It was actually a traumatic experience for me. I spent two years pouring my heart and soul into that school and that teacher. In particular, the {{unnamed}} program he had coached his entire 15-year teaching career. I fell in love with him, who I’m pretty certain was a narcissist who convinced me it was real, and then gaslighted me when I actually had the guts to say, ‘lets go for it.’ And THEN, orchestrates with his best friend the principal a yearlong torture to get rid of me without making it look like they were getting rid of me so they could also string me along as a dedicated pet. I was his assistant coach. I’m STILL crying over that prick, and it’s been over four years.
He was beautiful. He was tall, lanky, and bitter. A little like Rick from Rick and Morty but stone cold sober and a chain smoker. He wore the same beat up sneakers he wore out when he went to Berkeley. He’d done way more drugs than any living person should. And he’s survived being run over by a van…twice.
That first year was glorious. I was a second year teacher, totally disillusioned by my hellish first year at a different site. I met the principal at a job fair and liked him instantly. He seemed like a mentor and friend. In hindsight, he was more like a groomer. And I didn’t know better than to be groomed. I had hopes of starting a theatre arts program. That was my original reason for…everything. Before marriage and reality set in. Even before that. From the moment I knew that my dad would never love me for who I was. So I jumped at any opportunity for love. The love of my husband had died to glowing embers. A warm love, to be sure. But not the all-consuming fire that rises up unexpectedly, its violent tongues licking up the walls of a living room, threatening to bring the very house to its knees.
The only problem was, the only thing he loved more than his student-kids were hid kids-kids…and that was about all he could give. I should have realized that that was an implied confession that he was just like the teachers he criticized for using students as stepping stones. But I didn’t. I saw us as star-crossed lovers in an ill-fated narrative. Doomed to reach for each other only to be torn apart by the winds, like the adulterers in Dante’s inferno. I didn’t care, I wanted to burn with you. But I didn’t realize I was stepping into the fire on my own.
The first thing I noticed about you was your earring. A simple silver hoop. I always loved a good foothold for my tongue while spreading my hands wide across your chest or running my fingers through what was left of your unruly gray hair. You looked much older than you actually are. But the life of a young man moved far too slowly for you, and by the time you hit thirty, and the Grateful Dead concerts with bush-fucking acid trips had caught up with you, your back seemed too tired to carry your tall frame and your hips seemed to pile onto your thighs like a too-tall stack of pancakes with the syrup oozing over the sides of the plate and onto that sticky table in that diner where your foot grazed the back of my calf and traveled up behind my knees to my inner thigh. There were students around, so I couldn’t shift enough in my seat for you to physically make contact. But you hit your mark nonetheless.
I always thought you were flirting with me relentlessly whenever we went on trips to out of town competitions. You made me feel like the matriarch of a rowdy group of nerdy kids who didn’t fit in in a small town. We both shared joy and elation watching the faces of our kids who had never been more than an hour from home light up as we walked across the campus of a university. The way you looked at me was the way I hope you look at the mother of your children. Because I know she deserves nothing less for putting up with your bullshit.
The first few months were rough for you. And I was still in fawn mode. After a nervous breakdown and yet another compromise to my dreams to accommodate my husband’s drinking and philosophizing (he has his Ph.D…), while still providing for my children, I was willing to do whatever it took to keep my job and give my family something solid to hold on to. At least, that’s what I told myself to keep the guilt at bay. So I stood by your side.
You told me what you were mourning: the loss of the largest program your last school site had ever seen.
Another stupid record, yes. But to you, it was the best thing in your life. And then some dumb, jealous kid ruined it all by accusing you of molesting your favorite student. Of course, the only evidence she offered to the authorities was that the girl had come in and gigglingly told her that she had given you a hand job and he had been so grateful. Looking back, and having met the woman she had become, I wondered if she didn’t have it in her to make the story up. She was a very good actress. And matched your ruthlessness with precision. Of course, you would never have allowed yourself to believe such a betrayal. But I’m not confident the thought never crossed your mind. And sometimes, the way you spoke about her was almost like you were aroused by this girl, a buxom, intelligent, and talented DACA student whose father had abandoned her at three, came to a few birthdays to pass around the tequila before inevitably fading from her memory by the time she began to grow breasts. I wondered if you hadn’t done the same thing to her that you had done to me.
You were so excited to show me what you could do, and I was willing to please you however you wanted. You knew the power you held over me. You knew that a single, slim finger running down my back was enough to make me shiver. Even better if it was as we walked across the darkened campus where, if someone looked just closely enough, they could see us moving in unison. But most of the love that we shared was in your beat up car as we shared cigarettes in the parking lot. Your car reminded me so much of two of my favorite high school teachers: the flotsam and jetsam of a busy life strewn across the floorboards. The dashboard sundried and peeling. And, to my glorious delight, the stale smell of years’ old smoke. You held my hand as you dropped your wedding rings into my hand and you didn’t move it as I took my own rings off and added them to the pyre. Your hand was so much bigger than mine, the pads of your long yellowed fingers tracing the hairs on the top creases of my wrist. The tips of my fingers just barely reaching the top of the bottom of your hand. I knew what those hands could due. On the days when I was brave enough to wear a skirt, I longed to take your hand and run it under its hem. I wouldn’t have worn any panties. Or I would have taken them off before going to you for our smokey retreat. You would be surprised that I was bare, but then grow hungry. You’d throw caution to the wind as we tumbled into the back seat. I wouldn’t need to move your hand anymore, it would know where to find what it wanted and your fingers would find their mark. In fact, my hands were not involved at all, having been pinned by your other large hand as you shoved me against the passenger side door. “You can’t be too loud,” you order me with a hiss in my ear that makes me cum all over your fingers and rub my clit desperately against your hand. I open my mouth to scream, but your mouth is there to cover mine. Your tongue knows where to go as you lay me down flat. You shift your hips to my entrance and press one hand over my mouth. Moving my mouth to scream again is not an option as you use your other hand, the one that now has my scent on its fingers, to lift one leg up and out and guide your erect penis into me. You try to be slow, but you know you won’t last. After all, we only have ten minutes left until afternoon classes start. I have trouble teaching in the afternoon, unable to ignore the wet warmth between my legs.