"Mrs. Jameson has asked me to remind the whole class that she will give you your exam on the entire Information Sciences Unit on Monday, including the section that I've presented to you this week. If you have any questions as you study this weekend, my email address and my Instant Messenger handle are on the board. Have a great weekend."
Penny Jameson is an old friend of mine that moved to rural New Mexico some years ago to marry her college sweetheart. After my recent breakup with my fiancée, she was my truest friend. After enduring endless heartbroken phone calls from me, she and her husband Reggie convinced me that southern New Mexico was the change of pace I needed. "Change of pace?" I retorted, "You mean absence of pace entirely." I had never before left the East Coast. I'd never been out of the state for more than a week at a time. But I was in no condition to resist. Pen is almost always right about what's good for me. And I knew I could run my dot.com from anywhere with a broadband connection.
About the time I got into a good routine and had learned my way around town, Penny and Reg decided that they were long overdue for a vacation, so that's how I wound up guest-teaching her classes at the high school.
As the seniors, my last class of the day, filed past me, they said "Goodbye" or "Thanks, Mr. Walsh" and almost all seemed genuinely appreciative of my lessons. Compared to the cynicism and aloofness with which I had approached my studies, even in college, I found their attitudes refreshing and mature. As they began switching on their cell phones in the halls by their lockers, making their weekend plans, I considered my own options for the weekend. I had a huge pile of neglected work as a result of my brief foray into higher education, but I was itching to do something a bit more relaxing.
On my way through the halls, to the parking lot, my thoughts turning to my social opportunities, I caught myself reflexively "eyeing the scenery," which in this case meant 17 and 18 year-old girls. "GOOD GOD, MAN! Get a hold of yourself. These are children!" I silently rebuked myself, rather unconvincingly. Where were these girls when I was in high school? (To be precise, they were in kindergarten or first grade...) But I didn't remember my classmates looking like that when I was 17. All week I had been struck by how worldly these young women were. Not only their attitudes, but also the way they dressed and groomed themselves. They weren't wearing the fashions found in YM and Seventeen, but in the club attire I saw professional women wearing back in the big city.
My students wore tight, small tops, showing bare midriffs, and gripping every curve of their swelling breasts. The worst, however was the rampant use of low-rise hip-hugger jeans, revealing a sliver of underwear to show the world that the owner was not a lacey, pale pink, cotton, Hanes girl, but a leopard-print, silk thong, Victoria's Secret WOMAN. As I reflected on these things, I found it harder and harder to exert control over my thoughts and my eyes. I picked up my pace and desperately tried to focus on the door at the end of the hall. Subsequently, I stumbled right into the middle of a gaggle of the senior girls from my class, who were the worst offenders. "Excuse me, ladies," I said as I tried to find the shortest route out of their circle that required the least amount of physical contact. As I wriggled free and studiously turned my face to the doorway ahead, I quickly dismissed the sensation of many pairs of eyes on my departing back as just my warped imagination.
"I need a drink." I resolved as I sped back to my place.
As I stepped into my apartment, converted from an abandoned textile mill, I took a breath of the dry, sawdusty smell and calmly exhaled. My place was in the old downtown, now well out of the true business district, 5 miles west, where the strip malls had popped up. It was the studio that I never could afford back east and it truly was my oasis. This, despite the fact that the back section was my office, complete with separate entrance used by my part-time assistant and bookkeeper, who organized my madness into a successful business. "I'll just check my email real quick, then I'll pour myself a drink and forget this whole week." I asserted to myself. Some spam, a couple of friends back home badgering me to move back, but no business that couldn't wait until Monday. Just as I was about to shut off my machine and close the office, my IM chirped at me. It was a handle that I didn't recognize, but it said "hey, amigo, i'm on a bud's IM & haf 2 take off, but u gotta check out this website. 2 hot! take NM by storm, see u soon - me," Who in blazes was this? "r u still there?" I typed as fast as I could. But he'd already logged off.
So I follow the link to what seemed to be a pretty standard, girl-next-door hosted, "100% original content" webcam type of site. On the index page, though under today's date it said, "One night only: 1-second refresh rate to all guests on the Randi-cam." Hmm. That's interesting. I never got much into this sort of thing. Spending all my waking hours in front of a screen for work made me pretty hungry for human interaction, so going out has always been my preferred diversion. But my curiosity to find out what appealed so much to my anonymous pal got the best of me. Clicking on the link to the Randi-cam, at first I was not all that impressed. It was a medium-res image of an admittedly attractive (but fully clothed) torso of a woman, typing and mousing away at her computer. Her head was offscreen and a double-sized bed was in the background. About the time I was going to shut down and leave, she stopped typing and started to casually caress herself through her sweater.
As she moved her hands over her ribcage and stomach I sensed a sincerity about each move that was oddly captivating. And I realized that's why I'd never been impressed by these sorts of sites before, because they seemed so forced and plastic. After a light dusting over her breasts, "Randi" then slipped her left hand under her cropped, fuzzy sweater and rubbed her flat belly with a hard, rough movement, back and forth, up and down. Then her hand dipped below her waistline, offscreen. Her breasts surged together and toward the webcam between her upper arms, as they tensed in ecstasy. By now, I was so transfixed, that for the first time I noticed a hyperlink that read, "Chat with Randi."
As I clicked the link, the page refreshed and a field appeared with a cursor. I typed, "Stand up." and pressed return. Randi's right hand blurred over the keyboard and the words "Where are your manners?" showed up in red under my request. "My dear lady, if it pleases you, please rise for your comfort as well as my own. -Your Humble Servant." I imagined I saw her shoulders quickly shake as if she chuckled, but she stood up to reveal that indeed her fist was stuffed down the front of the tightest pants I'd ever seen. "Aren't those pants making things a bit difficult?" I typed. Slowly she dragged her hand up along her mons pubis out from behind the waistband and began to unzip her pants. I suppose it was silly of me to be surprised that she wore no panties. She laid the flaps aside, exposing her slash of a bellybutton set in latte-colored skin and the wispiest brown shorthairs known (or unknown) to man. But before she tugged those painted-on britches down, she took one step back and sat on the corner of the bed, showing her neck and a profile of her figure, but still no face.
She crossed her arms over her chest, grasped the edge of her sweater and began to lift it over her head. Just as I detected a shimmer of satin cupping her breathtaking bosom, she abruptly pulled it back down and craned her neck to her left, looking offscreen. She jumped up and her hips filled the camera. One hand frantically sought her zipper pull, while the other was working the mouse like mad. "What's going on?" I fired off to her, but the image became static and the Chat field was replaced by an icon that read, "Next Randi-cam show at 11:00."
Whew. I looked at my watch. It was 8:43. I resolved once again that I needed a drink.
Wanting something stiffer than a beer and not in a mood to mix my own drink, I hopped into my truck, an ancient Ford pickup, halfway restored. The only non-redneck bar within 100 miles was across the Mexican border. El Burro Blanca is a decent joint, only 20 minutes from my place and primarily patronized by hard-working locals. There are a few gringos on weekend nights, but most stay closer to El Paso, so I drink unmolested. "Senor, uno Juarez Especiale, por favor," I ordered as I leaned on the bar. "One bottle of cheap tequila, coming up, sir," replied the bartender in his most exaggerated gringo accent, flashing me a benign smile.
Ten minutes later, from my position in a corner booth, looking out over a quarter-empty bottle of the local liquor, I watched the door for entertainment, assigning nicknames to the patrons as they filed in. After Juan Valdez and Speedy, a fantastic young senorita strolled in as if she owned the place. In fact, the bartender leaned over the bar and presented his cheek to be kissed, much like an uncle would for a favorite niece. She was 5'10, 140 pounds. Her dark, full hair must've accounted for 10 pounds of that. Her skin was a warm cocoa color, shaped into marvelous curves, evident even in a loose sackdress and sandals.
With her back to the bar, she scanned the room casually. Having lost any "cool" two shots ago, I just sat there slackjawed, looking directly at her, as her gaze fell on me. A mild smirk crossed her face briefly as our eyes met, but she continued her visual sweep of the room. Turning my attention again to the bottle, I concentrated on pouring myself another shot. By the time I had finished pouring, she was standing in front of my table, with a shot glass in hand she'd filched from the bar. "Is there enough in there for two?" she asked, nodding toward the bottle. I said something witty like, "Yeah." She set her glass on the table and waited patiently for me to fill it. With a wink at me she tossed it back like water found in the desert. "Are you going to ask me to sit?" she said, amusement apparent. I came back quickly with a clever, "Yeah. Please sit."
Before I could rally my senses in order to offer something to the conversation, she said, "Okay here's the game: You do a shot, you ask me a question. I answer. I do a shot, I ask you a question. You answer. Got it? Good."
Me: "[gulp] What's your name?"
