One Shot Deals: Teacher's Des

Having reached the age of fifty-five and grown invisible to young women, I find myself reminiscing more and more about my former sex life. It was a good one. The list of women I had intercourse with numbers thirty-six, unless I've forgotten one or two. As I created the list, I realized that more than a third of those were "one-night stands." Seven of those relationships were just bad mistakes, "thinking with the wrong head," and quickly remedied. Seven others, however, were among the most spectacular of my life. This is one of them.

Is there a red-blooded guy out there who hasn't lusted for one of his female high school teachers? My big crush was the same as every other guy in our school in the fall of 1966. Her name was not Gina Gotti but something close. Miss Gotti. Fresh out of college. She was all of 22 and looked even younger. Talk about your Latin beauties. If you like the Salma Hayek look, you'd have loved Miss Gotti. She stood only five foot two, but all of it was perfectly proportioned, from wavy black hair to the fire engine-red painted toes sticking out of her four inch heels. We assumed she wore the shoes to make herself taller, but since they were only an inch short of 'fuck me' heels and made her calves more shapely, we loved them. Whatever her reason, she was never without a pair that put her pretty feet on tiptoe.

Miss Gotti had enormous brown doe eyes, bee-sting lips, and deep smile dimples delicately arranged within a heart-shaped face. Her skin was light, considering the darkness of her hair and eyes. She had a waist I knew I could have joined my hands around and an ass that, from the side, described a perfect French curve under her tight skirts. The truly riveting physical feature of Miss Gotti was her breasts. They were huge and out-thrusting. She almost always wore tight sweaters, just in case the boys lacked the imagination to picture them naked. The school had an antiquated intercom system that forced Miss Gotti to push her chest against the wall in order to get her mouth close enough to the mouthpiece, and every guy who witnessed the action wanted to be that wall. But her best features---what ultimately separates just a beautiful piece of femme picante from a thoroughly desirous woman---were her intelligence and her sunny disposition.

Being a new English teacher, Miss Gotti was saddled with the dumber classes. I had honors English, but I was in her homeroom. By luck, my desk was right in front of hers. Once she had finished the role call, money collections, notices, and Pledge of Allegiance, there was nothing to do but wait for the first bell. I knew even then that I wanted to write fiction, and I was devouring on average a novel a week. Not the tired classics the school was foisting on us but J. D. Salinger, Vonnegut, Dos Passos, Ayn Rand, Henry Miller and the like. Miss Gotti noticed this almost immediately and enjoyed filling time by discussing 20th century literature with me. I was in heaven and more motivated to read than ever.

As the year wore on and the classroom became colder, Miss Gotti's nipples began to protrude more and more from beneath her sweaters. They appeared to be the size of gumdrops. There was a particular blue cashmere number that really showed them off, and I idly wondered how they could stick so successfully through her bra. Often, I had to hold my books over my crotch as I left for my first class, to hide the raging hard-ons she gave me. I remained her favorite throughout the year. I had played with the body of the daughter of my parents' best-friends, and I also had a girlfriend since junior year. So, I at least knew what breasts and pussy felt and smelled like through clothing. But I was still a virgin. Before I feel asleep at night, Miss Gotti was a far more frequent fantasy than the girls my own age. One of my favorite variations was having her ask me to stay after school to discuss literature. She was the seductress. Sitting on the corner of her desk, she'd gradually spread her legs until I could see her panties. She would end up with her skirt and sweater pushed way up, me standing at the edge of the desk pumping into her while I pinched and suckled those magnificent breasts. With that image working in my fiction-writer's head, it was no problem for me to shoot my load to the bottom of the bed.

Then I graduated, went to college, and coupled with one willing coed after another. The unattainable Miss Gotti slipped completely into the recesses of my mind. Luckily for me, professional performing connections got me work writing for television. The work paid very well and allowed plenty of time for novel writing. When I was twenty-eight I had a novel published that not only skirted along the bottom of the bestseller list but which was also picked up as an option for a movie. Suddenly, in my hometown, I was a big deal. I did a signing at a local bookstore. When I looked up at one point, there was Miss Gotti, beaming down at me.

The moment was a shock simply because I hadn't thought of her in so long. But it was an even bigger shock because the ten years since I'd seen her had apparently not been kind. She wore no make-up. The glow had gone from her skin. Her black hair was lightly peppered with premature gray. She looked so short that I knew she couldn't be perched atop her once-mandatory heels. Worst of all, she wore a granny-style dress that hung so tent-like off her large breasts that I wondered just how much extra weight it was hiding. She had bought three copies of my book. While I signed the copies for her and her relatives, she gushed about how she always knew I'd become a successful writer and how proud she was of me. She insisted I stop calling her Miss Gotti and use Gina instead. I noted no wedding band on her hand. I was really curious about what had happened to her, so when she suggested that we "get together for lunch sometime," I took her up on it.

The restaurant Gina had chosen was intimate and classy, a place I favored for first dates and quick seductions. I wondered what Gina's marital status was and even fantasized that this older woman and former teacher might want to seduce me now that I had become at least locally famous. I asked myself if I would help in the tryst, take her to bed, close my eyes, and fuck a memory. I really didn't know. Just in case the answer was yes, I hoped that the book signing had been a bad day for her. But again she appeared with no make-up, her hair streaked with gray and almost uncombed, and wearing another shapeless dress. The things that hadn't changed were her beautiful nature, her intelligence, and her dimpled smile. She could still inspire love if not lust. By the time we finished lunch and a carafe of wine, Gina had loosened up enough to tell me her big secret. It seemed that she had been pursued by men since junior high (big surprise!) but that she was raised a strict Roman Catholic and would engage in nothing beyond outside-the-clothes petting. Through high school and college, her convictions had caused her to lose one frustrated boyfriend after another. Then, two years after I had graduated high school, she had been set up on a blind date with an Air Force fighter jock. He was of Italian extraction, very macho, and very Right Stuff. His first name was Tony. He was willing to make the total commitment in order to snatch the brass ring. Shortly after they were married, Tony was reassigned to a Texas air base, and Gina dutifully followed. Although she was no longer a virgin, Gina confessed that she was nonetheless extremely naïve. She shared with me that fighter jocks are always on the make and famous for trying to cuckold each other. While her husband pressed her to consider swinging and swapping, which she rejected outright, he failed to alert her to the jock games. She soon fell into a trap.

One day, Gina had been asked by Tony to return a serving tray to the home of one of his fly-boy buddies, a handsome character named Ronnie. Ronnie had always been kind and rather gallant to Gina, and if they both weren't married already, she would have dated him. Gina had thought she'd be greeted by Ronnie's wife, but instead she found him home alone. Ronnie was drinking and acting very angry. It seemed he had just found out that her Tony had made love to his wife. Gina was dubious, until the jock told her things about her husband no one but a lover could know. Gina's first reaction was to storm home, but Ronnie begged her to stay awhile and share a bottle of bourbon, so that they could both figure out plans of action. After several drinks, he had convinced her that the best way for both of them to get even was "tit for tat." In a moment of weakness and anger, she succumbed. Sporting a hard-on every bit as rampant as those Miss Gotti had inspired in high school, I was hoping for a graphic description of the session. All that she would say was that "It got out of hand and lasted a good deal longer than I had intended." She tearfully begged Ronnie to tell no one. He promised he wouldn't and said that they should do nothing about Tony and his wife for a while. Gina agreed.

A few days later, Ronnie approached Gina in the PX and shoved a couple Polaroid photos in her hand. They were shots taken of a TV screen, not in very sharp focus but clear enough for Gina to recognize herself naked with Ronnie equally in the buff and very busy between her legs. Without being asked, Ronnie said that when Gina wasn't looking, he had turned on his video camera and captured them. Gina was sure she hadn't been drunk enough to have missed such an action, but the photos could hardly lie. After luring her to his car with the shots, Ronnie explained that Tony had, in fact, not cheated on her. The intimate details of her husband's anatomy and lovemaking skills Ronnie had gotten not from his wife but from one of her husband's old girlfriends. Thus, it was actually Gina rather than her husband who had cheated on their marriage. Ronnie confessed that he had set her up and hidden the video camera before she arrived because her puritanical ethics combined with her body drove him wild with lust. Gina's fury was only held in check by her guilt. Ronnie swore that he'd give her the tape and the photos if she'd engage with him in one unhurried love session at an infamous red-light motel on the edge of the base. She felt she had no choice.

A few days later, Gina arrived at the motel. Ronnie was waiting naked for her in a rented room. She was made to do a slow strip-tease for him to music from a boom-box he had brought along. While she danced, he played with himself on the bed. When she was naked for all but her high heels, he ordered her to crawl over to the bed and kneel beside it. Then he swung over and presented his cock for her to suck. She obeyed. "And then, when he was very excited, he ordered me to do something I'd never done," she told me. I assumed it was to swallow his spew. She acquiesced. Just as Ronnie was climaxing, a naked black man appeared from the bathroom and snapped a flash picture of them. Gina realized the never-ending implications. Before she could react, "Ronnie pulled me over his knees and started playing with part of me that I never allowed Tony to. 'We both have to have you back here,' he said, 'or else you don't get the film.'"

But Gina had had enough. She leapt off Ronnie's knees and swore that she'd go to the MPs with her story if they didn't turn over all the film. Watching her recount the tale, I received the force of enough dredged-up anger to know that she must have scared the crap out of the two jet jocks. They dutifully turned over the evidence and begged her not to tell anyone of the incidents. Gina was more than happy to agree. On the way home, she dumped the videotape, Polaroids, and the roll of film down a storm drain.

A month passed, and Gina congratulated herself for extricating herself from an embarrassing and marriage-threatening situation. Then one of the cabinet doors in her kitchen slipped off its fitting. Gina had seen her husband fix a similar door, so she got his toolbox, opened it, and hunted for a screwdriver. Under the top tray she found a videotape. With her heart pounding, she brought it to her living room and put it in the player. Her fears told her that Tony had been given a duplicate copy of her escapades, and that is precisely what she saw on the television screen. First, however, she saw Tony playing Ronnie's role with another of the fighter jock wives. In a flash, she realized that she had been suckered into a game that was commonly played among the fly-boys. Tony had supplied information on himself so that Ronnie could loosen her up for their swinging and swapping games.

Within three months, Gina was divorced. She fled back home, to live with her mother and father, who ran a florist shop. Her battered mind convinced her that the cause of all her grief with men had been her looks. From the moment of that revelation, she set out to make herself as unattractive as possible. She stopped using make-up. When her hair began to gray, she did nothing to cover it. She began taking long, solitary hikes, in all kinds of weather, and did not care if her face was wind-blown, frozen, or sunburned. She kept herself hidden in the back of the flower shop, creating the kind of beauty she would not suffer from. She refused the blind dates and fix-ups her well-meaning friends offered. She told me she enjoyed her convent life; it was better than trusting men, only to be betrayed. When I struggled for something to say, she realized her collective condemnation had made an indirect attack on me. She hastened to say that I was one of the very few men she considered a gentleman. She hoped we could be friends. I was not opposed to that, although I inwardly mourned the world's loss of a truly magnificent physical beauty.

Gina blushed then, confessing that she had an ulterior motive for the lunch date. The former English teacher had always wanted to write fiction but had not had the courage until lately. She wondered if I might look at some of her work and critique it. She actually had several stories ready in her mailbag of a purse. I figured they would be trash, that I would damn them with faint praise, and that would cause her to shrink from me as well. When we parted, she shook my hand.

As soon as I got back to my townhouse, I read Gina's writings. They were all dark fantasy or horror, either morbid or bitter. But that didn't stop them from being inventive and well written. She lacked polish and some of the tricks I had learned along the way, but everything was correctible. I invited her over to my digs. When she appeared, she looked as much like a young bag lady as she had the last two times, but I ignored that, and we worked together to maximize her talent.

A routine fell into place, with Gina coming by my townhouse about every two weeks. Sometimes, she'd coax me into taking a long walk with her. The more we were together, the better friends we became. Pure friendship without the male-female tension was easy, because I was being kept satisfied by a resident physician at a nearby hospital who loved to demonstrate on me her intimate knowledge of human anatomy. Gina loosened up and seemed to trust me. I summoned the courage to counsel her that just because so many men had treated her like meat, she shouldn't deny the world her outward beauty. I kept after her to dye her hair and fix it nicely and to use a moisturizing lotion on her face. Eventually, (and, I think, gratefully) she gave in. Some of her looks returned. She drew the line, however, at wearing make-up or giving up the figure-concealing dresses or the sneakers. I lost my doctor girlfriend to a surgeon's attentions, but my platonic relationship with Gina continued. It was comfortable, and I was damned if I'd be the one to prove to her that all men are pigs by making any advances.

Then, one very fine afternoon, I was working at my desk, putting in the obligatory hours it took to grind out my television dialogue, when my doorbell sounded. At my door was virtually the old Miss Gotti. Gina stood there with the most glorious grin on her face, with her full lips shining with lipstick, a touch of rouge on her cheeks, and her lashes incredibly large. She had her luxurious black hair pulled back into a ponytail and tied with a blue ribbon. The ribbon matched the tight sweater that she wore. Beneath this was an equally tight skirt that ended an inch above her knees. Most amazingly, she no longer wore sneakers but had reverted to four-inch black heels made mostly of thin straps.

"I have the biggest surprise!" Gina exclaimed brightly.

"I can see that," I answered.

"Not me," she replied. "This!" She thrust into my hands a letter. It was from a publisher of horror books. He had accepted one of Gina's short stories for an anthology that featured Stephen King, Robert Bloch, and R.C. Matheson. Her excitement was all but uncontainable.

"And it's all because of you," she said, just before she planted a hard kiss directly on my lips. Lumps rose in my throat and trousers, from pride in her and from pure lust.

There is no reclaiming the past; the Miss Gotti of my high school was gone. But the woman in front of me was like a rose in full blossom instead of a rosebud. Her skin would never again possess a teenage sheen, and I could no longer get my two hands around her waist, but she was still extremely beautiful and desirable. The tent dresses had not been hiding a figure gone to pot. Her manic hiking habit and her vegetarian diet had taken care of that.

"I like this other surprise, too," I told her, looking her up and down once again.

"I thought you would," she replied, walking past me, through the living room. She plucked a pillow off the couch as she went and strode over to my work area. "I've had this sweater since you were in high school." She pirouetted and seemed to stick her chest out. It also seemed, in those few seconds, that her nipples had grown to the old familiar size of gumdrops. "If I remember from the bulges in your pants, this was your favorite."

"It was," I managed to croak, incredibly flattered.

In answer, Gina swept all the materials off the desk's secretarial return. Then she placed the pillow where the desk met the return and sat on the desktop.

"I wanted to show you I could become the old me again," she said, gesturing to herself. "But it's no longer me. I did this just for you. Do you know why?"

I expected it was out of gratitude, a kind of repayment. Instead, I said, "Tell me."

"I know how much I used to turn you on. I also feel the sexual tension between us. You know how grateful I've been for your friendship and help with my writing. But never once have you put the moves on me. That kind of respect should be rewarded." She held up her hand with her forefinger like an exclamation point. "Just once. Only this once will I ever be the old Miss Gotti again."

I didn't need to be invited twice. I crossed to her and took her in my arms. I could feel the hardness of her nipples through the cashmere. We kissed for a very long time, first hard, then softly, then with tongues, then slowly, then hard again. Eventually, I got her sweater off and saw the secret of her prominent nipples. She wore the type of bra that is a crescent only on the lower, outside corners, so that the breasts are supported inward and upward, with the nipples exposed just above the crescents.

"My nipples are so long, I couldn't stand having them inside a bra," Gina told me, laughing. "And the wool would keep me excited all day long. A strict Catholic girl has to get her jollies somehow."

She encouraged me to take as long as I wanted with her breasts, touching, stroking, and suckling. They were the quintessence of all male desire, and they were mine for the having. Because they were so huge, her areolas were as large in diameter and as convex as the covers of old pocket watches. Due to my persistent attentions, they were now crinkling.