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Fuck! Of all the things I’d been prepared for today – and as a high school history teacher, I have to be prepared for a lot – having my son in detention was not one of them. I gave one more glance at the short note I’d found in my mailbox in the school office at the end of the day:
Just wanted to let you know I need Timmy to stay after school with me for a little while today.
This was so offensive on so many levels, and as I walked down toward Liz’s room – the bio lab on the second floor, all the way on the other side of the building – I just got more and more angry.
First off, it was Tim, not Timmy. It was true, he was one of the smallest kids in his twelfth grade class, just as he was also one of the oldest, by virtue of his December 1 birth date. He’d plateaued, according to the doctors, although it seemed to me that he had just recently started shooting up again. He hated to be measured, so I’d had to place a barely perceptible mark on the kitchen door to gauge his height against. Now maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten up to 5’7″ and with the weights he’d saved his lawn mowing money to buy, he’d started to bulk up just a little, too. Maybe. I hoped to God it was true. He didn’t need his high school nickname, Tiny Tim, to follow him to college.
Second, I couldn’t imagine what Tim had done to deserve detention. Tim was a doll, from a parent’s standpoint. Neither he nor his older sister, Sarah, currently off at her first year of college, had ever been a problem. It was going to take some convincing to get me to believe that he was suddenly a troublemaker, particularly since we were only two days into the new school year.
And finally, there was Liz Torres. Fucking Liz Torres, as we called her behind her back. For my part, it was probably a little bit of jealousy over being knocked out of the top spot in the sexiest teacher poll that took place ever year. We weren’t supposed to know it existed, let alone care about it. But I’d always gotten a little thrill when my name showed up first, especially when I’d turned 35 three years ago. To make it at 36 had been even better. To lose it last year at age 37 to the rookie biology hottie, Liz Torres, was a big disappointment.
The other women on the faculty had their own reasons for disliking Liz, most of them starting with our former principal, Bob Cartwright. He had suddenly found an extra ten thousand dollars in his budget for an assistant principal position right around the time he had been spotted leaving the building with Liz. The terribly difficult job of assistant principal required Liz to administer detention three times a week, and to otherwise “assist” the principal as he required it.
That was when she became “fucking” Liz Torres. Late last year, though, when Bob’s heart palpitations forced his early retirement, and Johnny Chisholm took over, it quickly became “goddamn fucking” Liz Torres. Most of the single teachers, and even some of the married ones, would have been happy to assist Johnny. But Liz was already settled in the position. And Johnny soon had her in a number of other positions as well, if you gave the rumors any credence. Personally, I considered myself immune to Johnny’s charms. But I was more than happy to join in the name-calling.
I finally reached her classroom and peered through the window in the wooden door that led to the biology lab. Whoa! At least Tim was hanging out with the beautiful people. Liz Torres, of course, was a stunner. A tall Latina with a dusky complexion, she had long auburn hair and deep brown eyes. Not to mention a rack that was, if I was being honest, perhaps a bit bigger than my own. They were certainly younger and perkier than my own, but she had ten years on me; what did I expect?
Sitting in front of her, with bored expressions on their faces, were two girls I knew well: Denise Phillips and Kara Muncie, the captain and assistant captain, respectively, of the Cayuga cheerleaders. Denise was a light-skinned African-American, one of the few girls in our racially mixed school who was equally comfortable with students in all of the groups. She had a tight, compact body, and could easily have passed for a gymnast if not for a severe case of top-heaviness. Denise had a brilliant smile. Maybe it was the perfect teeth in the mocha-hued face. More likely, though, it was that every time she gave you one of those smiles – and by “you” we all understand that I’m talking about the general football game-attending population of Cayuga High School – you had the feeling that she really meant it, that she was really enjoying herself right at that particular moment in her life, and wanted you to share it with her.
Kara was beautiful, too, but it was a beauty that was born of money. The blonde hair was too perfect not to come at least in part from a bottle, and her dad’s ownership of the local country club had no doubt contributed to her very athletic body. Her parents were reported to be the wealthiest marks head bobbers porno in the school district, in fact, and it was rumored she’d already had her boobs done. Her face was attractive, certainly, but would have been even prettier if her mouth wasn’t constantly turned downward in a pout.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open, and four faces swiveled to look at me. Tim was mortified, an expression of disbelief covering his face
“Mrs. Carlson,” Liz greeted me with a phony smile, “perhaps you can help us. Timmy here seems unable to explain why it is that Miss Phillips and Miss Muncie, who were fighting in the girls’ locker room today at lunch time, have his name written in their notebooks.”
“Excuse me?” I said, trying to keep from smiling. Was she honestly trying to suggest that Denise and Kara were fighting over my son? “Why would this involve Tim?”
“Mom,” Tim began to speak. I silenced him with a barely perceptible shake of my head, enough to let him know that he wasn’t in any trouble with me.
“Miss Davies broke up a fight between these two young ladies in the locker room,” Liz said. “And so far they have proved extremely uncommunicative in helping me understand why.”
I gave the two girls a knowing look: the cheerleader code of silence. No matter what happened, a fight over a guy, “borrowing” somebody’s makeup – if it involved two cheerleaders, it stayed among the cheerleaders. They were as effective a self-policing force as any group in the school.
“So I got hold of their class schedules and confiscated their notebooks,” Liz continued. “The only thing they have in common is fourth period study hall and cheerleading. Fortunately, it’s only the second day of class. Here, this is Kara’s notebook, and this is Denise’s for fifth period.”
She tossed me two notebooks. The one labeled “5th Period French” had a few notes on the first page – homework assignments and a few words I vaguely recognized because of their similarity to Spanish, which I’d studied in high school. Right at the top, though, was my son’s name, Tim Carlson, with a little heart over the “i” in “Tim.” Kara had a single unlabeled notebook. It was apparent when I opened it that she simply used one notebook for all her classes, a system I’d never heard of. She had French first period, then Civics, then English Lit, and there, right before her notes from her fifth period bio class yesterday, was Tim’s name again, this time circled with little stars and exclamation points.
“So whatever it was happened during study hall,” I tossed them back onto her desk.
“Yes, apparently so,” Liz smiled.
“And where were you during fourth period yesterday, Tim?” I asked, emphasizing the nickname that he preferred.
“Gym, mom,” he told me. “Phys Ed with Coach Peeler. Mondays and Wednesdays one week, and Tuesdays the next week.”
“And you were in class, I assume?”
“Yeah,” he sighed.
“Did you, um, did you talk to either of these girls at lunch time?”
I knew when I asked the question how absolutely absurd it was. I knew for a fact that Tim wasn’t a virgin; his first, and as far as I knew only, girlfriend, Shana, had confided to me over coffee one morning while she was waiting for Tim to return from a trip to the library, that yeah, they’d finally done it, and that yeah, it had been nice. My assumption, though, was that Shana had been as inexperienced as Tim. That had been during the summer after ninth grade, shortly before Shana and her family had relocated to the West Coast, an event that had Shana crying in my arms for two straight days. Ever since then, unfortunately, as his classmates got taller and bigger, Tim’s self-esteem had gotten smaller and smaller. If he had spoken to any girl at lunch time, I would have been very pleased. If he had spoken to either Denise or Kara, I would have been stunned.
He just shook his head in answer, his eyes wide.
“Any other classes in common?” I asked. That, too, was unlikely. Tim’s classes were almost all Advanced Placement this year. Denise was a good student, but not AP material. Kara “got by.”
He shook his head again.
“So what were you girls doing during your fourth period study hall?” I mused, knowing full well that I wasn’t going to get an answer. I gave Liz a grin. “You haven’t found any school keys on them, have you?”
Liz’s eyes widened.
“I did,” she said, pulling it out of her desk. “But I don’t know which door it goes to.”
“I think our girls here may have been ‘checking out the summer improvements.'” I said. I glanced over at the two girls. Kara was cherry red; Denise was just staring at me, bug-eyed.
“What does that mean?” Liz asked. “And how does Timmy fit into it?”
A damn good question, to which, I suddenly realized as I felt myself getting a little faint, I probably knew the answer.
“Are you okay, Mom?” Tim asked, his face full of concern.
“Yeah, massage porno sorry,” I said. “First couple days of cafeteria food always hit me hard.”
He smiled back at me.
“Anyway, Ms. Torres,” I said. “I think we should talk tomorrow. I don’t think you need to keep Tim any more, though. So unless he’s in some sort of trouble on his own . . .?”
“Of course not,” she said. “He was just here to help me out. He’s one of my best students this year.”
Oh, shit. I’d forgotten that this bitch was one of Tim’s teachers this year. Her course in “Advanced Biology Concepts” wasn’t AP, but it was an elective that fit perfectly with his interests.
“I’ll just be with these girls for another hour,” Liz frowned at them. “So when can we talk tomorrow?”
“I’m free fourth and sixth period,” I said.
“I have Timmy’s class sixth period,” she said. “Shall we make if Fourth then? In the Faculty lounge?”
“Sure,” I said. “Ready to go, Tim?”
“Sure, Mom,” he told me as he collected his books. “Sorry you had to come down here.”
“Oh, honey, there’s nothing for you to be sorry about,” I smiled at him. I was tempted to ruffle his hair, but he hated that. He said nobody ever ruffled the hair of the guys on the basketball team.
We said our goodbyes to Liz, and walked together to the parking lot.
“So you wanna tell me what it was?” he said after I’d driven for a couple of minutes.
“I’m sorry, honey?” I said gaily. “What what was?”
“What those girls did?” he asked.
“What they did?” I answered. “They were peeping into the boy’s locker room from the janitor’s closet on that hallway.”
“Oh, my God, you mean they saw me, in there?” he asked, horrified by the idea.
“Probably,” I smiled at him. “You think that’s why they were fighting?”
“Yeah, right,” he grinned. “Denise Phillips and Kara Muncie were arguing over who gets to take me to homecoming.”
“You never know,” I said.
“Some things you know,” he said.
And some things you don’t, I thought to myself.
I kept a smile on my face all throughout dinner, and even while we sat together afterwards, me preparing materials for tomorrow’s classes, and him doing some reading in his biology textbook. It wasn’t until much later, when he was in the shower and I had poured myself an unusual weeknight glass of wine, that I could even admit to myself what could have happened yesterday.
I didn’t know for sure, though. It could easily be something else. Tim was probably upstairs in the bathroom now, wondering about it himself. I could picture him standing in front of the mirror, looking at himself, trying to figure out whether those girls actually could have seen something that would have them fighting over him. I could picture him all too well. That was the problem.
There was one way to settle it once and for all, though. After my third period class the next day, spent examining the causes of the Civil War with my eleventh graders, I put Liz off with a story about getting ready for my next class. I promised to meet her after school in her lab.
Instead, I waited until late in the period, long after the crowds in the hallway had died down, and walked as calmly as I could down the hallway toward the school’s gym wing. The sound of my heels clicking on the linoleum floor seemed just as loud to me as Mr. Poe’s famous Telltale Heart. I’d been under the impression that this whole wing had been modernized a few years back, but the expressions on Denise and Kara’s faces told me otherwise. I had a faculty pass key, and I used it to open the door to the janitor’s closet, locking it up again behind me. The last thing I needed was to have those two burst back in with the door unlocked. The light didn’t work, as usual. It hadn’t worked when I was in school either. I pulled out the flashlight I’d brought and found a place in the corner to wait. And then I waited.
The sound of the showers started shortly after I arrived. I flicked on the flashlight, and located one of the two little metal covers that swiveled out of the way, illuminating the closet with a ray of light. Just as I had twenty years ago, I pressed my eye against it.
And there he was. The shortest boy there, standing amid his taller, bigger classmates and washing off the sweat from a forty-minute game of soccer. And there it was, in all its perfection. Not the smallest this time, oh no, but not the biggest either. It didn’t have to be. It was fucking perfect. I should have suspected it long before now. My son had inherited his father’s cock. His father’s goddamn perfect cock.
Fuck. I couldn’t stop watching. I watched the way he soaped it up, and then bit my tongue to keep from crying out when he turned around to rinse it off. Finally, he left the shower, and I slumped back against the wall, my heart hammering. I was wholly uninterested in the male anatomy still on display. Pete Collier was in Tim’s class, the biggest meet-suck and fuck porno guy on the football team and, rumor had it, the reason that little Jenny Cardwell walked so funny every Monday morning. I didn’t even take a look. I didn’t care; it was déjà vu. I was eighteen years old all over again.
“Dana,” Carla Samuels was whining. “When can I look?”
“There’s another one right over there,” I pointed without taking my eye off the hole.
“It’s blocked,” she whined some more.
“He just moved,” I said. “Look again.”
“Not that you’ll know what you’re looking at,” I muttered to myself. I was sitting here in the janitor’s closet with the only virgin cheerleader in the last twenty years at Cayuga Lake High School. I was the cheerleader captain, the only one entrusted with the knowledge of the peephole, so that I could share it with my fellow seniors on the squad. I thought I’d take a quick peek first, though, to see if it was actually true. Carla had seen me sneak in and followed me, and now I had to share. “Oh, fuck.”
“What?” Carla hissed.
“That cock,” I mumbled.
“Which one?” she asked.
“I can’t tell,” I said. “The farthest to the left.”
“Jimmy Carlson?” she squeaked. “You like Jimmy Carlson?”
“No.” I denied it immediately. “Not him. I can’t see that far left. I meant this guy here, with the uncut cock.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“God, Carla,” I shook my head. “You are such a virgin.”
Finally, the boys finished showering and we watched them go. God help me, I not only liked Jimmy Carlson, I lusted after him.
At that moment, I had wanted nothing more than to have Jimmy Carlson’s cock in me. And that was a big problem. I was the cheerleader captain, dating the quarterback; Jimmy Carlson was a poor kid from the other side of the tracks. He wasn’t even one of those nerds you could justify going out with on the grounds that someday he’d be a fabulously wealthy computer geek. Jimmy’s best subject was art. I found myself wondering what kind of a career he could make for himself in art after we were married. After I’d had that gorgeous-looking cock. It wasn’t that it was that big, or that thick; it was just that I could feel, in my gut, the way that it would perfectly fill every little fold of my sopping wet pussy. I could feel how the ridge around the head would feel when he pulled back. I could feel how the knob would feel slamming into me on each thrust.
And it was happening again right now. My panties were wet. I looked down, horrified that I could see my nipples poking against my underwire bra and the white silk shirt I’d worn that day. My hand had yanked up my skirt and was working away at my pussy like it was a mound of bread dough. And yet as horrified as I was, I couldn’t stop. I was on the verge of coming. I was hearing bells.
I realized with a start that it was the school bell ringing, and I had a fifth period class I needed to teach. I was out of breath by the time I got there. It was another eleventh grade class, fortunately, filled with a handful of students who liked to hear themselves talk. This time I just let them do it. I couldn’t help but think about Jim, the only man I’d ever fucked after that fateful day in the closet. The man I had fucked every day up until the day, ten years ago, when he’d been taken from me by a horrible hospital accident.
At the time, I had attributed Jim’s endowment to a happy accident of biology. Now, having seen Tim, and having seen the effect he had on the two cheerleaders, I decided to conduct some further research.
At lunch time I cornered Peter Waschowsky, a dorky but otherwise nice enough guy who taught tenth grade biology. He was delighted to have me sit down with him.
“Peter,” I said, touching him on the arm and speaking softly. “I was reading a fascinating magazine article the other day, and it referred to something called an ‘Alpha Male.’ Now, is that a male who’s simply irresistible to the female of his species?”
“No, not really,” he said with a frown. “I mean, I guess it could be, but not really, no.”
“It actually refers, in biology, to an individual who is dominant in his social pack,” he finally explained, “usually by virtue of physical prowess. He usually mates with the females simply because the other males defer to his authority. So to the extent that females would find physical prowess irresistible, um . . .”
“Huh,” I said. “So what would it be if a male had some sort of characteristic that was incredibly attractive to females?”
He puzzled over that for a while.
“You have to understand that my specialty is more in plants,” he prefaced his remarks, “but I would say that – Liz!”
Liz Torres made her way through the faculty lounge with a tray of cafeteria food. She was wearing a cream-colored suit whose skirt would leave little to the imagination when she sat down.
“Liz,” Peter said, “Dana has some questions that seem much more up your alley than mine. Now isn’t there something in evolutionary biology that would suggest that there are, um, circumstances, in which a male individual would prove to be particularly attractive to females of his species?”
Liz sat down opposite me with a shit-eating grin on her face.
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