I was seventeen.
History was my favorite subject. I loved listening to my teachers regale stories of the Dark Ages and the American Revolution. I would get lost imagining what people’s lives were like; what they ate, how they smelled, what it would be like to have a boyfriend in 1230A.D. A natural goodie-two-shoes, I always sat in the first row, eager to ask questions and gobble up more and more information (yes, I also aced every pop quiz).
My middle school history teachers were all busty older women with bleached bangs and overly floral perfumes. But, by the time I got to high school, the busty teachers were replaced with bucksome corn-fed former-high school jocks with cleft chins and absurdly broad shoulders. They wore Axe body spray and had fresh haircuts and leaned over the back of my desk to proofread my essays. They sat at rich mahogany desks with denim shirts rolled up to the elbow, tossing a ball and talking to us about the Byzantine Empire or Constantinople or The Magna Carta. At first, it was refreshing. Their masculinity was present yet understated; they were cool without being cocky and hot without being too hot.
It was A-OK, easy-peasy.
Or, so I thought.
Hot Tall Former Jock Teacher
I was never cool in high school.
I wasn’t very thin, my hair wasn’t very long, my skin wasn’t very clear. I didn’t wear cute miniskirts or Juicy Couture and I didn’t spend weekends doing shots at my friend’s beach houses on Montauk. Instead, I spent almost everyday in drama rehearsal until well past dinner. I was an honor student, I bedazzled my denim jackets, and I didn’t get my first kiss until I was sixteen (a story for another day). I was most certainly what you would call a “good girl”.
I was also a lovesick hopeless romantic. Each school year, I would fall madly in love with a particularly emotionally unavailable boy who would break my heart and leave me feeling like a jacket-bedazzling loser all summer. And, every fall, I would return to the same classrooms - sites of my ill-fated past love blunders - hopeful that this year would be bigger, better, cooler than the last. I started my senior year with nothing but excitement; I had crisp new flare jeans and every hope in the world that this would be the year that something really exciting would happen to me. Something whimsical, something romantic.
Something womanly.
On the first day of school, I walked into my history class, anticipating the now familiar Axe body spray and rich mahogany. What I did not anticipate was the VERY GOOD LOOKING man facing the class, sitting in a chair turned backwards (the cool-teacher-way to sit). I quietly took my usual seat in the front row and assessed. He looked to be about thirty, tall (former jock) with the same cleft chin as the others. No surprises there. But, when we went around the room to introduce ourselves, I noticed this hot-tall-former-jock-teacher’s eyes linger on my face for just a moment past what felt normal. He quickly moved on to the student behind me as I felt myself turn red. I looked down at my notebook, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
When I looked up, he was staring at me.
So it began.
Workout
Senior year was a weird time. Britney Spears sang the lyrics, I’m not a girl, not yet a woman.
I was maturing but not yet womanly. I was horny but not yet - gasp - sexually active.
I wanted love and romance but had no idea what went into a relationship.
Messy, messy, messy.
Throw in a hot-tall-former-jock-teacher who stares too long and we’ve got a big problem.
A few months passed. In typical fashion, I asked questions and aced quizzes. The hot-tall-former-jock-teacher took notice of my curiosity and enthusiasm; he frequently teased me in class, called on me to answer the trickiest questions, and even gave me a nickname, Ace. My desk was at the far left corner of the classroom, right by his. When I finished my quizzes or essays early (which was often), he would whisper to me and pass funny notes while we waited for the other students to finish. What started as a mutual joy of information morphed into a classroom flirtation pretty quickly. I found myself dolling up before class, running to the bathroom mirror to apply my very womanly lipstick, which was titled deep plum. I wore cuter outfits, made bolder fashion choices that I hoped would get his attention. He, in turn, started hanging around the classroom after the bell rang. Instead of rushing to his next class, he would linger by my desk, talking to me about essays or assignments or books he thought I would like. It all felt very normal.
After school, my best friend and I would sometimes go to the weight room, always in some trendy attempt to get the “perfect summer body”. It was also a great opportunity to ogle the athletes. Naturally, we had no idea what to do with the weights or machines, so we usually went on the elliptical, patting ourselves on the backs for being so fit and womanly.
A few months into the school year, the hot-tall-former-jock-teacher started coming to the weight room. At first, I thought he was just there to monitor us, like a chaperone. But it became very clear that his intentions were of a more flirtatious nature. I specifically recall one afternoon when the hot-tall-former-jock-teacher showed up wearing a shirt with cutoff sleeves, revealing broad shoulders and bulging biceps. I tried not to stare, hoping he wouldn’t notice me blushing like a non-sexual jacket-bedazzler. Maybe he would just pass by and workout with the actual athletes. Instead, the hot-tall-former-jock-teacher flirted with me while doing pull ups. We locked eyes for what felt like hours as he almost comically pulled himself up and down, up and down. I felt disarmed and untethered; it was all muscles and body spray and eyes. He smelled like Axe and sweat and…something I hadn’t smelled before. I was consumed. It was so grown up, so masculine, so womanly of me to be staring at his muscles and breathing his smells as he pulled himself up and down.
He smiled at me.
Something clenched deep in my lower belly and I knew I was in big trouble.
***
Shortly after the pull ups, he told me I could call him by his first name, Edward.
Whoa. I felt special and valued and marked as his.
“Why does she get to call you Edward? You never let us!” My classmates howled when I showed off, calling him by his name.
“Because.” He simply replied.
He didn’t owe them any explanation, this was our thing.
It only got messier from there.
Messy, Messy, Messy
Fast forward to high school graduation, which was absolute chaos. Five hundred and fifty seniors in cherry red robes running around trying to remember where to stand, where to sit, how to find their parents. It was a nightmare. I couldn’t wait to leave and never see any of them again; I had already checked out of Long Island and was ready for a new and womanly quest. After a grueling three-hour ceremony, it was finally time to grab my bags and go. My mom and brothers waited for me as I ran to my homeroom class; always sentimental, I wanted one last farewell with the locker that had been mine since ninth grade.
Running down the empty and shadowed corridors felt surreal. This was my last time running down this hallway, this is my last time opening my locker. I grabbed my last few pencils and coconut chap-stick, then headed back to the main lobby. When I turned the corner, I was surprised to see Edward, the hot-tall-former-jock-teacher, waiting for me.
He didn’t say anything.
We were alone and completely still in the empty science hallway.
He stared at me.
Surreal.
“I wanted to say goodbye.” He said.
“Oh!” I replied, out of breath from my sprint.
“You were a great student. I loved having you in my class.”
“Thanks.” I said, starting to feel nervous.
Something in the air clicked, like a shift in pressure before a tornado. I could feel something coming; finally, finally it was time for my big moment. My last big high school moment.
When he leaned in to kiss me, I floated away on a cloud.
I couldn’t believe it was happening, I couldn’t believe it was happening to me. He kissed me, chastely and quickly, then squeezed my shoulder and was gone. I stood there, stunned, for what felt like hours. I touched my now-eighteen-year-old lips, which had just been kissed by the hot-tall-former-jock-teacher.
I had never felt so womanly.
***
Bowling
Two months later. We were bored, antsy and ready to leave for college, and spent every Tuesday that summer at the ‘rinky-dink’ bowling alley, where the games were a buck and the soda refills were free. I was starting to get used to the looks I would get from men when I was out with my parents. They were looking at me, not as a kid or a goof or a jacket-bedazzler, but as an adult. An adult woman.
I had been kissed by my teacher and I felt like the whole world could tell.
The last Tuesday before I left for college, I saw Edward at the bowling alley. He was there with his friends, drinking pitchers of beer and eating burgers and wings. When we locked eyes, I felt something shift. He looked at me as if he had never seen me before. He approached me at the soda stand, where I was waiting for a refill.
“Hey!” He said.
“Hi, Eddie.” I teased.
He flashed a sexy smile. I licked my “deep plum” lips seductively, as I’d seen women do in movies a hundred times. He stared in wonder.
His probably-buzzed friends approached. He introduced me as his former “favorite student”.
“Oh, so you’re eighteen now?” One of them asked, elbowing Edward and smiling.
“Yup. I’m eighteen.” I replied, proudly.
Edward quickly shooed his buzzy friends away, clearly embarrassed.
“Sorry,” He stammered. “They’re–”
“It’s okay.” I soothed, unsure of what to say next. Would he kiss me again?
“Well, it was good to see you. Have a great time at college.” He said.
“Thanks, you too!” I squealed and fled.
I could have died a million deaths.
It was so strange. The power dynamic had shifted. He was no longer the hot-tall-former-jock-teacher. He was Edward, a 31-year old guy who liked beer and burgers and wings. And, I wasn’t the bright quirky student. I was an 18-year old about to leave for college and start her life.
We were just two people at a bowling alley at the end of summer. We were strangers.
***
When I left that night, I knew I would probably never see Edward again. And, I didn’t.
Not long after I graduated, I heard Edward switched to a new school district further out on the island. Maybe, the memories of my locker farewell haunted him. Or, maybe he just ran out of bright young students to flirt with. Either way, the hot-tall-former-jock-teacher was my second kiss and my first very womanly (albeit predatorial) story.
(The deep plum lipstick is still my favorite.)
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