Although the concept of intercourse interested me, it also
scared me a little. I knew I wasn’t
ready for it, but I also knew I was dying to be close to boys so I could
kiss them and be held by them. After the
affair with Walter, there was a drought.
I had crushes on older boys who barely noticed me, boys my own age were
largely pigs, and puberty had now brought me to the teetering edge of full-blown
adolescence, where each day was a new and deeper pit of hellish self-consciousness,
self-loathing and almost untenable horniness.
Seventh grade was virtually bereft of boys. Instead, I focused most of my energy on my
friendship with my classmate Diana who, two years later, would tell me that
she was bisexual. But at this point, we
were just platonic besties who critically reviewed all the boys and male
teachers at school. We did not give
them high marks. We preferred each other’s
company.
I lusted after a male Social Science teacher, literally
obsessed with his bulging pants and overwhelmed with curiosity about what a
penis look liked. I also became involved
in a profoundly romantic but chaste relationship with a female Biology teacher,
who I’ll call Bliss. With every passing
week, Bliss and I grew closer: she was very (preachy) Catholic, but also very
kind. She took me for ice cream sodas;
she drove me home in her flashy new Dodge Charger (it was red, of course); and
she wrote me long, perfumed letters in a very neat hand-writing on expensive
paper, and passed them to me secretively at the beginning of class.
I can’t recall what we wrote about – me in my painful
scrawl, scribbling furiously to her, likely pretending my life was more tragic
than it was, and she writing back each day, addressing me as “Little One,” and
encouraging me to see the beauty in life and to rely on her for strength. Bliss told me stories about her boyfriend and
how, as good Catholics, they never consummated. I found it weird when she’d describe how
riled up they’d get only to back away just when they craved each other the most
but was still flattered that she confided the details of her sex life.
Despite our obvious differences in age and beliefs, I thought
Bliss was the best friend I’d ever found.
Still, I was a little timid when she invited me to visit her home over a
school Easter break. I had never visited
an adult’s house alone, so I dragged Diana along, and off we went
one bleak April day to meet with my teacher.
I was surprised when Bliss opened the door. Although I’d arranged a time and day with her
by phone, it looked as if she wasn’t expecting anyone. She was still dressed in her pajamas – rather revealing
ones, in fact. She was not a terribly
attractive woman, and had thick mannish legs usually hidden by her
school-marmish attire. Now she wore a
frilly pink babydoll nightie with disturbingly short matching pink bottoms that displayed
her legs to spectacularly poor advantage.
It’s what I remember most: her mannish legs sticking out of those
ridiculously frilled panties.
When she saw Diana behind me, she turned and walked away,
almost surly, then thrust a half-eaten box of chocolates at us and sat down on a
couch. She said almost nothing; we said
less. Within a short while, I jumped up
and we excused ourselves.
I don’t know what my biology teacher had in mind. Perhaps she hoped to seduce me until she saw
my fresh-faced friend behind me. Perhaps
she just went on a drunk the night before and forgot all about our
appointment. Whatever the case, I knew I’d
just narrowly escaped something really sordid.
I was vastly relieved to get the hell out of there.
I was never naïve about sex.
Diana had no clue what had just happened and never asked about it
again. I did know and I never wanted to
talk about it again. It was a great
disappointment to me, but mainly taught me that all adults were corrupt, even
or perhaps especially the ones who pretended to be saints.
