Twenty years ago, back in the days when I had long dark hair, a handlebar moustache, yellow-tinted aviator glasses and a collection of hideous polyester suits, I taught music in the public school system. That girl there (no, two down and three to the left, the short somewhat plump brunette with the attitude, the curly hair, the lickable neck, the scoop front burgundy velvet dress and the heavy breasts begging to be sucked... yeah, that one) was a student with a serious crush on me. It wasn't just her, it was all the girls. Either nobody noticed how stupid men's clothes were back then, or they just didn't care. Now, three failed childless marriages later for me, and two kids and one current marriage later for her, here we are working on and off as colleagues. On and off. On and off. Yes, it's kind of odd, and kind of distracting, and a little difficult to sing when I keep staring at the back of her neck, when all that keeps going through my mind is a desire to lick her, kiss her, wrap my arms around her, and cup her breasts in my hands, to hear her moan, and sigh, and thrust her ass back against me, and whisper my name and say "yes, finally, do you know how long I've wanted you?" Just the name is weird, her calling me by my first name. They all used to call me mister at school. It enforced a necessary distance, a distance that we were all much too inclined to break. I took it out on my colleagues instead, asking out every new woman who came to teach at the school, turning on the charm, bedding them ferociously and very willingly, watching the jealousy in my students when my conquests would stop by my class the next morning to flirt and bask and relive the nights before.

Lately when we find ourselves working the same gig (and that seems to happen more and more), I've been driving her home after rehearsals and concerts, as though the years between never happened. She sits in the front seat and stares at me like she stared at me in class, and like she used to stare at me when I drove her home from school after choir practice. She was thinner then, but just as intense. Just like back then, while she sits and stares, she talks. She doesn't just talk, she babbles. On and on, like a challenge to stick something in her to shut her up, to stick my tongue in her mouth, to stick my cock in her mouth, to fuck her as hard as I can. I bet that's the only time she's quiet, when she's being fucked really hard and really good. I bet she just grooves on the in and the out, the on and the off, the up and the down. I can picture her staring up at me and smiling while I fuck her. She always lingers before getting out of the car, and she always touches my arm as she leaves before going in to her kids and her husband (does he fuck her good, does he fuck as hard as she needs to be fucked?). I so much want to follow her in. Or keep her in the car and drive her somewhere else. Somewhere near my place. Invite her in. See if she even asks why we're there, or whether she just gets out of the car and follows me.

Did you catch that? As we were sitting down just now? She turned around and leaned over and winked at me! Tonight on the way home, maybe before we start driving, yes, tonight in the dark of the parking lot, when she's sitting there staring at me and babbling on with that silly little smile, tonight I'm going to kiss her.