Chapter 3
I was tired.
It had been a long, bone-grinding day, with one problem after another, with only a twenty minute break for lunch, and I was exhausted. I had to literally drag myself through my last two classes this afternoon, making mistake after mistake as my thoughts wandered and I found myself yawning. So complete was my fatigue that I knew if I'd sat down at my desk to present the lesson, and not stood at the board as I had, I would have fallen fast asleep, without any question.
Christ, I thought, yawning and stretching. I still had a long night ahead of me with even more work. I had thirty-two book reports to read and evaluate for tomorrow morning's class, and I'd put off marking them so long that they were way past due. Regents examinations in English Literature were scheduled for less than a month from now, and I was way behind in preparation. So the papers had to be done tonight.
I flushed the toilet and stepped out of the booth in the Women Teacher's Lounge down the hall from my office. Since it was after hours, the room was empty and silent, a condition of life which I found exquisitely pleasurable at the mo ment. The room was set up much in the same way as the girl's bathroom had been, with the exception of the carpeted lounge with its comfortably upholstered sofa and chairs, and I found myself recalling yesterday's incident with Richard.
The poor boy, I thought, silently amused. With the distance of one day giving me some sort of perspective about the occurrence, I found myself dwelling on the more comic aspects of the events; something which, I was sure, Richard himself would be capable of doing as he grew older and more mature. God, the things I made him do. I'd used him terribly, and he'd enjoyed every single moment of it. What young boy would not have? To be introduced to the detailed intimacies of love making with an older, more experienced woman was the secret fantasy of all boys, and perhaps even of all men. And, out of all men, only a handful of lucky ones had that fantasy fulfilled. Richard had been one of them, something I was sure he would be eternally grateful to me for. Even after, amid all his surface shame and humiliation, I knew, unequivocally knew, he had gone directly home and locked himself in his room or in, the bathroom, or wherever else young boys do such things, and had masturbated himself to the point of exhaustion, running his memory over, again and again, the various aspects of our wildly erotic afternoon.
I know he did, because I'd done the exact same thing. Even now, a day later, there was a soreness between my thighs, and the lingering, deadened sensitivity of having worked my fingers in and out, around and around, until the flesh on my pussy was rubbed almost raw.
But what memories! Christ!
After he had eaten me through my panties, I made him pull them down my legs, being careful not to touch me between my widely parted thighs yet, and I stepped out of them, naked from the waist down. I then commanded him to repeat the licking action, squatting almost on his face, until the swift, inexperienced work of his tongue had brought me to several orgasms.
And, even then, I wasn't finished with him. All the while he was eating me, I demanded that he masturbate himself, so that I could watch him, and wallow in my own erotic fantasies. I cautioned him not to permit himself to climax from his pulling fingers, and obediently he had obeyed, although it must have been an excruciating task not to come when he so clearly ached to do just that.
When I had come a sufficient number of times, I roughly pulled him up with both hands, and forced him to sit on the toilet, sliding forward on the seat so that his swollen, pulsing erection stood boldly, almost defiantly up in the air. I straddled him with my naked thighs, and I brought myself down upon the point of his amazing shaft. Guiding it into my body with my experienced fingers, I allowed him to pump the tool in and out of my wet underside, forcing him to watch the lips of my nether mouth slide up and down the pole of his erection. Threatening him with further abuses and humiliation should he come before I permitted him to, I managed to bring myself to two or three more orgasms before I allowed him to enjoy his pleasure.
There is nothing quite like the thrusting hardness of a fifteen year old stud bucking into you to let you know the real pleasures of sex. Something is lost through the years-perhaps enthusiasm, perhaps the sheer driving force of youthfulness, perhaps the uniqueness of the experience-to a woman in making love to an older, more mature and experienced male partner. All a woman has to do is get herself plugged by a young hard stud, and she'll never, never go back to the other. There is simply no comparison, no way to measure the two experiences.
Even when he came, deep inside of me, it was like twenty volcanoes going off. I could feel the sperm-actually feel it!-spewing into my sucking vaginal canal. It didn't ooze out, or plop out, as it does with older men, it gushed out, it shot out, it exploded out, like a liquefied bullet from the muzzle of his fleshy gun. I could feel every pulse, every throb, every movement, thrust, withdrawal, belch of molten fire which rippled through my loins. He came a gallon, even after having come in his pants, until the sperm filled me up, and dripped back down the shaft of his erection, leaving a fresh, new stain across his totally drenched jeans.
God, I thought, remembering. So hard, so thick, so full of unflagging energy and enthusiasm. Even when I pulled off of him, he remained erect, and when, still not satisfied, I got down on my hands and knees and took the drenched shaft again into my' mouth, I managed to bring him almost immediately, to even yet another orgasm. It filled my mouth, hot and wet and salty, spewing copiously between my lips, until I had sucked him dry, swallowing every single drop, until the penis was again flaccid, and Richard Lowe was begging me in pain to release him.
I did, satisfied for the moment, and allowed him to go home, slightly late, almost punchy from all the multiple layers of pleasure I had settled upon his aching flesh. Richard Lowe could go home again, assured that he would not ever again have to be concerned about my interest in him. After the first time, after the initiation, my desire for a particular young body usually was satiated. Richard Lowe could go back again to passing my exams.
But what a memory he was taking with him. God!
I snapped myself out of my reverie when I realized the memory was making me wet. And, at the moment, I didn't have either the time or the energy to satisfy the rekindling of passion which was steadily building in my belly. It was best to leave off now, before things got out of hand. Or, to be more accurate, into hand.
I stepped over to the sink, turned on the water, and vigorously rubbed off my oily, sweaty makeup. There was something about applying fresh makeup that seemed to have a beneficial effect whenever I was tired and dragging. I lathered my hands until they were dripping with soap, and I scrubbed my face energetically. When I was finished, I turned on the cool, running water, and I rinsed off the soap. Then, with paper towels, I patted dry my face.
With beads of water dripping from the end of my hair, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, attempting to objectively evaluate what I saw. Wide green eyes, clear, healthy complexion, topped off by honey blonde hair of medium length, cut into a growing-out fuck. My nose was straight and small, my cheeks slightly hollowed, giving my eyes a wider, higher appearance, and red sensuous lips, parted suddenly in a smile of definite approval.
Not bad, I commented at the face staring back at me! For thirty-three years old, not bad at all. Not that thirty-three was old, for it wasn't in my opinion. I was past the sensitivity of that awkward, younger age, and I was just blooming into the prime of my middle years. Gone were all of the hang-ups of my youth, and all those false values with their attendant pressures of mindless guilt. I knew exactly who and what I was, and I was well past the point where I was either going to worry about it, or try and alter my patterns of behavior. After long years of trial and error, I'd finally reached the plateau in my life where I could readily accept the senselessness, the futility of existence. I lived in a cosmos which was stupid, and perhaps even meaningless, and I could accept, philosophically, at least, the reality of knowing that I would probably die well before I ever had any opportunity of making any more sense of it then, than I had at its inception. Life was nothing more than a momentary series of diversions, sexual or otherwise, and I felt no reluctance in exploring it as it came along to me. The only thing, in fact, which did seem to mean anything was sensual pleasure, for it, at least, was intense enough to push everything else out of the spectrum in that exquisite intensity of its own moment. So, with all that in mind, I accepted my reflection for what it was: me. And, at thirty-three years old, that really wasn't bad at all.
I carefully reapplied my makeup, brushed my hair, and appraised the renewed image with a certain satisfaction. Even the fatigue seemed to have lessened.
The hallway was empty as I left the bathroom, and I was very much aware of the hollow sound of my footsteps as they clicked like empty echoes to the silence. My office was a few doors away, and I was beginning to remember all the work still in store for me before this night would end.
"Oh, hi, Miss Harper," Sandra Wilson said as I pushed open the door to my office. She was sitting in the chair beside my desk, reading a folded over paperback book. She looked up from it. "I was beginning to get a little worried. I thought that maybe you'd gone home."
I cringed inwardly. Sandra was one of my best students: I had her for an English honors class, as well as senior English. I was also her Faculty Adviser, and I was in no mood to sit through any pimply crisis which might be troubling her at the moment.
"Oh, Sandra," I said dryly, perhaps allowing my displeasure to show through. "What are you still doing here? It's well after hours. Won't your parents be worried that you haven't come home yet?"
She shook her head. "No, they won't even know. Both my parents work, so there's nobody waiting for me at home who will know, much less care."
Ah, I thought sagely, the neglected adolescent probably looking for attention or affection. There seemed to be more and more such children like Sandra over the years. God only knew what kind of world it was going to be when all these neglected children had matured. Technology, it seemed, was taking its toll on civilization in more ways than we had originally believed. I said:
"Is there something you'd like to speak to me about?"
Her dark features reflected confusion. "Oh, no," to worry about it, or try and alter my patterns of behavior. After long years of trial and error, I'd finally reached the plateau in my life where I could readily accept the senselessness, the futility of existence. I lived in a cosmos which was stupid, and perhaps even meaningless, and I could accept, philosophically, at least, the reality of knowing that I would probably die well before I ever had any opportunity of making any more sense of it then, than I had at its inception. Life was nothing more than a momentary series of diversions, sexual or otherwise, and I felt no reluctance in exploring it as it came along to me. The only thing, in fact, which did seem to mean anything was sensual pleasure, for it, at least, was intense enough to push everything else out of the spectrum in that exquisite intensity of its own moment. So, with all that in mind, I accepted my reflection for what it was: me. And, at thirty-three years old, that really wasn't bad at all.
I carefully reapplied my makeup, brushed my hair, and appraised the renewed image with a certain satisfaction. Even the fatigue seemed to have lessened.
The hallway was empty as I left the bathroom, and I was very much aware of the hollow sound of my footsteps as they clicked like empty echoes to the silence. My office was a few doors away, and I was beginning to remember all the work still in store for me before this night would end.
"Oh, hi, Miss Harper," Sandra Wilson said as I pushed open the door to my office. She was sitting in the chair beside my desk, reading a folded over paperback book. She looked up from it. "I was beginning to get a little worried. I thought that maybe you'd gone home."
I cringed inwardly. Sandra was one of my best students: I had her for an English honors class, as well as senior English. I was also her Faculty Adviser, and I was in no mood to sit through any pimply crisis which might be troubling her at the moment.
"Oh, Sandra," I said dryly, perhaps allowing my displeasure to show through. "What are you still doing here? It's well after hours. Won't your parents be worried that you haven't come home yet?"
She shook her head. "No, they won't even know. Both my parents work, so there's nobody waiting for me at home who will know, much less care."
Ah, I thought sagely, the neglected adolescent probably looking for attention or affection. There seemed to be more and more such children like Sandra over the years. God only knew what kind of world it was going to be when all these neglected children had matured. Technology, it seemed, was taking its toll on civilization in more ways than we had originally believed. I said:
"Is there something you'd like to speak to me about?"
Her dark features reflected confusion. "Oh, no," she suddenly exclaimed, understanding at last, "it's nothing like that."
Now I was confused. "What is it then, Sandra?"
She shifted uncomfortably on the chair. "Well..." she began. "I don't really know how to say this...."
I settled myself behind the desk, turning my chair so that I was staring patiently at her, exercising what professional technique I could to put her at ease.
"Just say whatever is on your mind," I assured her, smiling my understanding smile. "Don't be intimidated if you think you're not saying it well, because I don't really mind at all what you say, as long as you say what's bothering you. My job is to help you, Sandi-do you mind if I call you that?" Personalize it, I thought.
The young girl blushed. "Mind? No, of course not, Miss Harper. Everyone calls me that."
"Fine, Sandi, fine. Now just tell me what it is, and don't be afraid to say anything...personal. Whatever we discuss will go no further than this room."
She took a deep breath. "Well, Miss Harper, the problem has to do with...." Her face screwed up, as if she were forcing the words out. "...you."
I blinked. "With me?"
Her resolve began to crumble. "Oh, I know I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry, Miss Harper. I really didn't mean to get personal."
A flutter of uncertainty, and resentment, which only added to the uncertainty, gnawed at the pit of my stomach. "Don't be silly," I said. "When I told you that you could say anything you wanted to when you came into this room, I meant just that. Now, what's on your mind, Sandi?"
"Well, I'm worried about you, Miss Harper," she blurted out. "You don't look good at all."
Amused, and undeniably relieved, I said: "Oh, really? I knew I was getting older, but I didn't think I was falling apart already."
Sandi put her hand up to her mouth, her cheeks flushing red. "Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean that. I just meant that you don't look healthy...like you're sick or something, you know."
"I think I get the idea."
"I know this is none of my business, Miss Harper, but I've been watching you for the past few weeks, and I'm sure there's something wrong. You seem so tired, so drained; as if you haven't been sleeping well or something."
I nodded, acknowledging the same observation. I had been feeling just as she'd described, and I. found it somewhat disconcerting that I'd not completely hidden that fact from the world.
"Well," I confessed, "I have been feeling somewhat tired. I really couldn't say why, except perhaps that the year's work is finally grinding down upon me. That, and all the extra work I've been taking on."
"Oh, I do hope that's what it is," Sandi said, and she seemed genuinely concerned. "I was watching you today, and you seemed as if you were just dead on your feet. I thought you were faint or something."
I laughed, mildly surprised. "Nothing seems to get past you, Sandra, does it?"
The irony went over her head. "No, Miss Harper, it doesn't. Not where you're concerned, at least."
"Oh, really? And why is that?"
Sandi shrugged. She was a very pretty girl, perhaps even beautiful, and the gentle spreading flush of self-consciousness which stained her cheeks, enhanced that attractiveness. Her hair was long and dark, a vivid jet black, gathered like clouds of drifting smoke against her face, flowing down in lazy curls across her shoulders. Equally black were her eyes, smoldering like jagged chunks of heated coal, waiting, it seemed, for a good strong wind to turn the simmering fire into a blazing inferno. The color of her flesh, as if in direct contrast, was milk white, so pale and clear it seemed almost translucent. There was a lushness to her body, like a well-ripened fruit, threatening to burst open and spill out her tender young juices. High, hard breasts pushed out against the tautly stretched material of her pale yellow blouse. Her waist was pinched and narrow, girdled with a wide leather belt now back in fashion, pulled tightly in to accent the wide, flaring swell of her hips. She wore a short, flouncy skirt which danced across the middle of her thighs. Her legs were strong and athletic, well-formed, parted slightly as they tapered down into almost comically tiny feet.
"I've made you a sort of hobby of mine," she explained, struggling to find the proper words. "I know that sounds silly, but-I admire you, Miss Harper. I really do."
Compliments, even from someone as young and as inexperienced as Sandi, were always welcome, and I found myself warming to the girl, despite my initial reaction to her having been in my office. I realized I'd never considered Sandi apart from any of my other students: she was always one of many, without much of a personality to set her apart from all the other anonymous faces which filled my classes. I'd never considered her as a person before. Until that very moment.
"Why that's very nice, Sandi," I said, holding something in reserve, unsure as yet that I wanted to involve my personality in the privacy of her fantasies. "I've always tried to be the best possible teacher I could. It's pleasing to know that all my efforts haven't been in vain. It's gratifying to know that someone was affected."
She continued to struggle, trying to get the rest out, and I found myself wanting to help her, very much aware of the difficulty she was experiencing. It is always a terrible ordeal to bare one's soul, especially to a stranger, as I was to her, and the pain must have been very real to this young, innocent girl.
"It's not just your being a good teacher," she went on. "Although you are-unquestionably. Before you I never had any interest in English before. Now I find myself reading everything. And poetry. I used to hate poetry. Until you read that poem by Shakespeare-that sonnet about his being depressed and full of despair-and I don't know, it was like a door opening up in my mind. I became aware of so many things in life, so many other levels that I never knew existed before. It's incredible, Miss Harper. I never dreamed that anything could be so beautiful, so meaningful."
I knew what she was saying, for Fd experienced that very same feeling myself, although much older, not until my freshman year at college. The awesome panorama of knowledge had opened up before her very eyes, and she was dazzled by the spectacle, humbled by its magic. I felt proud, suddenly, and touched that I had been the one to have been responsible for the flowering of her awareness. Every once in a while in a teacher's life, something just like this happens, and it makes everything worth the struggle.
"That's the twenty-ninth sonnet, isn't it? The one that begins-When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes.. . . "
"Yes," she said, beaming, and she quoted the rest back to me, without faltering once with the words. She was very quiet, respectfully so, when she had finished, and I found myself staring deeply into her eyes. She smiled, still self-consciously, and said: "I memorized it. It's the first poem I've ever taken the time to learn by heart. It's the first poem that ever touched me. It will always be special to me, Miss Harper, just as you will."
The mood was getting thick, so I attempted to enliven it with a feeble attempt at a joke. "The poem, perhaps, but surely not I. Twenty years from now, darling, I'll be long gone from your own personal chronicle of wasted time."
She missed the veiled Shakespearean reference in her enthusiastic assurance that that was not to be. "Oh, no, Miss Harper, that will never happen. like I said, you're more than just a teacher to me. Much, much more. You're someone who will always be very, very special to me."
I remembered suddenly the opening statement of our conversation, when I'd asked her whether or not her parents would be worried that she hadn't returned from school yet. No one was home, she had said, and I saw clearly how true that must have been for this young, obviously sensitive girl. Sandi was alone, and she needed someone to believe in. And in her innocence she had chosen me.
"Thank you, Sandi," I said, touched. "And, after all these flattering compliments, I'm sure you will always remain someone very special to me."
"It's hard sometimes for a young girl to always know what's important or right," she said, into the mood now, and allowing all her pent-up emotions to flow freely out. "Sometimes you need models, guides, someone who shows you what can be done with your life, and how it can be done. I look at you, and I say-wow. Miss Harper has everything. You're a good teacher, you're intelligent, well educated, and yet, you're a woman, really a woman. You didn't allow your being a woman to stand in the way of what you wanted out of life, yet you never let anyone forget that basically, you still are a woman. You dress well, you take pride in your body, and the way you look, you always wear just the right amount of makeup, you always have your hair combed just right-Jesus. You're soft and feminine, yet you have strength, and the convictions to act upon your beliefs. You're everything I've always wanted to be, Miss Harper. Everything."
My head was spinning, and my ego was inflated like a balloon. She was, of course, seeing only the surface, the eye-catching facade we all erect. Yet it was undeniably gratifying to know that even that, my most superficial qualities, had some effect upon a cold and uncaring world. I had touched, for a moment, because a moment was probably just long enough, another human being. We were communicating, Sandra Wilson and I, sharing something very few people ever had the opportunity to experience in the course of a lifetime.
There was a bond between us now, something that had not been there before, an irrevocable bond which would link our lives forever together, for as long as each of us lived. A bond that had nothing to do with our ages, our roles, or even with the fact that we were both women. Electricity flowed from her soul directly into mine, and then it flowed back, from me into her. We were two people who were really one, and even if she didn't understand that yet, she would, in time, just as I understood it now. We were sisters, in a sense, just as we were mother and daughter. The sister I never had, the daughter who would never grow in my belly, the mother Sandi had lost to a career.
"You can be like me," I said, realizing words would never be adequate yardsticks when measured against the wordless communion of what had transpired between us. "I'll show you how, Sandi. I'll show you the way. It's not hard, really. It won't be hard, at all."
She smiled, perhaps understanding, perhaps not. "Thank you, Miss Harper."
"That's not necessary, Sandi," I said, desperate to raze the last few barriers. "We're both women, and titles are so clumsy. My name is Lisa, and I hope you'll call me that, when we're alone, at least. I don't think it would go too well in front of the class. All right, Sandi? You call me Lisa."
"Jesus, that's-all right, Miss...Lisa. All right, Lisa, I'll try and remember."
Sensing that we had come to the end of something, or perhaps only the beginning, I looked across the space separating us, and I smiled.
"Say, it's getting late," I said. "And I don't know about you, but I really don't feel like hanging around this school any longer than we have to. What do you say we go, all right?"
The smile which blazed across her face began to flicker. "Oh, sure," she said, without much conviction. "That's fine with me."
"Come on," I said, poking her teasingly. "I didn't say we had to stop talking. All I said was that I wanted to get out of here. We can talk on the way, darling."
Sandi jumped up. "Sure, Miss Harper. I mean, Lisa. That's more like it."
I gathered together all the many things I had to bring home with me tonight, and I was glad for the moment, aside from everything else that had happened, that Sandi was with me, if for no other reason than to assist me with all I had to carry out to my car. If it weren't for Sandi, I would have had to make two, and perhaps even three trips.
With our arms full, I locked my office door, and we walked down to the elevator at the end of the empty hallway. We talked of general things, feeling very much at ease with each other's company. The elevator deposited us on the first floor, and it was a short walk from there to the exit, and to the parking lot behind the school, where my car was parked.
We dumped everything on the hood of the car while I searched through my pocketbook for the car keys. The sun was crawling low in the sky, and a lazy summer breeze rippled through the trees which flanked the school building. Mine was the only car in the lot, and for a moment I had the oddest sensation that we were the only two people left in the whole world.
"Can I drop you off some where, Sandi?" I offered, my voice sounding small and empty against the stillness oftthe parking lot.
She hesitated. "No, that's all right."
I looked at her levelly. "Get in the car, Sandi. I thought we were past the point of playing polite games with each other. If we can't at least be honest, Sandi, what else can we hope for?"
She smiled. "You're right, Lisa," she said. She went around to the far side of the car. "I guess I was just being silly."
I opened the door, slid behind the wheel, and opened Sandi's door. Handing her the bundles, we stored them securely on the back seat, then slipped in simultaneously, and slammed our doors. The feeling returned, almost immediately, of being cut off from the world.
"Lisa," said she, returning to her previous uncertainty, "can I speak frankly to you about something that's been bothering me?"
"Of course, Sandi. Isn't that what I'm here for?"
She shifted around on the car seat, facing me on an angle. She pulled her left leg up and hooked it over the edge of the seat, causing her short skirt to slide back, revealing an exciting stretch of flesh.
"It has to do with...sex." Her voice was hushed, as-if she were ashamed of the revelation.
"What about sex, Sandi?" I asked, shuddering to myself. The sight of her sitting there, so young, so open, so vulnerable was beginning to excite a far corner of my thoughts, and a trembling ripple of anticipation traveled down my spine. "You don't have to feel ashamed."
"Well, Miss Harper...Lisa," she began, pleading with her soft, delicate hands, "I just don't know how to get into this. I've never talked about this to anyone, not even Carol Dunn, my best friend. I hardly like to think about it myself, it's so terrible."
"Sandi," I said, smiling at her with my eyes, "don't be silly." I reached across the seat and hooked my fingers under her chin, lifting her downcast face until we were looking at each other again. "I'm a woman, and I have all the same needs and feelings as you have. I've slept with many, many men in my life, and I sincerely doubt that you can say anything to me about sex that I would find shocking. Now, why don't you get this off your chest, and tell me."
Sandi smiled back, almost despite her feelings of seriousness. "You know, that's funny, Lisa," she said, looking at me in a new, open way. "You know, I don't think I've ever thought of you in those terms-sexually, I mean. Somehow I've never thought of you-you know-having to deal with those kind of problems."
I laughed to reassure her. "Sandi, darling, you have an awful lot to learn about me. Believe me, I have a very active sexual life. It's one of the reasons, in fact, why I've never married. I've often said to myself it was better not to cheat on a husband than to cheat with one. If you understand what I'm getting at."
She looked surprised. "You mean, you've-"
"Sandi, I've done everything sexually, including gone to an orgy, and have had several very satisfying lesbian experiences. And when I can't find someone to satisfy my needs, I always can resort to this." I held up my middle and index fingers, the fingers I used when I masturbated. "So say what you want, in plain words."
The look of surprise turned to one of shock, and then, as though I had struck a sympathetic chord, her face turned crimson. Sandi began to sob.
"Oh, Miss Harper," she cried, tears streaming down her face. "What am I going to do? I'm so ashamed. I feel so...so dirty!"
I slid across the seat, gathered her into my arms, and rested her head in the hollow of my shoulder. My arms slipped around her back, and I held her firmly against me, feeling the heaving sobs of her tears wracking her frail body. I patted her gently, stroking her long luxurious hair with my open fingers.
"There, Sandi...there," I comforted, feeling the wetness of her tears on my cheek. "Easy now...easy. It can't be that bad. Nothing can ever be that bad."
"It is, Miss Harper! It is! And I don't know what to do!"
"I'll help you, Sandi. Just tell me what it is."
"It's Bobby!" she sobbed, as though the name alone would make everything clear.
"Bobby? Bobby who?"
"Bobby Mills," she sobbed, lifting her face away from my shoulder. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and tears streaked her pale cheeks. "My boy friend."
"Robert Mills?" I asked.
"Yes, that's him. You have him in your Creative Writing class. Bobby Mills."
"Well, what about him. And stop crying."
"He...he...oohhh!" More sobs, more tears, and she buried her face against my breast as she cried.
Anger flared inside of me, triggering irrationally a memory from a very long time ago, one which, after all these years, I still hadn't put into a desensitized perspective. Perhaps I never would; it was that kind of memory.
"What did he do to you, Sandi," I asked, hugging her tightly as my own anger made me tremble. "Did he...rape you? Did he force you to do something...unnatural." The memory flared vividly, like a flame licking at my pride. "Men do things like that to women sometimes...the filthy pricks! They take advantage of us, of our innocence, of our fears, and they...they...." The rest was lost in my rage. "That's why we have to be strong...stronger than they are. We have to fight back on their terms, and go for the only thing they understand-their balls!"
I was shivering with indignation.
Sandi looked up. "It's...it's nothing like that, Miss Harper," she said, shaking her head. "I only wish it were that simple...."
"We have to humiliate them..." I muttered, hearing her words but unable to check my mood until the terrible memory which now possessed me had run its course. "Tear them down...show them who's strongest-"
"Miss Harper," Lisa said, shouting over my words, "I think I'm a lesbian!"
Her words struck me numb. "What...what did you...? "
New tears erupted, and Sandi pressed her face against my shoulder. She felt strange now in my arms, different somehow than she had been only a moment before. I stroked her again, her hair, her back, wiping the tears from her eyes, but my fingers trembled with a new kind of excitement.
Sandi looked up again. "I don't like it, Miss Harper. I really don't...I-"
"Don't like what, Sandi?" I asked. Our breasts were touching, and I was very much aware of the contact, as, I'm sure, Sandi was. My nipples were hard and swollen inside my bra, and the fleshy mounds themselves ached with sensitivity. My mouth was dry, and the words tumbled out, hot and harsh, as if my throat had suddenly constricted. "What is it you don't like Sandi?"
"Sex. I don't like any of it."
"That's it, that's it-you're getting it out. Now, tell me more, Sandi. Tell me more."
"I don't like any of it," she went on, sniffling back her tears. "Sex, none of it. I didn't like it before with Derek, so I decided to go out with Bobby, just to see if there was any difference. But there wasn't, Miss Harper. There wasn't!"
"Who is Derek? What wasn't different? And, please, Sandi-call me Lisa!" My anger perhaps, my frustration, perhaps my excitement was making me snap when I should have been soft. I consciously made an effort to change my tone. "If I don't know what's wrong, darling, I wouldn't know how to help you. And I do want to help you, precious. I really do, Sandi."
"Derek was my first boyfriend," she explained, composing herself. "We'd been going out with each other for a couple of years, and for a while there I really thought I loved him." She sniffled again, gaining command. "I know now that I didn't, but at the time I thought I did, so I guess that's really what is important. Anyhow, Derek and I got to fooling around with each other-you know, touching and things like that, and you know, I really liked it. So one night we got carried away, and we made love. He took my...virginity."
"There's always some helpful man willing to do that!" I said bitterly. "I'm sorry, go on."
"I didn't like it. It hurt and was messy, and I was afraid of getting pregnant. But Derek liked it, and he kept on forcing me to do it. The more we did it, the less I enjoyed it. It didn't hurt any more, but...I don't know. It just didn't feel good either. Not the way it was supposed to feel, anyhow."
"Did he satisfy you?"
Sandi stared at me blankly. "What do you mean?"
I returned her stare with a look of incredulity. "Did he make you come? Did he bring you to orgasm? You know, the feeling you get when you touch yourself down there, when you rub your...clitoris. Did he make you feel like that?"
"You mean like when I get all wet and hot?"
"Yes, Sandra. Yes!"
She shrugged, as if it were somehow unimportant. "It started to feel like that one time, but it went away when he came. He pulled his...organ out, and he came all over the car seat. God, it was messy. It got all over my dress...Jesus!"
I shook my head. "Sandi, you and I have a lot to talk about. But go on, tell me the rest."
"So, I found out I didn't like it. I found out I didn't like to get laid. Or, at least, I didn't like to get laid by Derek. I still liked sex, I think. I did that thing to myself...you know, like what you said...in bed at night, and I enjoyed that. I just didn't like it with Derek."
"Then what happened?"
"I began to think that maybe it wasn't me, that maybe it was Derek."
"Good girl!"
"-So I began to think maybe I should try it with someone else. That's when I thought of Robert-Bobby Mills."
"Why did you choose him?"
Embarrassment colored her cheeks. "Bobby's got kind of a reputation around the school, as a...lover. A stud, really. He's good looking and all, and he's got a pretty nice personality, but he's most famous for the way he's...built." Sandi's face was scarlet.
"You mean, his...prick." There, I said the word! Now it was out in the open. "Just how big was his prick?"
"Nine inches."
"What?"
"It is, Miss-Lisa," she insisted. "I saw it! I had it-oohh...inside of me."
"And it really is nine inches?"
Sandi nodded. "It is, really."
A different kind of shudder went through my body, and a decided throb gripped my wet, flowing box. "Go on," I said, somewhat unsteadily. "So you made love with Bobby, and then what?"
"I didn't like it. Not at all. Not one bit. Not when it was inside of me, not when it was between my legs, not even when he...climaxed!" As she relived the incident, Sandi's voice began to rise, becoming more and more shrill, until she was trembling again. "So, don't you see, Miss Harper, I must be a lesbian! Why else didn't I like it?" Her voice grew very quiet then. "Why else would I feel the way I do about you...Lisa?"
I stared at Sandi, weighing a momentous decision in my mind. I saw her suddenly for what she was-my negative self, my alter ego. She was young, and I was old. I was blonde and fair, and Sandi was dark complexioned with hair the color of night. I was brutally cynical, and she was full of untarnished idealism. She was innocent, and I was corrupted. Looking at her was like staring into a strangely magical mirror which reversed its reflection, or somehow tapped a being from another time or dimension, one which was diametrically opposed to the world in which I lived.
How could I answer her question? What words could I find which would make her know what I knew, feel what I felt? There were no words. Besides, this was not a time for words. I pulled Sandi against me, and I kissed her.
"Yes!" she moaned, breathing into my open mouth. Her tongue slipped in a moment later, and we kissed deeply and wetly, there in that empty parking lot behind the empty school. "Yes," she repeated, tasting the sweetness of my saliva. "Yes...yes...yes!"