Welcome, woman I am attempting to seduce, to the hallowed halls of my Connecticut Manor. I pour you a watery cocktail. I claim it was a recipe invented by Frank Sinatra, but actually it came from the back of a jar of olives. Don’t spill a drop on my black and white marble parquet. Oh, yes, my entire design aesthetic is “bathroom at a fancy casino.”
As I lead you into my living room your eyes wander over my seven Waterford chandeliers, a fireplace large enough to cook a bear, and finally, you see the item I have defined myself by.
I am a man with a grand piano.
“Of course I play,” I say as I lean casually against the solid hard rock maple instrument. What kind of madman would own a Steinway Model D concert grand piano if they didn’t spend some time tickling the ivories? As you uncomfortably perch on a velvet chaise, you take in all 8 feet 11 ¾ inches of pure pianific glory. It overtakes the room so powerfully you don’t even notice I have two framed portraits of myself with Jesus. He looks impressed.
I am a man with a grand piano. I refer to anyone I pay money to as “the help.” I wear a top hat to the pharmacy. I haven’t spoken to my mother in seven years. That’s her choice.
Shall I play you a tune? I lick my lips as I gently finger the blacks and the whites. It looks sexual because it is. I pull a tasseled string and my butler George emerges from behind a suit of armor. I tell George to prepare the piano. He must completely polish and tune the piano before and after each playing. At night, George dreams of strangling me with the wire from my piano. Someday he will.
I am a man with a grand piano. At my parties, no one has a good time except me. I own three Lamborghinis, but I can’t drive. When I give gifts they are so extravagant they become a burden. A thousand mylar balloons? Filling a swimming pool with roses? A live eagle? All for my niece’s fourth birthday.
As George polishes the piano, I give you a little history lesson on music and art. Everything I say is wrong.
Finally, I am ready to play. I ask if you have a favorite composer. You say Mozart. I say I’d rather play one of my own compositions, in a tone that heavily implies I think I’m better than Mozart. You say fine. I begin to play, heavy clumsy plunks, like a bird hitting a window a hundred times in a row.
I am a man with a grand piano. I’ve lied about every interaction I’ve ever had with a celebrity. I don’t own a lion, but I could. Every time I finger a woman, I say, “It looks like those piano lessons came in handy.”
My song ends and I give myself a standing ovation. I keep clapping for a full minute after you have stopped. I ask if you’d like to retire to the bedroom. As I’m about to pull the tassel to summon George to prepare my bed for sexing, you yawn. You say you’ve got work in the morning. You see yourself out. I am left here in my Connecticut Manor, just me and my grand piano. I mournfully caress the ivory keys. A concert for one. Then I fuck the piano.
I make George clean it up.