FicWad

ONE

It was definitely, without a doubt, the man’s eyes that finally pushed me over the edge. They were dark, darker than his short black hair, darker than the night sky that cradles the bare figure of the moon, and the first time they made contact with mine I knew that he wanted me.

-

It was the first day of school, my new class was filed outside of the music annex along the wall, fidgeting, squabbling, and all the other endure and irritating things that kids do on their first big day of grade one. I stood at the head of the line, deep red (and very expensive) tie pressed tightly into my throat. I was almost as fidgety as the kids were. It was my first day as well: young teacher, twenty-three years old in their first educational position. It was a terrifying experience and I was glad to be getting the kids out of my hair for a block so I could chug a cup of coffee, find a mirror, and give myself a good slap in the face for being so nervous with a bunch of six-year-olds. I’d played at bars with larger crowds; but telling myself this only made me feel worse.

I began tugging at my shirtsleeves down, scuffing me feet against the dirt of the path, and flattening out my curls. I was in the middle of pulling one down in hopes of straightening it somehow with physical effort, when the door to the annex opened with a rough tug, causing me to jump and shift my hand; the gentleness with which I was directing the curl became a more of a forceful yank and I cried out in pain.

The kids were laughing at me, I was red with embarrassment to the point where I matched my tie, and when I turned around, I knew for sure, right then and there, that he wanted me. This did not help the colour of my face.

He grinned, straight, white teeth flashing mischievously, wolfishly, and I swallowed. The kid’s laughter had died out now and I was stuck mumbling out shallow instructions to get them through the door. Stepping out of the way, the man- the music teacher, it seemed- redirected his attentions to my class, and left me with barely a goodbye.

I thought I had imagined it; I told myself I imagined it. The problem was, I didn’t imagine it at all, and this time I had evidence.

Week two and I was more comfortable in the classroom. Lesson plans were easier, the kids were amusing and interactive, and I hadn’t yet needed to go back to the annex. I had an EA for that.

Their name was Betty. She was somewhere in her late fifties, was a kindly old thing, and she never asked questions. That was the best part about it really. She came every day; she marked for me, kept an eye on the kids when I was out of the room, and whenever it was our day for Music, she took the kids without a word.

Good, I had thought, I’m sparing myself the embarrassment. Though I didn’t really know what there was to be embarrassed about. I was openly gay, I hadn’t lied about my sexuality since I was sixteen years old; but I suppose it was something to do with the workplace: it was the one place I could admit that sex had no business. He had caught me off guard, made me squirm, but I wasn’t about to let him see it. And that was final; I was going to stay strong.

However, what I didn’t count on was coming into work today, walking into the teacher’s lounge and discovering it empty save for the one person I had sought to avoid: him, obviously

He sat, sprawled on the long old couch, reading a novel. His legs were spread open, one tucked up, pressing into the seat cushion, and one reaching down to the floor where his booted foot tapped leisurely. The shoe was obviously Italian made, and was well worn where the pad extended fashionably. The man had style; I’d give him that.

Trying to keep calm, I walked past a table, dropping my things into a vacant chair and heading straight for the coffee maker.

Letting the premade grounds seep and simmer, I ignored the- alright I’ll admit it- invitingly attractive man lounging to my right, I buggered myself with the most pessimistic thoughts I could muster at 5:30am.

The world hates me, I snapped in my mind. No, scratch that: the UNIVERSE hates me. The whole fucking universe is out there laughing at my pain.

These thoughts, though, only let flow a series of realisations that bombard the thickness of my skull.

You know you like him, they said (oh, this must be my libido talking, how wonderful of him to join the party). You know HE likes YOU. Go on; live a little! You’re twenty-three, for Christ’s sake, who could blame you for following your dick?

I could, that’s who. I most certainly, almost definitely, quite possibly would never forgive myself if I ever had even the smallest, tiniest bit of nerve to- holy Jesus fucking Christ on a bicycle!

I squeaked; I actually squeaked. Just like a mouse. I had one when I was eight, I know what a mouse sounds like, and I swear to whoever was up there filming this for their own sick amusement that I sounded like a fucking mouse. Shit.

My hands gripped the countertop, the coffee was beeping at me like I was in any condition to actually do anything about it, and the man who was causing me all this trouble in the first place was leaning up against said counter with his hips swung out one way and his cheeky little mouth smirking like it owned the expression itself.
I tried to breathe. When that didn’t work, I went to Plan B: I tried to condense my eyes to a semi-normal size, knowing how large they like to get when I’m like this. That didn’t work either. On to Plan C then…

“Hi…” Oh, wonderful, only a dog could have heard that. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Hello.”

“Hey.” He bit his lip, lifting his hand- the one that wasn’t leaning on the counter- to rub his ear. The lobe was pierced with a silver studded hoop, and at a glance I noticed the other ear was the same. “You know,” he began, drawing my attention now to his soft, pink lips, “I don’t think we’ve officially met.”

I’ve been around long enough to know a pick up line when I hear one; strangely enough, this didn’t feel like one of them.

“Erm, no, I don’t believe we have.” I tried for a smile and got one in return that said all too well how cute he thought I was acting. This was not the direction this conversation should be going. I held out my hand, “My name’s Geir Zahl. I teach the Grade One class down the hall.”

His hand clasped mine securely, calloused and warm. “Charmed,” he drawled light-heartedly, obviously trying to put me at ease.

Unfortunately it didn’t work; he leaned in and shut off the coffee machine that I hadn’t noticed was still beeping and my breath hitched as I caught his scent: musky, like sandalwood and cloves.

He leaned back, studying me as though I was the Mona Lisa, trying to make out whether or not I actually smiled. I struggled for authentication and he seemed satisfied enough. Pulling two cups down from a shelf, he proceeded to pour the bitter liquid from the pot into their thick, teacher friendly ceramic.

“You’re a jumpy one. Afraid I’m going to bite?” He flashed his teeth at me like before, but this time they seemed sharper, more pronounced despite the dullness of their ends. He was playful but dangerous, and he knew it, too.

He must have seen the thoughts behind my eyes, because a laugh bubbled from his throat, not in any way threatening.

“Here, drink,” he handed me a cup. “Before you go all…” He waved his free hand in the air as though he conducted some symphony of words, “Janga on me.” He finished, turning and walking to his previous seat on the couch.

Flopping down with a heavy sigh, somehow avoiding a catastrophe with his drink, he patted the cushion beside him and I cautiously made my way over to him and lowered myself to the cushion. A small trickle of brown liquid rose up over the rim of my cup and gleamed down the side.

Could I never get things right?

I frowned and licked the spilled caffeine from the mug with care not to spill any more of the precious substance; instant or not, I wouldn’t get through the day without it.

That was when I noticed he was watching me; it was also when I realised I still didn’t know who the hell I was having coffee with. How awkward.

“Um, sorry,” I shifted towards him, “what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” he exhibited another grin- the man seemed to be full of them- and sipped his coffee.

I waited.

“Well?”

He peered at me slyly over the brim of his mug, “Well what?”

He knew exactly what. I rolled my eyes; something I must have picked up from my students already. “Your name.”

“The Jackal.”

My eyebrows shot to my hairline, “Excuse me?”

“It’s what my friends call me. Or some call me daddy; but I don’t think we’re quite there yet.”

I was shocked. Now that was a pick up line.

He knew. He knew before I could open my mouth in horror. He knew before my protests emptied from my still beating chest. He just knew. But the worst part of all was that I knew. I knew that he knew, and he knew that I knew that he knew. It was a mess: a terrible, horrible mess and I couldn’t even keep up.

It was lucky, then, that what he also knew was that sticking around any longer would not go well for him. He grabbed his book, held tight to his coffee, and left with an air blown kiss. Cheeky bastard.

I hate him, I thought with more than a little immaturity seeping through.

Shaking my head in disbelief, I finished my coffee and pointedly ignored the alighted feeling in my chest before making my way to class.

-

The same day I was sitting at my desk. It was lunch break and Betty had stayed in to help prepare a lesson. We were cutting out words for an idea of mine, a word wall to help the kids learn new vocabulary. I had the large corkboard set up, but it was the cutting that took the longest. Thankfully, it was mindless.

“Betty?”

The older woman didn’t even glace up from her words and scissors. “Hm?”

“Do you know the music teacher?”

I could feel her mood turn a bit sour. “Aye. Why do you ask, son?”

It felt strange every time she called me that, made me remember how young I really was; made me feel inexperience. I brushed it off. “No reason. I met him this morning in the staff room. He wouldn’t tell me his name.”

I could practically hear the woman’s gears grinding. “Oh really? Tried to pull one off on you I’d imagine.”

I swallowed. Hard. “Why would you say that?”

She barked out a laugh. “Why else would he be there? That ridiculous little man! With his unconventional classes and his silly little boots. Thinks himself a rock star, he does; too good for us normal folk. Nah, sonny, he coups himself up in that annex of his playing all that heavy music shite. Only comes out to prey on pretty young men like yourself.”

She paused and I thought she had finished. I was wrong.

“Ha, and those ears! If I were his mother I would be ashamed.” She must’ve noticed I’d dropped my scissors. “Oh, there, there, Mr. Zahl. Don’t you worry a single curl out of place. He won’t be knocking on your door any time soon. As long as you didn’t give him any ideas.”

Numbly recollecting my shearing tool, I zoned out for the rest of the break, giving her neither positive nor negative reassurance.

-

When I asked around the next couple days, very few of the other teachers had much else to say about music teacher. Mr. Ottesen- I learned he was called- mostly kept to himself. However, what comments were shared were hardly on the positive side.

One thing I noticed, though, that concerned me most- and, I must say, intrigued me- was that every remark thus far was mostly directed at either his teaching methods or his appearance. Both of which I was beginning to feel were highly unjustified. Therefore, I decided to take a closer look.

It was Thursday and the bell had gone for second block. Music was next for my kids and when I saw Betty raise from her seat to orderly shepherd the students out to the annex, I bounded over to her and told her I’d take care of it.

She didn’t seem to think anything of it, especially when I asked her kindly if she wouldn’t mind ordering the library corner; it was a legitimate request. It looked like a natural disaster, except without the mud, rain, winds, or snow. Actually, scrap that: two out of the four were definitely present on those shelves.

I left feeling confident; I had planned every move. I would walk the kids to the class, he would open to the door, and after the kids had filed into the annex, I would simply ask if I could sit in for the lesson.

I didn’t think it would be so hard.

He looked at me with amusement, both hands on silk-shirt covered hips. He wasn’t wearing a tie, and a top hat sat precariously at the back of his head (the kids had seemed to find this hilarious).

“Hey there handsome.”

My conflicting throat strangled my predetermined words.

“Listen,” he continued conspiratorially, leaning in and gesticulating comically with his long fingers, his eyes glinting deviously, humorously, “I’m a bit busy at the moment. I have a class, you see? But come back later, all right? We’ll have fun.”

That was the second time that door has been shut on me. I didn’t even get to speak.

Walking back to the school I was determined to see inside of that annex. He kept it so hidden; what were kids allowed to see that the adults of this school were so forcefully banned from? It was curious, and I was angry. I mean: I know I’m quiet, but that doesn’t mean people can just walk all over me. And apparently that is exactly what the impertinent man thought he could do.

It was decided then, I was coming back later, and I wasn’t going to be pushed around any longer.

This means war.

-

When I finally got my kids back at the end of the block (I sent Betty to fetch them), and they were once again seated in their desks for Language Arts, I realised the situation between their music teacher and me had not seemed to pass their notice. Who was it that said children are oblivious to the intentions of adults? Maybe no one, but it was certainly a widely spread conjecture. Though obviously it was wrong.

Marte spoke up first, boosted the confidence of the others; she was the loudmouth of the class, and I suppose it was only fitting that she should be the first to announce her observations.

“Mr. Janove called you handsome!” She stated quite bluntly.

Funny enough, this was the first time anyone had said the man’s first name. Janove: I put the information away for later use.

“Mr. Ottesen, Marte; remember your manners.”

She ignored my comment and Alfie, a kid with barely nine teeth, picked up where she left off.

“Mr. Zahl likes Mr. Janove!”

There was a burst of laughter and shrieks. They clearly took pleasure in this new bout of freshly concocted bullshit. Of course I don’t like the man, I wanted to say: he was totally inappropriate, completely vulgar, and goes entirely off dress code. I told myself this coldly in the safety of my own mind, ignoring the niggling voice overlapping the previous one that told me I found all these “faults” rather appealing. Instead I drew myself up, happy for once that Betty was on an errand and was not around to hear this conversation. I drew my attentions to my rioting classroom.

“No, boys and girls, I do not like Mr. Ottesen.”

“But we like him!” Little Jonas piped up from the back of the class. “He’s fun.”

I sighed. “I’m sure he is, but I don’t like him in the way that Marte and Alfie were…” I rubbed at my forehead in frustration and gave up, realising I was arguing with children who had no real clue as to what love or sex even was; most of them still probably thought that babies fell from the sky or were carried in by a massive stork, or something. So what, really, was the point? “Okay guys, lets get out our writing books; we’re going to make a story.”

Please, oh please, let this work.

There were groans, a few excited chippers, but for the most part they seemed to be willing to move on. Thank God for small mercies.

The rest of the lesson went without a hitch.

-

I stood, holding my teaching bag, my jacket, and my marking for the night, contemplating the pros and cons of allowing my fist to contact the door.

Was it really what I wanted? I was angry before, I was rash; I really didn’t want to do this. I felt stupid, mostly, standing in the August sun, struggling with myself internally. If anyone saw me they’d probably think I was someone’s art project forgotten outside- I hardly moved an inch.

That is, until the door swung open with its sickening metallic groan and made me leap a foot or two skyward. I dropped my things at my feet, or threw them, really, and when I rushed to gather them from the dusty ground, a second pair of hands joined my own.

I froze.

He looked up, past the fringe of his sun kissed black hair, eyes glowing with mirth at my clumsy show. “Hey there stranger.” He handed me the last of my papers and stood, lifting me by the arm to join him. Before I knew it, I was inside the mysterious annex surrounded by a pulsing beat. It didn’t take long to recognise the music as the genius of Kurt Cobain.

I smiled. “You’ve got taste.”

He rushed over to where the stereo control was stashed in a cupboard, dialling it down to mere background noise. Then he seemed to think better of it and turned it off completely. “Sorry, what was that?” He turned to face me and suddenly, in the silence, I lost my calm.

“Erm, your music. It’s good- I mean, Kurt Cobain is practically my hero.” I sounded like such an idiot.

He smiled at me, coming over and relieving me, somewhat vigorously, of my armload. “Yeah, he’s a legend.”

I couldn’t help but smile back. Then I took a look around me; colourful ribbons encircled the room, streaming across the roof. Photos of musical instruments and their frets, tones, and keys were scattered against the deep mahogany of the walls. Lined on the far wall, next to some old wooden bleachers, were sets of Ukuleles and a few guitars. At the front of the room, across from the bleachers was a large expensive looking pianoforte. Immediately I found myself at its keys.

“Like what you’ve done with the place.” It was strange that I found myself easily forgetting the intentions of my visit; why was it that this man always seemed to do that to me?

“Hm, I wanted an organ, but the one I have at home is too old to move. I got this instead.”

I rubbed it tenderly as if it would shatter under my touch; Janove- I found myself for some reason converting to the use of his first name in my thoughts- actually sounded genuinely disappointed about it, and I glanced up to catch his expression only to find myself head to head with a slight problem.

This, I reminded myself, is why I came.

Before me, Janove stood bare-chested, pants clinging teasingly to his hips. He was walking towards me and stopped, leaning onto the piano, reaching down and pressed a single key down. The “A” rang melodiously throughout the body of the piano.

Janove hummed in contentment, letting his eyes flicker shut. “I love the feel of music. Vibrations: they feel so good.”

I stared. I couldn’t breath. I hiccoughed silently a few times, unable to get past the butterflies swarming in the hollows of my stomach. Then his eyes opened, onyx consuming any trace of brown his eye once held and I nearly lost control.

It was fine, then, that the next second he was on me; not that I knew exactly how it happened, of course, but I was sitting on the bench of the piano and those were definitely the man’s legs straddling my own, and it was, definitely, I was sure, all for the greater good.

Oh fuck.

Now I could feel his need pressing keenly through the fabric of his tight trousers. It rubbed into the base of my midsection as he shifted expertly in the seat of my lap; evidently, he knew exactly what he was doing, and if this was war, he was winning by a long shot.

I gulped air like a dying man, holding back moans seeking to escape and let know the enemy of his advantage. But the treacherous bastards won in the end; I cried out as the eager man atop me found a particularly receptive point at my waist. Janove took this opportunity to grasp the back of my head and pull me in for a deep and exhilarating kiss.

It was slow, his tongue massaging my own, hot and probing. The kiss was surprisingly tender; more affectionate than I’d imagined it would be kissing someone as dynamically flirtatious as the man above me proved to be. It distracted me beyond the point of reason, I lost all thought process and I could not possibly think of an excuse for why I really shouldn’t be doing this. It all just seemed so right.

I took it in stride, all of it; he moved from unhurried thrusts accompanied by languid kisses to a series of nips and bites down the side of my throat. I moaned, throwing back my head to better accommodate the man’s declining mouth.

“Janove…”

He huffed out a breathy laugh in between a moment of sucking and sliding at the protruding bone near my collar. “You know my name.” I could feel his grin.

“Janove?” I whined.

“Yes?” He began unbuttoning my shirt painstakingly slow.

“I… what are you doing?”

“Bit late for that, don’t you think?” His lips brushed my chest; he sounded far more in control that I was at the moment.

“No, I’m… ah!” He caught me by surprise, latching very sharp teeth onto my hardened nipple. “We’re in a school!” I forced out.

“No we’re not, we’re in a children’s music room.” His lips curled upwards and he continued to play, hands now joining in on the expedition of my chest.

“That’s even worse!” My eyes widened; I didn’t think I could take much more of this. I grappled onto his back and ignored my conscience as I began trailing my hands to his belted trousers.

The metal of the belt clinked against itself as it was let loose; the trouser’s zipper was nothing my shaking fingers couldn’t handle, to my own astonishment. The waist of the tight fabric came loose and slid down his backside to where my hands greedily followed.

Now his own moans and noises of encouragement mingled with mine; a give and take of gratification until the feeling of our mutual clothed erections became too much to handle.

“Off.” I mumbled around the lobe of his ear where my tongue slid and tugged at the earring embedded in its soft flesh. The cold metal being warmed by my tongue prompted lustful filled thoughts as the man it belonged to gasped and exclaimed at the twisted mix of pain and pleasure. I liked the earrings, I concluded fleetingly, vaguely recalling a comment thrown out by my assistant only a day past, and then lost the train of thought completely as my trousers were unbuckled and my stiff cock pulled free into the chilly air of the annex. My intake of breath happened so fast it nearly winded me.

“Up.” It was Janove’s voice that sounded above me, but it was his lack of attendance on my thighs that caught my attention.

“Huh?”

“Up.” His fingers curled under my chin and drew me upwards; I followed, of course, my lips seeking his desperately. We shared a chaste and momentary kiss, his hands caressing my face. He pulled back, his eyes meeting my own; I was entrapped, line, hook, and sinker. I gazed into his deep brown orbs and immediately was struck with the notion that I was in love. My breath hitched; and he knew it too.

“Do you know why they call me daddy?” He reached behind himself, maintaining the contact of our eyes and the one hand on my face. He produced the top hat from before almost magically from the confines of the piano, and then closed its lid gently, reaching back around and placing the hat firmly on my head of curls.

I could think of a few reasons why he would get such a name, majority of them less sexual and more paternal; but in the situation that I found myself, the more erotic answers bubbled to the surface.

Grinning, I humoured him: “Why’s that?”

“Because,” His hands found my hips and he swung me around and lifted me onto the piano’s closed lid. “I am such a very…” He pulled in the bench, pushing himself up and reclining me backwards, “good…” his lips brushed mine, “fuck…” He bared his teeth predatorily, intimately, and I swear I nearly passed out.

Then he was on me, once again, removing any traces of clothing left between the two of us. Heat enveloped me only through his touch, and his hands, thankfully, were everywhere, drawing nearer to their cause. I squirmed on the lid of the piano, I could hear keys occasionally sounding out to join our panting breaths, but mostly I felt them as the vibrations shivered down my spine making my cock twitch pleasantly. But now, I was all but dying of need.

“Please, Janove. Get on with it!” I couldn’t help it; I was frustrated.

“Since you asked so nicely…” How amusingly patronizing he could be, even under the most abnormal circumstances; I was almost curious to know how he would react in a gun fight, or something equally as dangerous, but the pondering was lost to the hollow heat of his mouth enveloping my throbbing, dripping member. And oh my fucking god was he good.

I’ve had a number of blowjobs in my day, some not so great, and others enough to make me writhe. However, this, I had to say was definitely at the top of the list.

The muscle of his tongue moulded to the shaft just right; his lips polished the slick skin, perfectly pressured; his teeth grazed at the base before his tongue came to the head and probed at the slit immodestly.

My fingers grasped at his hair, seeking stability for the tremors of pleasure that made my back arch off the smooth piano surface and thrust soundly back into his wet mouth. His hair, however, was short and I was left loose and wanting. Instead my hands secured themselves to the nape of his neck; that would do for now.

It wasn’t long, in terms of reality, before white streams shot down the darker man’s contracting throat. I let the head of my cock press into the back of his mouth as the last of my full-body spasms shivered through me. I sighed, letting my head fall back, ignoring the shot of pain that accompanied it; the hat, I noticed, had been lost sometime during the activity.

He backed off, my cock going limp and dropping from his mouth. This time he smile was lax and complacent, somewhat crooked to the left. He lifted himself up the short distance so our bodies meshed and he pressed a deep, penetrating kiss to my mouth. I could taste myself, salty and in no way as pleasant as am sure he would taste; but it affected me all the same, I swooned.

“Hey.” He said, as if he only just walked into the room.

“Hey,” I grinned lopsidedly, reaching my hand up to flatten down my curls, which were surely amuck after such an event. However, he stopped me in my tracks.

“Don’t. I like them.” I didn’t understand it, but I didn’t question it either; I let him have his way and settled back down.

The same moment I jolted up- probably too soon because my vision swam before my eyes and a wash of nauseous dizziness buzzed in the foreground- realising I had forgotten something.

“Where are you going?” Janove sounded worried from his place beside me on the piano (how the thing was holding both our weight, I will never know) and I glanced down guiltily at his still hard cock, now weeping thoroughly down to join the classic black of the piano glaze.

“Here, let me help.” I reached for it’s erect form from where it stood, breaching a tangle of course black hair between his legs. “It’s the least I can do.” He hissed as my cold hand came into contact, like ice on fire.

I ran my fingers up tenderly, enjoying the wet slid and the hitch of his breath as I stroked the pulsing veins running up his length. Shifting myself so I could sit without falling over, I used my other hand to run leisurely up his stomach- untoned, but flat- and along the soft hair of his chest, then back down, taking my time at the thin hairline from his bellybutton to where I still stroked and lavished him carefully; he had his proclivities, I had mine. I’d say that we were fair.

I decided that it was time to speed up, just a little. I straddled him, pinning his bucking figure to the piano lid as I quickened the pace of my hand. I was enjoying this, it wasn’t often that I was on top; most guys found the need to dominate me, probably due to my small stature and young features. But Janove didn’t seem to think that way, he had his moment, and now he gave me mine; this was mutual, it was affectionate; it didn’t feel like just any odd fuck; I seriously was considering the possibility of love, here. But the only thing was, I had only just met him. Was it even possible to fall for someone that quickly?

He came then, suddenly, with a groan, shooting the searing hot liquid across my stomach. As he settled, his hair mussed to the point of chaotic disorder, his eyes wild, yet subdued, a feeling of warmth, not arousal, but fondness- something I had never thought I might feel for the man- grow in my belly.

I beamed: the answer was yes.

Pulling him up, grabbing the hat that I spied just behind him, I embraced his damp body in my own, placing the hat on his head off-kilter. I pressed my mouth to his one last time while he was still dazed from his climax; this time, I really meant it.

He looked at me as I pulled back, keeping me in his arms. “What was that for?” He seemed serious and it made me nervous, no longer so confident.

“Do I need a reason?”

He smiled, understanding. “No.” It was a simple answer, but one I appreciated none the less. I returned his expression more broadly. We sat then, staring at one another, no doubt sizing each other up, weighing our options; at least that was what I was doing. But after a brief period, he made a face. “Um, I think I’m sitting in your cum.”

I stopped, shocked, but relaxed in the end; his comments felt more familiar now, after our lengthy interaction. “The feeling, I believe, is mutual.” I dragged my finger along the piano lid from where small specks of white were dripping from my stomach. I inserted my finger, covered in the substance, into my mouth. “Yup, definitely yours. I don’t taste nearly this good.”

He laughed whole-heartedly at that. I chuckled a bit along with him.

That was when a knock resounded at the door. Janove’s eyes met mine- the same eyes that had just recently made me hard- and I read adrenaline panic. We scrambled like thieves caught red handed, which, technically, we were, and ended up minimally dressed. I was wearing his trousers, and he, mine; I was wearing my undershirt, but he had managed to grab my favourite jacket and was only wearing that over his bare torso. We looked at least half-decent, so he stumbled to the door answering at the fifth pounding.

It was one of Janove’s students, a fifth grader by the look of them, worry written all over their face mixed with some relief that someone had opened the door. They caught their breath, then they told the music teacher they had forgotten their guitar and were wondering if they could get it back.

Janove stood aside, managing to play it cool. I, on the other hand, caught the kid eyeing the very evident stark white smudging across the noir of the piano; their eyes widened and they hesitated half way across the room.

Fuck.

I thought fast: “Um, we spilled some yogurt. We’re practicing, um… in a band. Yeah.” I mentally slapped myself; I was not cut out for this sort of thing!

Back in real life, my fingers twitched before I spotted Janove’s silk shirt. I glanced at him and received the okay go. I dove for it and quickly mopped up the last existing evidence of what we had done. I turned and grinned at the still motion child; they were not convinced.

At the door with the guitar, the kid paused. “It’s okay, Mr. O, I won’t tell anyone.” And then they left, bolting for their parent’s car in the car lot.

“Thanks, Daphne. Goodnight.” He muttered, shutting the door. He turned to me and ran his fingers through his short hair. It stood on end. “Well… fuck.”

“That would be my primary reaction. So, what do we do now?” I couldn’t help but hope desperately that he asks to see me again. I glanced up at him. Screw it, I thought, you only ever live once. “Maybe we could do it again some time.” No, that came out wrong. Shit. “I mean, I-“

He laughed, almost doubling over. He waved has hand fluidly, “No, no, I know exactly what you mean.” He looked up, hand resting on one knee, infiltrating me with his piercing gaze. “I’d love to.”

I grinned his way, and he returned the gesture.

“I’d better go, then. Long night, erm, lots of marking… school stuff.” I blushed for the first time that night, door open, half way out with my things clutched to my chest, I looked back at the now somnolent man who’s taste still lingered in my mouth from before. “Oh, Janove? Not in the school next time, all right? I think we’ve scarred enough children for a lifetime, don’t you?”

He put his hands in his pockets, leaning back onto his heels. “If you say so.”

That didn’t sound credible, but I let it slide, far too exhausted to argue.

I left that night, feeling fulfilled, inspired by my recent revelation. I was in love, I was certain of it. And not only that, but I had the perfect excuse to see him again, beside my class’s music lessons: I still had his clothes.