturday afternoon, we rehearsed at the house again. There had been light snow flurries all day. As dusk approached, it was a steady drift. This rehearsal went slightly better than the earlier one.

“You should stay over here tonight,” said Curtis, who seemed in a better mood than he’d been in days. “The weather sucks. Besides, I made oyster stew. There’s plenty of wine. We should relax. Forget about the fucking music.”

Idly, I played a few bars of “Jingle Bells.” I wasn’t sure about staying there at the house with them. But I relented.

Before the wine bottles were opened, we drank martinis. While Curtis worked in the kitchen, I sat and talked with Ada.

She was so sexy in her shiny white dressing gown. We talked about the places we’d been performing. I told her about how my relationship with Leigh had blossomed and then fallen apart. She was attentive but still seemed a little reserved.

The three of us talked and drank and listened to recordings late into the night. At one point Curtis asked me about Leigh. I’d never spoken to him about the breakup.

“Oh, I was telling Ada about that earlier,” I said.

“I’ll bet you were,” he said in a stinging tone, adding a nasty chuckle.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I know you, William. I know your M.O.”

I picked up my glass and drained it. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Never mind.” His thin smile seemed almost sinister. “Tell me about Leigh. Sorry you’ll have to hear a rehash, Ada.”

“Some other time,” I said.

He picked up a bottle and poured wine in my glass. “Suit yourself.” He went to pour wine for Ada, too, but he somehow missed the glass. Cabernet spilled onto her dressing gown and onto the sofa and carpet.

“Oh, fuck me.” Curtis said.

He and Ada both got up, running for something to wipe up the catastrophe. As they stumbled about, I realized that both of them were completely shit-faced. Soon the three of us were on the floor dabbing at the red stains with sponges and napkins and towels. Ada’s stained dressing gown had come off. She was wearing a flimsy blouse and shorts that left little to the imagination. Curtis was carrying on about how the house’s owners were going to come home and think there’d been a Roman orgy in their living room. And then, for some reason, we all started to laugh uncontrollably. I laid back on the floor and closed my eyes. Nothing was really funny. We were all just mad drunk.

Things got quiet after a while. I opened my eyes, turned my head, and was shocked to see that Curtis had pulled Ada’s shorts to her ankles and had his mouth on her pussy. She was moaning softly. I turned my head away, again closing my eyes. I could hear clothes being torn off. What the fuck were they thinking?

After a moment, Curtis said: “Get real, Will. You know you want to watch this.”

So that was it. It was his exhibitionistic fetish again. I wouldn’t indulge him. Again I played dead.

But soon I heard the unmistakable sound of fucking: the slapping sound of skin on skin, the squish of cock in pussy. I couldn’t help myself. I sat up and looked at them. They were both naked, going at it in missionary position. I couldn’t see Ada’s face. And Curtis’s back was turned to me. But he’d heard me move. He turned my way and grinned.

“Yo, Willie. Like what you see?”

“Fuck you,” I said. I managed to stand up. “Fuck the both of you.”

“Sorry, we’re otherwise engaged at the moment,” said Curtis sarcastically.

I picked up a pillow from the sofa and walked down the hall to one of the bathrooms. That night I slept in a bathtub.

By early morning the blizzard had ended and the snow was melting. I had an evil headache, but I managed to find my coat and scarf. I left the house and trudged back toward the church ten blocks away.

When I arrived in the little apartment I took a couple of aspirin and climbed into the narrow bed fully clothed and falling to sleep quickly.

A knock on my door woke me. I looked at my cell phone. Christ, it was 1:30 in the afternoon!

I stumbled to the door. It was Ada. She looked unkempt, her hair wild and her eyes bloodshot. She’d been crying, apparently. I’m sure I looked like shit myself.

“Will, I need to talk with you,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. About last night. About everything.” She took a deep breath. Her exhalation became a sob.

“Don’t cry,” I told her. “You’ll hurt your voice.”

“I don’t care about my goddamned voice!” she said. “He’s a monster, Will. I feel trapped.”

“Where is he now?”

“We had a fight. He took a train to Boston. He has an uncle there, remember? He’ll be back on Tuesday. Why did I ever get involved with him?”

We decided we both needed strong coffee. She waited for me as I took a quick shower. Soon we were walking in the snow, which had already started to melt.

Ada confided to me that soon after Curtis had talked her into performing in the cantata, he’d become abusive toward her. She wanted nothing more than to leave him and go to Texas to spend Christmas with her family, but she’d foolishly agreed to travel with him to London soon after the cantata’s premiere.

We stopped at a quiet café and had coffee. Afterward we went for a long walk.

“You’re such a good guy,” she said as we headed back toward the church. “Curtis is resentful of you, Will. He’s so fucked-up. He envies your decency.” She was starting to cry again. “I need you. As an ally,” she said.

“Of course.”

We were soon at the steps of the church. “Do you want to come in?” I said.

“Yes, I don’t want to be alone.”

We entered the church through the side entrance, which led to my quarters.

“Hold me,” she said after we stepped inside the apartment. I did. I held her for a long time. I felt her soft cheek on my stubble-covered face.

And then, somehow, my lips were on hers. I kissed her softly at first, then more assertively. She broke away from me and looked into my eyes.

“You think I’m a whore, don’t you?”

“No.”

“I feel like one sometimes.”

“Well, you’re not.”

“Don’t be so sure. I really want to be with you. To go to bed with you.”

I couldn’t believe her words. But my dick was stirring.

“Would that be wise?” I asked.

“Fuck ‘wise.’” She began tearing off her clothes. I sat on the narrow bed, amazed.

Soon she was naked. Her slim body was toned, her skin silky, her breasts small exquisite mounds with soft, rose-colored nipples.

She pushed me back on the bed and fell onto me, kissing me with wanton passion. After a minute or so of frantic kissing, she sat up, got off the bed, and fell to her knees. She unbuckled my belt. Soon my hot, engorged cock was freed from my jeans and boxer briefs. I moaned as she teased my tender glans with her tongue and then enveloped my cock fully in her mouth. I tried to keep my voice silent. Technically, we were in a church. But it proved impossible.

“We’ll need a condom,” she said.

I got up from the cot, finished stripping, and searched through my suitcase. I wasn’t sure I’d even packed protection. Thankfully, I found a lone rubber in my toiletry case.

I strapped it on my hard-on and returned to the bed, getting on my back again. Ada straddled me, facing me. She slowly eased her shaved pussy down the length of my stiff, insistent rod. Her snatch was snug but slick with her juices. I began thrusting up into her, slowly but powerfully. I watched her sweet tits dance as my body rocked her hard.

Before long I came with more fury than I’d ever come before. Afterward I brought her to orgasm by lapping her labia with my tongue and sucking on her clit. Both spent, we clutched each other like the end of the world was before us.

On Tuesday, when Curtis returned, we all resumed rehearsals as though nothing unusual had happened. Ada later told me that Curtis had hired a steam-cleaning service to remove the wine stains from his hosts’ carpet.

The cantata was a huge success. Most accolades went to Curtis and Ada, but my playing received abundant praise, too. The day after, I said my goodbyes to the two of them. We were all very cordial. I took a cab to the airport and boarded a plane to Houston.

The next day, while Curtis slept off yet another night of heavy drinking, Ada left an envelope on the nightstand and took her own cab to the same airport — and to the same destination. She would have her Texas Christmas with family after all. New Year’s Eve she would spend with me.

We assumed that Curtis flew to London alone — swallowing numerous cocktails as the airliner streaked across the Atlantic.

He bit my inner thigh playfully, and I jumped. His hands closed around my feet and he squeezed them. “That makes it unanimous.”