Stay After Class, page 13
“I was heading to the gym, remember?” I said. “So I’m a little underdressed.”
He stood, walked to my side of the table, and pulled out my chair, like a gentleman. His hand softly touched one shoulder as he drifted back to his seat.
“I am glad to see you, even if you are dressed to distract me,” he said. “But I am a tad worried about all the wolves out there that will see those beautiful, soft-skinned legs and dream about knowing what’s between them.”
Wow. Where did that come from?
“I didn’t notice any wolves on the way over.” I laughed, but opened my napkin and lay it across my lap. “And I didn’t take you for the possessive type.”
“I prefer to call it protective,” he said, tapping his fingers on the table. “And I am just being practical. You are oozing sex right now because I have begun to unlock that part of you. But, alas, you’re not really aware of the effect you have on men.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I sat up straighter. “There is one man I’m interested in and he’s sitting across from me.”
“Ah, that’s what you say now, fresh from your recent orgasmic experiences.” He sighed. “Things can change very quickly once the door opens.”
“I think the only thing that needs to change, right now, is this topic of conversation,” I said, sipping my water. “I am not looking for anyone else’s attention.”
“Fair enough.” He seemed edgy and back to his stern professor mode.
“How’s the show going?” I wondered what was stressing him out. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s making me hungry,” he said, lifting the menu in front of me and handing it to me. “And maybe a little angry and cranky. Let’s eat.”
“Hangry, is what they call it.” I hoped I could get him to laugh. “I guess it kept you busy yesterday?”
“Yes.” He lifted his gaze up from the menu. “Is this a why-didn’t-you-call-me-the-next-day question?”
“Well…”
“I should have. I should have touched base the next day. I didn’t mean to be a cad, it’s just that—”
“Can I ask you something?”
He nodded.
“I know you said you’re not married, but is there … someone in your life?”
I held my breath for his response. I had to wonder if there was a reason we always met at the gallery and why he was being distant now that we were in public view.
“You mean did I kiss you and touch you and taste you and then send you home because I live with someone else?”
“Sort of.”
“There is someone else I am committed to right now,” he began. “And I did end up spending the night somewhere other than my own bed.”
My heart dropped. I looked over at him, hurt.
“But not a woman,” he said, “more of a master.”
“You mean a BDSM relationship?” Oh God, I was hoping not, because that may be weird.
He laughed that deep, sexy laugh. It was music to my ears.
“You do get more adorable as time goes on,” he said, still chuckling. “No, not BDSM. That would be a lot easier to deal with. I am referring to the owners of the gallery. They have a lot riding on my upcoming show, and me, and it’s gotten a little political. Multiple parties need pleasing and, believe me, they are not as much fun to please as you!”
“So you were working all night after we were last together?” He seemed tired.
“I was,” he said. “Hey, I had to do something with all that pent-up sexual energy. I used it productively, channeled it into my work. So forgive the missed call. It won’t be the first. It happens when one is engaged in art and the installation thereof.”
“I guess we’re not going to frolic in a fountain for dessert.” I took a sip of water, and looked over at him with a slight pout.
“I tell you what,” he said, “I have to get back to the gallery after we eat because there are some workers waiting for me, but next time it will be more fun. I promise.”
When dinner was through, he paid the check, like a gentleman, and walked me out into the warm Wednesday air.
“Let’s stop in here for a minute,” he said, pulling me into a small boutique next to the restaurant.
“What for?”
“Maybe I want to kiss you.” He tugged me deeper into the store. “And maybe I want to get you a more complete pair of pants.”
Walking over to a rack of designer cotton leggings, some colorful and some plain, he pulled off a black pair, in a small size, and held them against my waist.
“Let’s see if these fit.”
The saleswoman seemed accustomed to unusual male behavior in lower Manhattan and didn’t say a word as we entered the fitting room together, although she must of have heard some of what was happening through the thin door.
He got me against the wall and touched my thigh, then pulled my leg to his hip so he could press into me. He was hard.
“You feel that?” he said, pushing harder, breathing deeper.
“Yes.”
“Do you understand that you do this to me?”
“Yes.”
He took my hand and placed it on his bulge and kept my hand in place, his cheek against mine as he did.
“Other men will feel this way about you too,” he said. “Hard, and filled with desire. They will want you, the way I want you right now.”
He moved my hand so that I was gripping him through his pants.
“I told you I’m not interested in anyone else.” I locked my eyes on his, chest heaving. “You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted.”
His face tensed at my confession and his eyes grew darker. He pressed his mouth against my cheek and breathed on my flesh. I breathed with him, pinned against the wall, until his mouth found my ear.
“I have been using all my restraint—all of it,” he whispered. “Because I want to make it right for you. Believe me, another man will not. He will see your legs and want to get between them.”
Although bewildered by his harsh comments, I was swept up in the moment. His lips came down on mine, and he plunged his tongue inside, so deep I had to adjust my breathing. Still holding him through his pants, I felt him rubbing into me, ever so slightly. His motions were becoming more deliberate, harder, and I wished we were in a bedroom. I wanted him to give me everything he had to offer, now. And I wanted to help relieve some of the tension he must be feeling.
It was a jolt to my system when he lifted himself away from my mouth, and out of the reach of my hand, and put distance between us.
“That’s enough. For now.” His eyes were glazed, wild. “I think I’ve made my point.”
My mouth dropped. “What’s gotten into you today?”
“Maybe you are not the only one who is feeling the need.”
“Let me help.” I pleaded. “You can’t leave things like this. Take me home with you. “
“There are things you can’t understand right now,” he said, pressing his hand to my chin and lip. “I’m sorry I can’t explain it all. I will, when the time is right.”
He took a moment to steady himself, and then he bent down and kissed my lips, softer now. With his lips still close to mine, he spoke in hushed tone.
“Remember, this is a process and journey,” he said. “But you can still decide to take another path.”
I said nothing, because it bothered me that he was still insinuating I’d be the one to turn away.
Finally, we left the dressing room, at which point it was hard not to notice two female employees checking out my man and looking at me with a big smile. I guess being locked in a dressing room with the hot, sexy artist gave me street cred.
He walked over to the rack and picked out three more pairs of leggings and brought them to the counter with the black pair and paid.
As we left the store, I noticed a local free art magazine, with him on the cover, looking like a hot mix of sex, power, and intelligence. His arms were folded and he seemed to be standing against a blank wall in the White Room. No wonder the women at the counter were ogling. As he walked out of the door I grabbed a copy and slipped it into my bag. I don’t think he even noticed. Maybe this would shed some light on why he is in such a weird mood.
Out on the street, he hailed a cab.
“You’re not getting back on the subway in that outfit,” he said, opening his wallet and putting a bunch of twenty-dollar bills in my hand.
He opened the door to let me in and leaned into the window to hand me the shopping bag.
“You’re dressing me now?” I rolled my eyes. “And lecturing me?”
“I prefer to call it ‘making fashion suggestions.’” He smiled. “Obviously, this is your body to drape as you choose. But consider this a lesson in how not to make love with any wolf that comes your way.”
He was starting to piss me off. I was tempted to toss the bills at him.
“Look, it’s really not necessary for you to keep putting me in cabs,” I said. “It’s weird taking money from you. Besides, I’d like to walk and grab the subway.”
“It is necessary. And since I can’t take you home like a true gentleman, this will have to do, and the cost of this ride is my responsibility, not yours.” He dragged his hand through his hair and scowled at me. “But you’ll have to be patient for our next pleasure session. I will hope the wolves and the masters do not interfere. I’ve been trying to fend them off, to protect you, but they are getting closer.”
What the eff?
Then he lifted my hand to his mouth and kissed it, and stepped away. He turned and walked off. I was totally confused by his words and his behavior. Wolves? Masters? Why was he so irritated?
Heading back to Queens, the twilight sky over Manhattan was pink, and blue, and swirling with color, like one of his paintings.
I opened the magazine in the back seat of the cab, turning on the overhead light to read. “Jem Nichols is preparing for the biggest single-artist show the prestigious Alcott Gallery has ever commissioned,” read the subhead. “But will he bring in the mega-bucks they are banking on?”
That one sentence gave me a clue to how much pressure he was under. But the article was focused on how Jem was discovered by gallery founder Alfred Alcott, an artist who found success and helped others along the way. Even Picasso and Georgia O’Keefe exhibited at the Alcott Gallery in their early years.
“When I met Alfred, he was already in his late eighties, but his mind and his eye for art were as sharp as could be,” Jem was quoted as saying. “He liked that I played in different mediums and wasn’t afraid to combine spiritual concepts with sex. He liked the sexier stuff. So he took me under his wing and mentored me, as an artist, and also in the business aspects.”
“He was my greatest teacher,” it continued. “He ultimately inspired me to be a teacher, which is why I was so honored when De Verge University offered me a full time teaching position and that they are considering an early tenure. Of course, my only regret is that Alfred won’t get to see the show. He empowered my vision and he made sure that when I was ready there was a place for me to share my work.”
The reporter said Jem had tears in his eyes speaking of Alcott, who passed away just after commissioning Jem’s show, and that he’d been active with the gallery until he died, at ninety-five. Wow.
Before I could get to the end of the article, my phone buzzed with a text as the cab was traveling over the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge. It was Jem.
Jem: I’m sorry. I think I have semen backed up to my brain and it is impeding my judgment and behavior.
Me: Ouch. That must hurt.
I texted a Band-Aid emoji.
Jem: Indeed. I was a complete asshat.
Me: So, NOT making love has its consequences too?
Jem: Sometimes, for boys. I just don’t want to do anything to hurt YOU. Forgive me?
He included a pair of hands in prayer.
Me: Forgiven.
I texted a pink heart.
He sent me back two red hearts.
Distracted by our emoji make up thread, I shoved the magazine in my bag to look at later.
Chapter Eighteen
Tuesday, May 31
VirgEnd Countdown: 5 Days
The Gallery
I wondered if he could, in fact, get sick from semen build-up. As soon as I got up on Tuesday I did an Internet search. Turned out it was a real thing.
“A man’s body has limited capacity to hold semen,” I read. “The body continually produces semen and eventually it must be released.”
Based on what I read, semen replenishes in the body all the time and seeps out naturally in fluids from the body, but there were some weird stories on the Internet about men who had gotten aroused but did not have a release. They talked about “blue balls,” pain, and even the need for visits to the emergency room due to erections gone awry.
After the pants incident, it bothered me that I could be the cause of his crankiness, and I didn’t want anything bad to happen to him physically. Since he was still refusing to go all the way with me, maybe I could find a way to give him release without surrendering my V-card. At the very least, maybe he would just let me give him pleasure. I honestly had no idea what that might entail, so I texted Tara, the only one I could trust with this private conversation. She was already at the Jersey Shore with her family for the summer.
Me: Meet any hot guys yet?
Tara: Every night. It’s Man Heaven here.
The text twirled as she continued writing.
What about your summer project?
Me: Going slow. Need help.
I texted with a turtle emoji and a smiley face rolling its eyes.
Tara: At your service.
Me: How can I give him … pleasure … even if he won’t have sex with me?
Tara: That man has not popped your c yet?
She sent a thumb pointing downwards.
Me: Nope.
Tara: Blow job. A way to a man’s heart.
I got a nervous tingle in my stomach thinking about this new territory but was clueless about how it all worked.
Me: Like how?
I added a cherry.
Tara: Dick goes in mouth, instead of hoo-hah.
She sent a laugh track audio with her message.
Me: Very funny! But not helpful.
I cracked up at her joke.
Tara: Google it. Tons of info and photos.
Me: Will do.
Tara: Just try not to gag, and don’t use your teeth, and you should be okay.
I ended with a smiley face but would have sent an emoji with a freaked out expression if I could find one.
Tara: It gets more natural once you get into it. You can do it!
She sent an icon of a trophy.
It was a little nerve-wracking thinking about how to give him this other virgin part of me, but I searched, “How to give oral sex to a man.” Dozens of articles and videos appeared.
“Men love blow jobs,” said one article. “And women do not give enough of them.” There were stories on giving head and giving pleasure in other ways. Reading these ideas without seeing them did not quite give me a feel for it. I found a couple of links that warned of explicit content, but was afraid to end up on a weird porn site so I dropped that idea.
Following my college student instincts to search for topics through photos, as well, I clicked on images. Yikes, I was sorry I did. A million naked penises and descending mouths appeared. I quickly got off the page and took a deep breath to shake those pictures out of my mind. It looked gross, but I wanted to help him so I was not giving up on the idea.
Then it came to me: If anyone could teach me how to give a blow job, it was the professor. So I decided to make a surprise visit to the gallery.
Timing myself for the eight p.m. hour, I headed into Manhattan hoping he would be working late in the gallery as usual and that he would be glad to see me. Fingers crossed.
When I approached the gallery door, I could see him chatting with a tall, elegant-looking woman. He told me he wasn’t seeing anyone, and I believed him. But they looked like they were having an uncomfortable conversation, perhaps an argument. She was standing there and talking with her hands a lot. He had his stern professor face on, as if he were listening, but not pleased. His arms were crossed. I’d seen that look before. It was the frown I noticed when he got the ranting call from a woman a few weeks back. Was that Regina?
I did not want to walk in on a quarrel and I didn’t want to stand there snooping, so I ducked into a nearby store, and waited for her to leave. Finally, she click-clacked out of there on extremely skinny high heels and disappeared. She had a shoulder bag and a briefcase, so it looked like she was leaving for good.
I prayed my visit would not be awkward. He’d been controlling the where and when of our meetings, so there was always the chance he would hate that I dropped by without invitation.
I held my breath as I knocked on the gallery door.
He came rushing to open it, with a look that said he was ready to do battle. Maybe he expected that woman to come back? When he saw me, he paused before opening. Happily, there was a big smile on his face when he saw it was me.
“Ms. Slade, what a lovely surprise,” he said, taking my hand and pulling me in the door. He locked the door behind us quickly and stood with his arms folded.
“So to what do I owe this visit?” I noticed he was barefoot and looked a tad disheveled, as if he’d been doing physical labor. I hoped he had not been doing anything physical with that woman who stormed out earlier. I decided not to let it get in the way of my mission.
“Look, I’ve been very patient with you,” I said, determined to have some control over how this evening progressed.
“You mean, in these less than two weeks since the end of school and the beginning of our adventure together?” He seemed amused.
“I’ve been waiting five months, not just a couple of weeks,” I said, getting worked up. “My desire has been on a slow burn for an entire semester, not just since the last two days of class.”
