I had just finished my graduate work in education and was starting my student teaching. I was assigned to an amiable fortyish heavy-set Japanese American woman, named Mrs, Kanagaki, who was a whiz at grammar. I thought, this will be great. I'm crappy at grammar. This just what I need. But after attending her class for only one day, I found out there was a change in schedule, and I wouldn't be working with Mr. Kanagaki after all. Instead, they turned me over to Mrs. Jones, who was a brilliant and rather ethereal 36-year-old woman who taught Literature and writing to college prep students. She had classic female form, with perfect symmetry to her body and an oval-shaped face with blonde hair and brown eyes. She didn't hide her femaleness, even in the classroom. And she was married.
I remember thinking what a shame it was that this intelligent beauty was so far over my head that I was lucky to be in the same room with her. Any kind of personal relationship was obviously out of the question. But sometimes there is a wild card that can throw the natural scheme of things into the crapper. In this case, it was Mrs. Jones's husband. He was an asshole -- a traveling salesman asshole, who was so full of himself that he didn't even consider someone else's point-of-view on any issue with which he might disagree. For example, his wife once invited me over to their home for dinner. He was cooking steaks on the barbecue grill and asked how I liked my steak.
I don't know why he asked because he really didn't want to know. When I said, "Well done." He said, "What's the point then; why bother eating it. Only classless primitives eat well-done meat."
Well, I knew I had my crude side, but I also knew what I liked to eat, and it wasn't raw meat -- and I didn't like being dismissed as some kind of monkey who wasn't capable of making his own choices in life. I'm normally not an aggressive or violent guy, and I never ever look for a fight, but I was not pleased with this asshole. I took one step toward him when Mrs. Jones deftly stepped in front of me and said softly but firmly, "Just cook his steak the way he wants it, Charlie." Charlie shrugged and burnt my steak, which wasn't great, but better than raw. It was just edible enough to prevent me from having to kick Charlie's ass.
As I got to know Mrs. Jones better, I learned that she didn't set herself apart from mere mortals, such as myself. She was actually very down-to-earth, friendly -- and approachable. One might even say: "vulnerable" -- a very good trait from the perspective of an overly hormoned 28-year-old male. She told me her husband cheated on her continually, but that she hadn't cheated on him. . . yet.
"Too bad I'm so much older than you," she said.
"You're not noticeably older than I am," I said. "I mean we're virtually the same age. I mean you look better than 90 percent of the 25-year-olds. I mean, Hell, I'd fuck you in an instant!"
Instantly my heart thudded against my chest, and my breathing stopped. I sincerely regretted using the word "fuck" with this refined, educated, and gentle woman. I could feel my face flushing with embarrassment. I held my tongue and my breath. At first, her expression didn't change. Then she raised one eyebrow and said softly but evenly, "You would fuck me?"
I remained tongue-tied. Her gaze bore down on me. "You would fuck me?" she repeated, a little louder. Now, she raised two eyebrows as if to elicit a response.
I hesitated, casting about the corners of my mind, seeking a way out of this pool of quicksand I had created for myself. But how does one un-say, the word "fuck." For better or worse, I had said it, and I was stuck with the consequences.
"Well, yes," I said lamely. "I guess I did say that."
I was going to follow that admission with the words, "I'm sorry." Instead, I stood paralyzed, holding my breath and looking for another dimension into which I could discreetly disappear.
Silence hung in the room like a church pulpit where the preacher's been caught tapping the choir boys. It was so quiet that I could hear the faint click of the schoolroom wall-clock quietly counting off the seconds over Mrs. Jones's head -- quite possibly the last few seconds of my association with Mrs. Jones.
Without smiling or showing any other emotion, Mrs. Jones looked me levelly in the eye and finally broke the stifling silence with a deep sigh. Then she said, "I would like to fuck you too. What took you so long to bring up the subject?"
I would have jumped over the desk and fucked her on the spot, but we were sitting in her classroom, less than an hour after school, and students often came in after school to visit with one of their favorite teachers.
Mrs. Jones stood up, put both hands on the desk and leaned toward me. Her white dress shirt was open three buttons and was gapping nicely. A good portion of a great-looking set of tits peeked out at me.
"I have a pretty decent set of tits," she said. "They're not quite as upright as they used to be, but I think they're maybe not too bad. You might kinda like them."
"I guarantee I'll like them," I said. "They belong to you, and right now there's not a set of tits on this planet I'd rather see. At that point, a student burst into the room with tons of questions about an essay she was working on. Mrs. Jones instantly became a professional and gave the student her full attention.
When the students stopped filtering in, Mrs. Jones pushed herself away from her desk and grabbed some winter clothing from a rack in the corner of the room. She smiled at me and said, "Let's go for a walk and make some plans."
It was January, and even though it never gets really cold in the California valleys, it cools off enough to require some extra clothing when one goes outside during that time of year. I slipped on my jacket, and Mrs. Jones put on about four layers of sweaters, stocking caps, and shawls. I couldn't help noticing the nice shape of her breasts, as she swung the shawls around her neck.
We took a path that wound through a public park and after walking for about five minutes, we sat down under a statue of a man on a horse, holding a rifle high in the air over his head, as he ostensibly urged his followers on. The statue was covered with pigeon shit, tarnishing the forgotten hero of California's past.
