Revised version copyright 2006 by the author.
I had a lot of trouble getting to sleep that night, and it wasn't just because the bruise on my head prevented me from lying in my favored sleeping position. I knew I'd gotten off lightly--there was nothing to have prevented my trick from beating me to a pulp in the empty locker room, or to have come back with a cop, accusing me of making indecent advances.
It wasn't just around the students and parents at the Institute that I had to be on guard. Even searching for quick, anonymous relief seemed fraught with danger here. I found myself becoming profoundly depressed, not only for myself, but also for the boy who had come on to, then assaulted me. I could only imagine the conflicts that raged within him.
It was probably around one when I finally fell asleep. Inevitably I was awakened around six by the high piping voices of small children going past my door on their way to breakfast. My head throbbed and I knew I'd have to take something for it. I lay in my bed and groaned at the thought of a full day's teaching ahead in my dazed and confused state. There was no point in trying to fall asleep again--I'd have to be up for real in less than an hour.
I decided to try a walk before breakfast. The cool, slightly misty morning air hit my face as I left the dorm, and in spite of myself my spirits begin to lift. The bad taste of the events of yesterday afternoon finally began to fade. Needless to say, I hadn't cum during yesterday's abortive encounter. I sighed as I realized that, despite everything, I was still incurably, ragingly horny. Would I never learn? Shaking my head, I began to walk toward the athletic fields.
I kept to the sidewalk at the edge of the large grassy rectangle that held the Stevens Point outdoor track. Even at this early hour there was already someone on it, setting a brisk pace. It was a man, dressed only in a pair of turquoise running shorts. The color seemed startlingly bright in the morning light and emphasized the top condition of his body. He drew close and I noted that the hair on his chest was peppered with gray. Not bad looking for an old guy, quite nice, in fact...
I was shaken out of my increasingly lustful reverie by a voice calling my name.
"Good morning, Mr. Hewitt!" The figure raised one arm in a friendly wave.
The runner knew who I was. I peered closely at his face for the first time and saw eyes that even at this distance were blue, the face framed by curly, graying hair and beard.
It was one of the parents in my ten o'clock master class--Molly's dad. I desperately searched my brain for his name, hoping he hadn't noticed that I'd been checking him out.
The man had stopped on the track opposite where I was on the sidewalk, breathing hard, glistening with sweat, his muscular chest rising and falling. I was very conscious of his superb physique. Even though I was probably ten or twelve years younger I felt flabby and inferior.
"Mr. Wagner." I'd finally remembered his name. It was, after all, only the second day of Institute.
"Call me Mike, please. You're out early."
"So are you. Molly still asleep?"
Mike Wagner was shaking out his legs, corded with muscle.
"No, she's eating breakfast. One of the other moms down the hall was nice enough to take her, so I could get in my daily run. I usually do it before she gets up, but today I overslept."
"You're very dedicated." Feeling bold, I added, "It shows."
Molly's father smiled. "Thanks. It gets me out of bed in the morning."
There was a pause. I found myself wanting to keep the conversation going. I said with mock severity, "I hope you and Molly did her assignment last night."
Mike nodded vigorously. "Oh yes sir. Twenty-five times on 'the jungle.'" "The jungle" was the trickiest passage in the movement of the Vivaldi Concerto Molly was playing. "Setting the metronome a little faster each time. She complained a bit, but we did it."
"Good," I said. "We'll hear that first today."
Mike grimaced a bit. "I hope I got it right. Lois--my late wife--was a musician herself. Since she's been gone I've often wondered whether I was really helping Molly. I've worried a lot that I was messing her up."
I sensed he was talking about more than violin playing. Some impulse made me answer in kind. "You're doing a great job with her. I can tell she's having the time of her life here this week. She really looks up to you." I stopped, wondering whether I'd said too much.
Mike Wagner was looking at me with an unreadable expression. "Thanks. That means a lot to me." He left the track and came toward me. I kept my eyes on his face with a conscious effort, but the impact of his presence was palpable. My breathing quickened and I felt lightheaded.
"You know, I've come to Stevens Point several years, and Molly's had a different teacher every year. None of them have been bad, and some of them have been really good. But you're the best ever." He reached out and grasped my upper arm, startling me. "Mr. Hewitt, it's a privilege for Molly and me to work with you."
"Well, thank you," I managed. "And call me Alan."
Still gripping my shoulder, Mike offered his other hand. I shook it, dazed by his smile and charisma. "Okay, Alan. But Molly's still going to call you Mr. Hewitt. I've got to finish my run. See you in class."
Something changed in our relationship after that early morning conversation, though the lessons with Molly went on pretty much the same. I worked her hard in the ten or twelve minutes I had with her every morning, and gave her an assignment for each evening, tempering my demands with humor. Molly laughed a lot, quite unfazed by my attempts at sternness.
Occasionally, though, I would catch sight of Mike, not watching his daughter or the teaching point I was trying to illustrate, but me. I should have been flattered that he was following my every move so intently, but I found it disturbing. It got so I avoided looking in his direction while teaching his daughter, not that that was easy. Mike came to class every morning dressed in a T-shirt or polo shirt, and shorts that showed off his narrow hips and long, sinewy legs. One day he wore a tank top, and I even caught one or two of the mothers of the other students eyeing him covertly. If only they knew the teacher felt the same way.
I tried to relieve my tensions in the way I usually did, by swimming. I'd thought about not going back to the Y but decided what the hell. The chances were that I wouldn't see the blond boy who had decked me, and even if I did, he probably wasn't eager for another encounter either. As it turned out, I never saw him again. So I had to content myself with Jack Gormley in his Speedos. I found myself idly speculating about my chances with him. But it wasn't in me deliberately to try and disrupt a long-term relationship, no matter what unconscious signals Jack might be sending out.
