The story you’re about to read is entirely true. It sounds like a letter to magazine, but since I was there, I can tell you – it happened...oh yes, it did...
Tomas was a professor in the music department at my college. He taught jazz bass. I was a classical voice student, so you’d think that our paths wouldn’t cross very often. But they did. A surprising number of times, actually. Here I was, this little bitty 5-foot-5 white girl from the south. And here was this tall, handsome, educated, talented African-American man who looked at me with big brown eyes and a smile that made me melt into a puddle – or at least made my panties wet whenever he flashed it. I knew he was at least ten years older than me. I also knew that it was against the rules for professors and students to have any sort of relationship. But I didn’t care. I fantasized about him, I wanted him, and came up with a whole series of masturbatory daydream-fantasies as to how it would happen. But what really happened caught me by surprise.
We had flirted many times in subtle ways. He would compliment me, check me out, wink at me. And I would wear provocative outfits when I worked in the office and knew he’d be coming by to check his mail and messages. My 36DD’s were enough to impress most men, and I took advantage of it. I had hips to match, and knew that he liked them as well, since he’d commented on my skirts many times. But this particular night, I didn’t even know he’d be in the building. I’d been going to the music building practice rooms every night to keep my voice well-tuned for my performance later in the week.
The building was old, built as a home in the 1800’s. The main and upper floors were used as classroom and office space. But the basement area had been set aside for practice rooms. Any given night, you could wander in there and hear people singing, playing instruments or scales on the pianos in each room. There were about 15 rooms total. One door, for each room, which was only about 8-foot-by-10-foot. Inside, there was a piano, bench, and a mirror on the wall. Each door had a tiny window on it, most of which were covered, because we musicians are “sensitive” about people watching us practice when we don’t feel that the piece is ready to perform.
I chose an empty room, set out my music and began to do scales to warm up my voice. After about 15 minutes of warm-ups, I decided to go get a drink of water from the fountain. As I was walking down the hall, I heard a low wolf-whistle. I turned to look, and there he was – all six-foot-five of him, smiling at me. “Well, hi there, what are you doing here this late?” I asked. He told me that he’d had a late lesson, and was just working on some personal tunes for a while. “How nice to see you,” he said. “What are you doing here so late?” I told him that I had a performance at the end of the week and was keeping my pipes warmed up.
