IT had always been a fantasy – like sleeping with a rock star. Only it wasn’t a star I was cuddling, it was a Stradivarius – and for an amateur fiddler like myself, that’s pretty close.

After more than two decades of playing around, the closest I’ve gotten to greatness was studying with a man who owned a Stradivarius.

But he never handed it to me.

Instead, I played a $100 Sam Ash special before graduating to a $1,600 model the violin maker had beaten with chains to give it that old-time, “distressed” look.

And now I had a 300-year-old, million-dollar violin in my lap, which Christie’s Kerry Keane almost casually handed over while another auction-house rep bit her lip.

Now I was distressed. I just hoped I wouldn’t drop it.

For a while, I just sat there and stared at it. For something that’s been kicking around for three centuries, the instrument known as the Taft looks amazingly pristine.

The fittings – that is, the tailpiece, bridge, chin rest and neck – have been replaced over the years, but the body and scroll are just as Antonio Stradivari (who Latinized his name for his labels) had made them, a look that’s been copied but never surpassed.

Even the color is beautiful: golden-red, almost amber – with ruby-red and brown flashes of the original varnish peeking out here and there. There’s a little ripple of wood grain in one corner. More important, the Taft has that distinctive, Stradivarius sound – all at once sweet and powerful, balanced, and big enough to fill any concert hall.

But this was just a store room containing three nervous people (and a photographer).

Willing my palms to stop sweating, I tucked the Strad under my chin, lifted the borrowed bow and started to play.

Or tried to.

The noise jumped out – louder and gruffer than the mild murmur my own fiddle makes. Nervously, I tried the opening bars of a Bach partita, starting on the G, the lowest string. Then, like someone checking out a Maserati and gunning it up to 100, I raced up a scale to hear how this baby handled the high notes.

The sound was almost frighteningly bright – had there been any crystal goblets lying around, they might have shattered. The violin’s voice was focused and powerful, though I felt as if this fiddle were playing me, rather than the other way around.

After a minute or two, I handed it back. Why, I wondered, didn’t I play as well on it as I did on my own battered instrument?

Later, Keane explained that like a fine wine, the Strad needs to breathe. He said that after 30 minutes of playing, the Taft opens up and unfurls its true beauty.

Now all I need is another 28 minutes alone with it. (Fat chance.)

But at least I didn’t drop it.