Kenny G Can Blow Me

For my Personal and Exploratory Writing class at Glendale Community College, we were recently given an assignment: write a family narrative from the perspective of someone else. Although my family is full of stories, it was hard to think of one that was just right. Then, thanks to my parents’ suggestion, I was reminded of a certain favorite aunt’s blind date at a Kenny G concert.

Taking some creative liberties (what author doesn’t?), I wrote the essay for class and received rave reviews. I then submitted the essay to a literary journal called The Blue Guitar. Amazingly, I got accepted! I now present to you “Kenny G Can Blow Me.”

Kenny G Can Blow Me

I hated going on blind dates. My sister, Janet, put me up to it. She’d been all romantic since meeting that Dave guy. Oh, Dave is so sweet; he took me to dinner and took me dancing and blah blah blah. It had been fun, just the two of us single gals partying in northern Ohio. But no, she had to go and get herself a boyfriend, which meant I had to find a boyfriend so we could do stupid things like double date. So there I was at a Kenny G concert with a guy I didn’t know who seemed to be exhausted—or maybe the music was putting him to sleep. He barely spoke, and I swear he was nodding off. Why had I agreed to a blind date and, even worse, a blind date to see Kenny G?

I didn’t have a Kenny G album at home. I would never pay to see the guy in concert, but the blind date buffoon had suggested the evening’s entertainment. I would have preferred James Taylor, but I didn’t say that on the phone because you aren’t supposed to be honest on a first date. On a first date, you’re supposed to be on your best behavior and pretend you have no dirty secrets. Dates were like job interviews, only instead of getting a paycheck, you might get laid—which sounded great. I hadn’t had sex in a couple months, which seemed like forever in hot-and-heavy 1983. A couple months between orgasms was too long. All the women’s magazines told me so, as did my jazzercise instructor, who made us do thrusting exercises to strengthen our kegels.

“Can I get you another beer?”

“Uh. Yeah, that would be great, Scott.”

Scott. The buffoon’s name was Scott. He wasn’t my type. He was skinny with the meek shoulders of an abused dog. I could tell he’d had acne in high school. There were remnants of pimple scars on both cheeks. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, which would have looked studious and sexy on someone else; on Scott, they made him look nervous, because he kept pushing them up and pushing them up. God, it was annoying. Plus, Scott liked Kenny G. Horror of horrors. I watched him get up and head to the bar in the back of the crowded Toledo music hall to get my second beer of the night …

To read the rest of the story, head over to The Blue Guitar. I’m on pages 53 to 54. (Warning: there are several obscenities in the final copy. It wouldn’t have been the same without them. Reader beware!)

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