Chapter 43

My trotting changed to an all-out run when I remembered that I was late for my date with Mr. Roman. When I turned the corner, I was out of breath. Spotting Mr. Roman’s Corvette parked in its usual place at the curb, I stopped only for an instant, long enough to suck in the air my burning lungs craved. Then I used the remaining strength in my legs to sprint the final twenty yards. I placed my hand on the car’s roof for support as I bent over and gasped for air, and then I flung the door open and plopped into the seat.

“Is everything all right?” Mr. Roman asked.

Doubled over with one hand on my heaving chest and the other on my belly, struggling to breathe, I said between pants, “Yeah, yeah, go. I’m just late.”

The Corvette’s engine roared. And then I was slammed back against the seat as Mr. Roman peeled away from the curb with so much force my feet lifted off the floorboard. We were speeding through the street when a traffic light turned yellow. Expecting Mr. Roman to hit the brake hard, I leaned forward and reached for the dashboard to brace myself. But once again I was thrown back against the seat when he gunned it. Another car, making a left turn, was all of a sudden in front of us. The other driver slammed on his brakes. Mr. Roman swerved to the right. I thought he was going to go onto the sidewalk and crash into the building, but at the last minute he spun the steering wheel sharply to the left, throwing me against the inside of the passenger door. I felt like a ball in a pinball machine. After fishtailing, with me holding my breath and clamping my teeth, we were back in our lane with the blasting horn behind us fading in the distance.

“Holy shit!” I shouted. “Slow down! You’re gonna get us killed!”

Mr. Roman tapped the brake pedal a few times and then drove at a normal speed. Well, normal for him. He was still driving over the speed limit until we reached the Brooklyn Bridge where he slowed down.

I hadn’t spoken the entire way. The fingers of my right hand were clutching the door rest for dear life and my left hand was holding onto the bucket seat next to my thigh. I finally brought my hands to my lap.

“Do you want to get us killed?” I asked.

“Don’t worry, this baby handles great.”

“Promise me you’ll drive slower from now on.”

“I drive fast, but safely. It was that asshole’s fault for cutting me off.”

We had this conversation before so I knew it was pointless to argue. We drove to Greenwich Village in silence. Mr. Roman parked his car in a garage and then we walked to the Village Vanguard. I had never been inside a club before and was sort of scared. The hostess seated us at a table for two. A waitress came over and asked us what we wanted to drink.

“A Jack and Coke for me,” Mr. Roman said, “and a club soda for the lady.”

“With lime,” I blurted out, and then blushed when the waitress smiled.

“So why were you late?” Mr. Roman asked. “Have a problem getting away?”

A knot formed in my belly. What was I going to say? That I got carried away while making out with Paul and got so aroused that I told him to take his cock out and gave him a hand-job? And then I had to clean up the mess in the teacher’s lounge Mr. Roman used. He probably sat on the same couch Paul and I had. The couch I scrubbed Paul’s semen off of. And maybe Mr. Roman used the dishtowel that I had used to do it.

“I just lost track of time,” I said.

“I was worried. I know how hard it is for you to see me. I was afraid you got into trouble.”

“No, my mother thinks I’m on a date with a boy I know.”

“I sure hope you were nice to him for doing this for you.”

The knot returned to my belly. Mr. Roman had always talked about casual sex being different than sex with someone you loved, but I really got aroused this time with Paul. If I hadn’t accidentally seen the clock, I would have asked Paul to finger me to an orgasm or go down on me. Was I thinking about Paul differently? If I hadn’t had the date with Mr. Roman, I might even have let Paul fuck me. The crotch of my panties was still damp as a reminder.

“It’s cool,” I said, “he’s a good friend.”

Mr. Roman and I chatted and sipped our drinks while waiting for the music to begin, mostly about cool jazz, whatever that was. I wanted to ask Mr. Roman about the red Bel Air, but didn’t know how to bring it up. I’m not sure I would have been able to anyway. I had never seen Mr. Roman so enthusiastic. He couldn’t stop talking about jazz music and Miles Davis. In his apartment, Mr. Roman had played some of his jazz albums for me, and I liked them, but I didn’t have his passion for jazz.

Movement on the stage is what finally got Mr. Roman to stop blabbering. He turned his chair around and slid it next to mine so that he was facing the same way I was—at the stage. He was now closer to me and leaned over.

“You’re going to dig this,” Mr. Roman said with his mouth next to my ear.

I didn’t know if I was going to like the music, but I sure liked Mr. Roman’s breath on my ear. My pussy tingled and I squeezed my thighs together. The arousal that had built almost to a climax in the high school teacher’s lounge had never been satisfied. The fear of Mr. Roman’s driving blocked it for a while, but it had never gone away. I wished we were in Mr. Roman’s apartment rather than the club. I moved my hand into my lap as inconspicuously as possible and pressed down on my groin over my skirt with the heel of my hand. The tingling in my pussy shot through my body. I shivered.

“Cold?” Mr. Roman asked.

“No, I, uh, I just got a chill.”

I brought my hand out from under the table and picked up my glass of club soda and took a sip. I was going to get home late. There wouldn’t be time for the sex I needed. I was wondering if Mr. Roman’s hand could bring me off under the table without anyone noticing. But just then, a black man with a trumpet walked onto the stage. The place erupted in applause.

Mr. Roman stopped clapping for a moment and leaned next to my ear. “That’s Miles Davis. Get ready for some cool jazz.”

The band started playing so Mr. Roman’s attention was drawn to the stage. I sat back and listened. They were good. Other than my Band classmates who, like me, struggled to play well and often made mistakes, they played flawlessly. And unlike the Rock ‘n Roll I listened to, which was basically guitars, drums, and sometimes a bass fiddle, this band also had brass instruments, woodwinds, and a piano. It reminded me more of an orchestra than a band.

They played for awhile before leaving the stage to take a break. Mr. Roman turned to me.

“It’s a gas, isn’t it?” he asked, although I don’t think it was a question.

“They’re really good.”

“Just good?”

“No, they played great.”

“And the jazz? What did you think of it? Cool, huh?”

I was silent for a moment and then said, “It was good.”

Mr. Roman frowned. “There’s that ‘good’ again. Don’t you like it?”

“I do, but...” I looked down.

“But what?” Mr. Roman asked.

“I like Rock ‘n Roll more.”

I panicked, but was put at ease when I saw the smile spread on Mr. Roman’s face.