Playing the Numbers

It had been a gray, drizzly day. The wind was finally calming down, but it was still dreary and unseasonably cold outside. When I first spotted her strolling across campus, she was like a bright burst of color glowing in a black-and-white movie.

She seemed like the kind of girl I had always found magnetic: demure and bookish, a pretty face quietly hidden behind studious glasses. Her soft brown hair was cut in a gentle bob. This was a thoughtful-looking girl who didn't seem to be completely aware of how attractive she was. I immediately felt like I had a crush on her--maybe a big one.

She was about 40 feet away from me, sauntering across the campus quad, lost in thought, probably on the way to class. I was on my way to teach "Beginning Music Theory for Jazz Guitar," and hadn't been thinking about much in particular, just playing around with an idea for a new riff. That's what I was doing until she caught my eye, anyway.

From that distance, I had a pretty good view of her, and it almost stopped me in my tracks. I loved everything about her. I loved the way her hips shifted sensuously under her skirt as she walked. I loved the way her rust-colored cable knit sweater looked on her, wrapped under an olive green jacket. Bundled up the way she was, I couldn't get a complete look at her shape, but I could tell she was thin, somewhat petite, probably athletic.

It was her demeanor that made the biggest impression on me, though. She seemed soft and sensuous, quietly intelligent, feminine, serene, and confident. I wished right then I could know her. I wished I was closer to her age so I could actually pursue her. I wished she hadn't been a student at the college; I was an instructor, so she was completely off limits, even if there wasn't a huge age gap. I could have so easily been fired for trying to get involved with a member of the student body.

All I could think: what a shame that I had to worship her quietly from afar. She was probably about 20 or even younger, like most students there. I was 43 years old. There was nothing wrong with feeling attracted to someone her age, but it was the kind of thing I had to keep to myself.

That night, I imagined her as I stroked my way toward relief, pretending the big age difference didn't exist. I didn't feel bad about fantasizing; I had no intention of acting on my feelings. And I couldn't help how I felt. Where were had girls like that been when I was in my twenties, anyway?

---

A week later, I'd all but forgotten her. There hadn't been another sighting, and that was just as well; midterms for "Intro to Guitar for Jazz and Pop" were going on, and each one was an in-person appointment in my office. My schedule was pretty damned full. Class sizes were way up that semester, and I was overwhelmed trying to set up all the testing. You'd hear people saying EDM and rap and AI-generated slop would be the future of music, that no one would play instruments anymore. I could have told you just based on student interest that this was complete bullshit. Jazz guitar classes alone seemed more popular than ever.

Mid-morning, after my early classes were done, I got an email from the administration office saying that some guitar stands I'd ordered were waiting for me in Shipping and Receiving. They were replacements for stands that were completely worn out and falling apart, and I'd convinced someone I knew in Accounting that new ones weren't that much money and would last a long time.

I ambled over to the administration office, headed for the receiving area.

Inside the building, I turned a corner and found myself bumping right into someone heading the other direction--we walked smack into each other. It wasn't a hard collision, but it surprised us both.

"Oh, god, sorry," I said immediately, before I even got a look at the other person.

"No, no, it was my fault; I should have been looking." Her voice was soft and pleasant.

Looking up, I realized: it washer, the girl from the other day. I'd literally bumped into her.

She was smiling at me, looking slightly embarrassed. When our eyes met, though, there was a spark. Something magical had just happened, and we both seemed to recognize it immediately.

Another thing I realized quickly: she was not 20. This girl was definitely older than that--maybe still in her 20s, butlate 20s. She wasn't a kid. This was a woman.

She was wearing a cream-colored knit sweater, and when I dared to take a quick, stealthy glance, I couldn't help noticing the sublime round swells underneath. She had on a knee-length tan skirt and black leggings, which went well with the nice sweater. I thought she looked truly fetching, and, as I had a chance to get a good look at all of her, I realized how much I liked her figure: peachy boobs, narrow waist, hips with an attractive, gentle flare. Her face was adorable; she had the look of someone who had only recently started to look more womanly than cherubic.

"Hey, I'm Adam," I blurted, and I stuck out my hand. It just happened, reflexively. Honestly, if I'd had my wits about me, I don't know that I would have been that assertive, but all of this was happening before I had a chance to think. "I'm so sorry about that."

"Oh, hi, I'm Tara," she said in a friendly, honey-coated voice, shaking my hand gently. Her sweet smile lit up the room.

My god, even if I didn't have a crush on her before, I did now. Huge crush. She was so disarmingly pretty and so feminine and so immediately charming.

I struggled to find words. "Yeah, well, I really wasn't looking either. Hopefully next time we'll both look." I grinned awkwardly. I was always so much more self-possessed and confident in my fantasies.

"Definitely," she said, still smiling at me. "I gotta go teach my next class, but it was really nice to meet you." There was that sparkle in her eye again.

"Nice to meet you, Tara," I managed, still feeling awkward.

She gave a tiny wave and then she was off. Even after she was gone, there was still the faintest trace of something floral in the air--clean, bright, maddening.

Two things on my mind at that point: she wasfaculty, not a student, and she was years older than she'd seemed from a distance. Oh, and she may have been the most beautiful woman ever, in the history of beautiful women.

That night, I fapped again, thinking about her, everything about her. I thought about her face, her voice, her hair, her scent, her nice sweater and its nice bulges, the shape of her legs. It took me less than five minutes to come. An hour later, I did it all over again.

---

Of course, now I had to invent ways to run into her (but not literally, this time!).

I got to thinking about her age, curious. I'd already looked her up in the faculty directory; there was only one Tara on staff, and that was Tara C. Ross, M.S., biosciences. I was glad I'd heard her pronounce her name already ("tair-ah"), so I didn't have to guess and maybe inadvertently mispronounce it as "tarr-ah."

The directory didn't list ages, but I did find out how long she'd been employed at Cuesta College (only about a year). She had to be in her late 20s, at least, or maybe very early 30s. That was kind of young for an instructor, but not completely unheard of.

Late 20s, though: was that still too young for me? Should I actually try to pursue Tara, or would that be inappropriate? I was in my early 40s; it still seemed like kind of a big age gap. Or did it?

Best thing to do, I decided, was to not worry about that, and let things play out on their own. I just needed to find a way to be in the same place as her again.

---

Next thing I knew, the two of us were out for coffee. Well, no, we were at the campus cafe, which did serve coffee--but we were both drinking peppermint tea.

"Why do people go out for coffee together? I mean, ew, right? People should go out for mints or something," she had laughed. "I mean, coffee, bleh. I guess I just wouldn't want to gross anyone out." She played with her hair a little while she spoke; her voice was soft and dulcet, enchanting.

"I doubt that could ever happen," I said, sitting across from her, trying not to staretoomuch. She was so beautiful, though. Her large doe eyes seemed to glow at me, a lovely golden brown.

Let me explain how this had happened.

I didn't need to bother coming up with a scheme to meet again. A couple days before this, I had been on the way to teach a class, lost in deep thought, trying to figure out if there was a better way to explain diatonic modes to music theory students. The modes' Greek names (like Ionian, Lydian, Aeolian) really seemed to put the students off, and I thought about trying to play something in each mode first,thentell them the name. Or make up some alternate names maybe? Ionian could be "Mode I," and Lydian could become "Mode L1" and Locrian would be "Mode L2," or something along those lines. Would that work better for them? I was really unsure, but I was convinced that good command of the modes made one a better player.

"Hey, Mr. Bumpy," came a voice in the hallway.

I looked over; there was Tara's broad smile. I was surprised to see her, so much so that it took me half a second to recognize this was actually happening, and not just a daydream.

"Oh, hey, Tara," I grinned. We both stopped. "Yeah, no bump this time!"

She laughed at that. "Adam, right? Yeah, see? We're already doing better. No bumping."

"Sorry about that, again," I told her.

"Oh, it's OK. No casualties."

She was still smiling at me. Tara was wearing a tight black top made of thin material, and I noticed how pronounced it made her breasts look; they seemed a little bigger than I'd first thought. Tara was a slim girl, so the fact that she was also kind of busty was incredibly hot. I took a quick, stealthy glance at her left hand: nothing on her ring finger. Good.

I tried to keep the conversation moving. "So, anyway, what's goin' on?" (I cringed slightly at how generic that was, but I was having to think on my feet, and that's what came out.)

"Oh, not a lot, really. On my way to teach a survey class, yawwwn. 'Survey of Biology'--it's a Gen. Ed. requirement. Lots of bored kids staring into space while I just yap."

She called her students "kids," which I found kind of charming; she wasn't all that far removed from being a kid herself.

"Oh, you're a bio teacher?" I had to feign ignorance.

"Yeah, I'm a secret huge nerd," she said with a laugh in her voice.

"Oh, me too, for sure."

"What do you teach?" she asked.

"Music," I said. "On my way to do a music theory class at 11."

"Oh, that's so cool. I love music.Loveit. I don't play an instrument, really, but I like to sing."

I thought it was really cute the way her hair bounced around when she was being emphatic. She liked music a lot! That was good to know.

"Well," she started, "I should--"

I could not let this opportunity get away.

I cut her off: "Listen, uh, if it's OK, I just--" I felt my face starting to get a little warm. "Would you want to go for coffee sometime?" (Should I have said "like" instead of "want"? I pushed my self-consciousness aside.)

Tara had a wide-eyed look of surprise. For a split second, I worried.

But then: "Yeah," she said. Her voice had grown softer. "Yeah, I'd like that." Her startled look had completely vanished; she seemed slightly meek now, as if caught off-guard. She said, "Tomorrow morning maybe? Like, nine?"

I exhaled. "Oh, I can't; tomorrow's one of my busy days. Classes and in-person midterms all morning."

"Wednesday, then? Wednesday, maybe 8:30?"

I was very encouraged by the fact that she was the one pitching days and times.

"Yeah," I said. "That'll work."

Tara seemed to be blushing a little, too. "OK. See you then!" She was off--and then stopped suddenly. "You mean the campus cafe, right?"

"Yeah, campus cafe."

"OK!" she grinned, and she was on her way.

I let myself ogle her round little ass as she continued down the hall.

---

She'd gotten to the cafe early and was sitting at a table waiting for me with two cups of peppermint tea. I thanked her for buying, and was quietly excited by the fact that she was there ahead of time. Did that mean she was actually interested in me? It seemed like it, and the thought thrilled me.

"I hope you don't mind that I paid," she said as I sat down. "I mean, I dunno if this is a date, but some guys would mind if a girl paid on the first date."

"I don't mind at all," I said, sipping. "Especially if I get to pay on the second date."

"So thisisa date?" she asked. She looked earnest.

"If it's OK with you, then yeah, it's a date."

She smiled warmly. "I think it's OK with me."

The cafe was somewhat crowded, and it was an echoey, tiled room, but I didn't hear any of the noise. All I heard was Tara's mellifluous voice.

"So this is a first date, then," I said. "And there's already been talk of a second--as long as that would be OK, too."

"I think so," she said. "I don't want to rush things; we just figured out this reallyisa date. But yeah, I mean, so far, so good."

I really liked the way her hair framed her pretty face. The sides of her bob were bouncing around a little as she spoke, which was cute and endearing.

"You know, at first, I thought you were probably a student," I told her. "When I first saw you." (I gave no indication that I wasn't talking about bumping into her at the office. I wasn't ready to confess that I'd had worship-from-afar moments.) "And then I realized you weren't, like, 19 or 20. But it took me a minute. That's a compliment, by the way."

"Well, thank you," she said, and it looked like she was blushing again. "Yeah, I know, I still kind of look like a kid. I just turned 29 last month. Who knows if I'll ever really look like a grownup. My mom still looks pretty young and she's in her 50s."

"Hey, happy birthday. I wouldn't say you look like a kid, though. You're just youthful. I kinda envy that at my age." I was laughing a little as I said that.

"Thanks, but I think it's different for you. Age and maturity are a good look on a man." She was beaming at me.

"I'm just glad you don't think I'm some old creep or something. I worried about that, a little." I figured the age gap issue was bound to come up, so I might as well be upfront.

"No, god no, why would I think that? Just because you're older? Lots of women are into older guys. Like I said, age can look good on a man."

I was 99% sure that "lots of women" included her, and this delighted me.

Over the course of this pleasant conversation, it became clear to me that Tara truly was a grown adult. It was the way she came off; she really didn't act like someone in her 20s--at least, not likeIwould have, in my 20s. She was remarkably self-possessed, far more than I had been at that age. Was it because she was already teaching? It took me until my late 30s before I managed to get a job at the college. I wondered: how was it she was already an experienced instructor, so young? She seemed so far ahead, just overall.

Another thought I had while sitting with her: I always liked what she wore. That day, she had on a scoop-neck white cotton shirt--which was nice because it bared some of her upper chest, creamy smooth skin, a few light freckles--and she had a long, loose chunky-knit brown cardigan over it. It was a sophisticated look on her. I really liked the necklace she was wearing, bright glittery silver diamond shape at the end of a thin silver cord. Her rounded glasses, which had cute tortoise-shell frames, were adorably nerdy.

I was a little disappointed that her low-neck shirt didn't reveal much cleavage; her breasts seemed large enough, but the shirt was riding a bit too high. A minute into the conversation, though, Tara leaned slightly forward to pick up her tea, and as she shifted her arm, a couple inches of cleavage showed up from out of nowhere. I was thrilled; now I had some idea of her breasts' shape, which was absolutely captivating. I shifted in my seat a little to hide my growing erection. Her right breast had a cute mole near the top, and I was excited to know that tiny detail.

"You know," she was saying, "I'm glad you suggested the cafe. Usually a first date would probably be at a bar or something, some place with alcohol, and the thing is, you end up not really knowing if you actually get along, or if it's just the drinks." Her expression grew tender. "But this way, I'm sober and I know I'm having a good time."

She stood right then and shed her sweater, draping it over the back of her chair. Now she was just wearing that scoop-neck shirt. I couldn't help myself; her tits stood out prominently in that tee, and I had to gaze for a second, even though the cleavage was momentarily gone. When she sat back down, I realized that she was looking straight at me--had she known I'd been staring at her tits? If she minded, she didn't act like it. She looked amused.

Her breasts were so perfectly big for her body that I might have started to wonder if she'd had work done--but I just knew she hadn't. They seemed perky, but there was also a weightiness to them, something fake boobs would never have. When she moved around, they shifted with a slight natural jiggle, tantalizing. I had to wonder: would I ever have the chance to see them, bare?

We kept on talking. I was telling her about my musical passions--jazz, above all--and she told me all about how her discovery of the late, great Carl Sagan drew her into science, and how membership in the high school's science club led her directly to getting her degree and a master's in biology. "I didn't really want to be a research biologist or anything like that. And what else can you do? I actually do like teaching--especially when it's not a Gen. Ed. survey class." She laughed.

I kept thinking about our age difference while we talked. It wasn't that it really bothered me, but this was by far the biggest gap I'd ever had with someone, and it did give me pause. 14 years seemed like it might be a lot. Yet I was completely comfortable with Tara, at home, at ease--I felt like we were compatible, more so than with any other woman I'd been with. I couldn't put my finger on exactly why I felt this way, but I already knew it was true. So maybe the age difference didn't matter.

Within a few minutes, we were talking about our next date; at this point we were both acting like it was a sure thing. The subject came up because I was talking about teaching jazz guitar, which were the classes I loved doing the most.

"I bet you're such a good player," Tara gushed.

I laughed and shrugged. "I'm not bad. Ya know, there's a jazz club here in town--Take Five. Have you been? I play there sometimes. I'm actually playing there this weekend--Saturday night."

"Ohhh, I'm gonna come. I need the details. I want to come see you."

I was beside myself. "I was actually thinking that maybe I could take you. Like, second date."

"Yes," she said, absolutely beaming. "Yes. I want that."

"I don't know how much jazz you've listened to, but--I do this tribute to Wes Montgomery. That's what I'm doing Saturday. He played jazz guitar, one of the greats."

"I'm pretty sure I've heard of him," she said.

"Thing is--what if you end up bored, though?"

Tara looked at me incredulously. "I love music. I won't be bored. And besides, something tells me I'll like seeing you play."

I had a big, stupid grin on my face. I almost mentioned to her that I did the side-thumb string-stroking thing the way Montgomery did, but I realized that might be a little too much detail.

We set up the logistics. I was going to pick her up at 8 PM, we'd have drinks at the club, and then I'd play my sets, with breaks in between. We exchanged numbers. I had her cell number!