His home was beautifully appointed with modern furnishings while maintaining it's original character from a century ago. His kitchen was every hobby chef's dream and easily the size of the average homeowners entire first floor. Soothing jazz played throughout and a silly but lovable golden retriever added a bit of warmth to the very clean and organized atmosphere. Spurred by a conversation about great steaks at our first date two months prior at Manhattan's famed '21', he thoughtfully surprised me by ordering two magnificent cuts of beef from Lobel's. After dinner we settled down and polished off a bottle Veuve Cliquot Rose while playing a competitive game of Scrabble under the glow of candlelight. I won the first game with the help of a triple-scored ‘zoom’; he won the next game using 'exemplary' on a double-word tile.

In the morning I was instructed to make myself at home while he attended a short, impromptu meeting not far from his house. The first order of business was coffee and the second, I decided, was a workout in the home gym I was introduced to the evening before. Like the kitchen, the gym was state-of-the-art and I was anxious to get my hands on it. I sipped my coffee over The Times and then dressed for my morning jog on the ultra-nifty treadmill.

I placed my travel speakers on the stereo and settled my iPod into the cradle. I bypassed David Grey, Antigone Rising, Joss Stone and The Dave Matthews Band, among many others, before finding my playlist entitled Workout. These are songs I normally would not listen to due to the unnecessary filthy language and a blatant lack of respect for, well, anyone. The lyrics generally don't make sense, just a bunch of shocking words strung together, and the fact that the songs are inappropriately marketed to young people causes me to balk at supporting such artists and record labels. Alas, to date this is the one and only way I can be persuaded to exercise outside of social activities.

Fifteen minutes into my workout I was pressed on by Gwen Stefani's Hollaback Girl, which always reminds me of my stint as a football cheerleader back in high school. Next, the Pussycat Dolls serenaded me with Don't Cha, a little ditty about a woman chiding her current flame about being hotter and more raw, fun and freaky than his main girlfriend. It's got a good beat anyway . . . Toward the end of my workout, I began sweating to Kanye West and Jamie Foxx's popular and addictive Gold Digger.

So, there I was rocking out and breathlessly singing to Gold Digger, ". . . she went to the doctor got lypo for your money, walking around looking like Michael for your money, shoulda got that insured at Geico for your money . . . holler we want pre-nup, yeah!", when I see a figure behind me reflected in the blank television screen.

"What the hell is this?"

Did I mention this particular gentleman is an Ivy League professor? Who teaches music?

I stepped onto the sides of the machine and pressed the STOP button, smiled and turned to face him.

"Oh, hi. You're back early. What a nice surprise!"

"Yeah, well, this is really bad, this, uh, music stuff. I mean, I've heard it. Those kids, you know, who listen to loud, uh, music in their cars with the windows down, in the winter. I never imagined you to be the type to listen to this."

Some people put quite a lot of stock into the type of music a person listens to as if it were some type of major ethical or moral debate. Clearly he was disappointed I wasn't running to Tchaikovsky or famous opera arias, if that is even possible. I mean, I like and appreciate classical music, opera and show tunes, but they all have their time and their place, you know?

"Oh, well, you see --"

I felt the need to explain myself to him. He looked so hurt, so devastated by my apparent lack of taste when it came to music selection.

"Listen, this is just to motivate me, to work out by. I don't really like it, per se, but it's got a beat that keeps me moving -- like dancing, sort-of. It has a purpose, anyway." I motioned to the iPod on its stand. "Here, why don't you come here and look at the other songs I've saved. They’re actually quite normal. Some I think you would actually enjoy." I began to step from the treadmill to show him that I too, could listen to music responsibly.

He was still looking down, contemplating the situation I suppose, when he put his hand on my arm to indicate I should stay on the machine. A few seconds went by and Britney Spears' dance mix Toxic turned into the live version of Jane's Addiction's Jane Says. As the opening began, the flirty steel drums and the bass, I noticed his foot tapping to the melody. Irritation, I imagined, but then he suddenly looked up at me and smiled, "This is more like it!” Then he started to do a little jig, apparently modern dancing.

He literally burst into laughter. Though he was slightly shocked and found it humorous to hear Gold Digger playing in his house which frightened his simple-minded dog, he found my wide-eyed and horror-struck face hilarious and he just had to play it up as best as he could. I wrinkled my nose and furled my eyebrows in mock irritation, turned from exertion pink from the exercise to crimson red from the embarrassment and then laughed along with him.

We agreed there is something absolutely erotic about Jane Says and began to kiss. We fell onto the matted floor, arms and legs entangled, and "danced" to the remainder of the song, followed by Kidd Rock's slow and sexy Lay It On Me, and then an intense finish with George Michael's I Want Your Sex, Part 2, the extended version with porno-like music combined with brass in the background. As we layed back together and relaxed in post-coital bliss, The Blackeyed Peas came through the speakers singing My Humps and we laughed until we cried.