The Spur

Once is a mistake; twice is jazz. Miles Davis

JILL

"Could you do me a huge favor?" I asked, sitting next to him on the sofa. He was grading quizzes, with his feet up on that oddly-shaped coffee table, and I could never be sure what kind of mood he'd be in when doing that, but I didn't have time to pussyfoot around.

"Sure," he answered, putting down his papers. (He never asked what the favor was before saying "yes," and I loved that about him.)

"The band we hired for tonight's alumnae event just told me their keyboardist is sick and can't make it. They racked their brains a while, but couldn't think of anyone who could be available on such short notice. So I...kind of...volunteered you."

"So you'd like me to sit in with this band for an alumnae fundraiser."

"Um...yes?."

"When does it start?" I swallowed hard and said, as calmly as I could,

"In an hour a half. I tried to call, but your phone went straight to voicemail."

"Well, I haven't finished all my grading," he said, looking at his watch, "but if I tell them I got offered a gig, they'll be chill."

"Oh, you're the best!" I said excitedly, catching him in a full-body hug.

"Easy, big fella!" he said, extricating himself. "What flavor of music do they do?"

"They do 70's and 80's classic rock."

"Will they have charts? Or a playlist, at least?"

"Here is the band book," I said, extracting a 3-ring binder full of cheat-sheets from my work bag. (Damn, am I a Virgo, or what?)

"Outstanding!" he said. After flipping through the pages for a minute, he added, "This doesn't look like a problem at all." He put the book down on the misshapen coffee table and disappeared into his room. I heard him rummaging in his closet, and in a few minutes he returned, carrying a strange little keyboard the size of a large hoagie roll, with a mouthpiece on one end.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Melodica," he answered. "There are some Joe Jackson tunes in there."

"Is he one of the Jackson family?" I asked innocently. On his way back to his room to change, he laid a hand on my cheek.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," he said.

"What?" I asked his retreating back.

"What sort of general dress guidelines are we looking at?" he called from his closet.

"How about one of those narrow New Wave ties?" I replied, stifling a giggle.

"Seriously, woman--what should I wear?"

"Black tie without the jacket."

"Got it." A few minutes later, he emerged, looking like a waiter. We grabbed our keys and headed out.

* * *

I could have said a lot of things during the drive back to his place. I could have told him how seamlessly he blended in. I could have told him how cool it was watching them watch each other, giving each other subtle little signals so it looked like they'd been playing together for years and could read each other's minds. I could have told him how much I liked it when they let him sing "Piano Man" in addition to playing it. I could have told him how funny the melodica was. I could have told him how sexy he looked (I know it's a cliché, but playing in a band is hot.) And I could have told him how much I appreciated his dropping everything and doing me this colossal favor--and asked him seductively what I could do for him in return.

I didn't say any of those things.

What I did was poke fun at him the whole way to his apartment about the difference in our ages, and how "weird" all that "old people music" was.

Obviously, I was trolling for a punishment in my usual bratty way. But when he simply smiled without rising to my bait, I began to get nervous.

Back in his apartment, he walked over to that weirdly-shaped coffee table. Reaching under the beveled edge of the tabletop, he pushed a button that I hadn't known was there. All four sides of the table fell to the floor, exposing the bars of a cage. A thin purple cushion lined the bottom. He unlocked the door with a small key and said, "Take off your clothes." I obeyed him and, to keep from getting into even more trouble, folded them neatly the way he liked. The apartment was warm, but my nipples were already standing at attention. He poured himself a Jameson's, then waved me inside the cage.

Well, even though it was a big coffee table, it was still a very small cage--too small to even turn around in. I felt like a piece of bread in a toaster. I hoped he wasn't going to put the wooden sides back up and leave me stifling in the dark. Naked on my hands and knees, the cage taking away my freedom, mobility, and autonomy, I felt controlled, powerless, limited, completely objectified--and very, very aroused.

Then he began quizzing me from an 80's edition of Trivial Pursuit.

Every time I got a question wrong--which was pretty much every question--he poked the soles of my feet with wooden kebab skewers. The music-related questions he came back to over and over until I answered them correctly. Worst of all, he affected this dry, lecturing teacher tone that always made me want to kick him the shins. I yelped when the pain was bad, and bit my lip when it was worse, glaring at him throughout.

Suddenly, I felt a shift inside, like something clicking into place. It dawned on me all at once that I was helpless, I couldn't get away, this was making him giddily happy under his pomposity, and that I loved it all--loved everything about it. I began to laugh, and Steve, after attempting a stern rebuke, started laughing, too. But he kept on quizzing and punishing me through the laughter.

And all my subbie bells rang out together like Christmas morning.

STEVE'S JOURNAL

Jill's birthday is next weekend. I have *plans.*