My senior year was nearly half over and so far, it had been pretty fantastic. I turned 18 before anyone else in my class and maybe that gave me the edge as I earned the starting quarterback position two years in a row. We made it to the state finals where we lost a very close, hard-fought game. In October, I was named homecoming king and was dating the most popular girl in school when I received a writing assignment that would change my life for the next two years.
It was the day before Thanksgiving break when my English teacher assigned us a ten-page paper on the theme of who we would most like to meet and why. I was sure most of my classmates would write about meeting the president or a famous athlete or movie star but not me. I'd had crushes on teachers before, but Mrs. Lyman made me knees go weak. She was not only the most attractive woman I'd ever met, she also dressed exactly the way I preferred and between those two facts, I made it a point to avoid standing up in class after I'd been daydreaming.
Nancy Lyman was 35 with dirty blonde hair, a fantastic body, blue eyes that seemed alive, and a perfect smile that slayed me every time she flashed it my way. I'd given up trying to figure out why I liked the clothes I like, but I'd sort of decided it had something to do with growing up in Western Washington State, where it was cold and girls wore sweaters nine months out of the year. I'd "had a thing" for them as long as I could remember. Not thick, granny sweaters or clunky old, heavy fisherman sweaters. I just really liked the way a woman's body looked when she wore a very fitting, shapely sweater. Rib knitting was a big plus. Cotton, cashmere, or anything else were all fine, too, if the woman wearing them had the right figure. Karen Lyman did. Add in a short skirt and a nice pair of legs and I was "all in!" Add to that Mrs. Lyman's soft, shoulder-length hair and well, I'd spilled a lot of seed in shower imagining what it would be like to make love to her.
On the way home, it came to me. Since the person I'd most like to meet was the beautiful woman who'd given me the assignment, all I needed was a strategy to put together a paper that would say just the right thing in just the way. What's the worst that could happen? A reprimand for getting too personal? A long talk on student-teacher relationships? What got my motor running was thinking about the opposite—the
best
thing that could possibly happen. What I didn't know was how to approach a woman who was not only nearly twice my age but also married. Not just married but married to a successful architect who lectured all around the country. I wasn't exactly sure how to proceed, but I knew just whom to ask!
My grandmother was an unexpectedly delightful discovery. I'd learned a few years ago she not only was smart, but that she understood people. Whenever I had a problem, she was the person I counted on for perspective. She really listened and then offered the kind of sage advice a young man like me needed. This time, she didn't disappoint me, either. When I dropped by for a visit, I didn't share my plan with her, but I was able to get the necessary information by asking a simple question. Why do so many married women have affairs? I couched my comments within the framework of trying to understand what women really want and cited the percentage of women who answered "yes" in a recent poll on whether or not they'd been unfaithful. The poll showed 70% of men and 60% of women admitted to cheating and that raised my hopes dramatically.
"Beautiful women are often very lonely," she told me. "The only thing worse is a beautiful married woman whose husband neglects her," she added. She went on to explain that things aren't always what they seem in any marriage and that nearly all of them had periods of rocky times when either the husband or the wife were prone to look elsewhere to meet their needs. What I didn't tell my grandmother was why I was asking. Well, not specifically anyway. I told her about the assignment, but substituted a gorgeous, older, married TV star as the woman I'd most like to meet. I went away with a greatly expanded understanding of what women really want and need to hear. On the one hand, I felt a little guilty for being taken so deep inside the forbidden world of "sisterhood", but on the other hand, I was excited and hopeful that this scheme of mine just might have a chance!
I started work on the paper the next day and spent nearly two weeks working on it and revising it over and over to get it just right. I wanted to leave no doubt the main characters were she and I, but let it be ambiguous enough to give me plausible deniability in case she was hugely offended.
After a very subtle start, I gradually painted the picture of a lonely housewife whose husband was often gone and who, even when he was home, was never really there. I described the internal thoughts of her days of frustration, trying to let work and friends fill in the aching in her soul. As I moved back and forth from the point of view of the mature and trustworthy, handsome senior who longed for the opportunity to meet her own self which so deeply longed for intimate companionship, I felt like I'd struck the perfect balance between lust and longing. It was more of a connection on the human level I hoped would strike the right chord with what I believed to be a lonely woman with a heavy emphasis on the maturity (and therefore trustworthiness) of the young man who held her in such high esteem. There wasn't a hint of anything "racy" or disrespectful. It was rather the tale of two people with mutual needs who would have to navigate a minefield to make this happen in real life. I also carefully wove into the story the younger man's full understanding of his future lover's need for complete discretion in order for her to able to trust him. I made it clear that meant no one—no friend, acquaintance, or adult—would ever know of
anything
the two of us might share.
The paper was due on Friday and my heart was pounding so loudly I thought she'd hear it as I smiled and dropped it off on her desk. She'd worn my absolutely favorite outfit that day—a white, long-sleeved rib knit sweater with a short khaki skirt and heels. Her hair was uncharacteristically down, as well. Normally, she wore it in a bun which was stylish in its own right. However, when she wore it down, it quite literally took my breath away. I was really glad I'd worn jeans as my cock strained against the denim fabric. I paused briefly as she smiled
that
smile at me and I said, "Have a good weekend, Ms. Lyman."
"You too, Cal" she told me.
That weekend, I made the decision to break up with my girlfriend. We'd been together nearly a year and I was not only bored but I wanted to be able to honestly say I was totally free. If this didn't work out, there were plenty of other fish in the sea, as they say.
I was a little nervous as I sat down just before the bell rang the following Monday. Mrs. Lyman closed the door then walked to the front of the class. The first thing that caught my attention was how she'd worn her hair down a second day in a row. She also wore a black, sleeveless turtleneck and matching black cardigan sweater with a black knit skirt, dark hose and heels. Her red lipstick set and dark eyeliner set off the lighter colored foundation she wore over the silky soft skin of her face. She began by saying she hoped we'd all had a good weekend then told us she'd both enjoyed reading our papers and even laughed a few times. My heart sank as I imagined her laughing at what now seemed like a foolish and childish attempt to win her heart. As she walked up and down the rows dropping the essays on our desks, I couldn't help but catch the scent of her perfume. My cock again hardened as her painted nails lifted off my paper revealing a large red A in the upper right corner. I stiffened even more until I noticed the words "See Me" just below it.
