by Jj Rossum
“A stupid what?” she said, lowering herself onto her arms, giving me an even better look had I been looking.
Which I obviously was.
“Uh, just this plain Jane Bic,” I said, forcing myself to look at her face.
God, her lips were amazing. I wanted her red lips on every part of my body.
Fuck, I was getting hard.
“What was wrong with these?” she asked, gesturing toward the few mangled pens on my desk.
She hadn’t moved from her position. If someone had walked into the classroom, they would have seen her bent over my desk.
That view might almost be as good as this one.
Think unsexy thoughts, think unsexy thoughts.
“I have a bad habit of chewing my pens,” I admitted. “It’s not something I’m proud of.”
She feigned horror.
“Bad Luke,” she said. “Certain things belong in your mouth, but I’m pretty sure pens don’t.”
Shit.
“Well, this one hasn’t seen my mouth, so you’re in luck,” I said, handing the pen over.
She stuck her tongue out at me as she took the pen, her hand seeming to linger on mine ever so slightly.
God, her hand was soft.
God, her tongue was long.
God.
“I didn’t know people over the age of six still stuck their tongues out,” I said.
“I have two small children,” she reminded me. “I stick my tongue out all I want.”
She did it again. But this time she took my pen and laid it across the tip of her tongue.
She smiled, and I swear she curled her tongue in, pulling the pen toward her lips.
I never imagined this in any teacher fantasy of mine. But, holy fuck.
I could see lipstick on the pen.
Luckiest Bic ever.
Then, she took the pen and slid it into the side of her mouth, long ways, like the world’s luckiest toothpick. Or dick.
Yeah, my mind definitely wasn’t thinking toothpick.
“Thank you, Luke,” she said, pen still in her mouth. “I’ll bring it back to you when I’m done with it.”
I just nodded. Words weren’t going to come out coherently.
She stood up straight, stretching her arms back and pointing her chest in my direction.
If I were a teenager, I would have already masturbated ten times to this fantasy. I will later masturbate ten times to this fantasy.
“God, I’m tired,” she said. “Maybe I’ll come visit your couch after school.”
She smiled again, her eyes dancing. Then she turned and walked out of the classroom.
The bell rang. And I was rock hard.
The rest of the day we continued our conversation, but my mind kept going back to her telling me to come over to her house after work. And that pen. God, I wanted to be a Bic.
I knew her husband wouldn’t be home—the Rays were finishing their series in Detroit with an afternoon match and would be flying home after the game. That would put them back in the area after midnight probably. At least I knew if I showed up I wouldn’t be getting shot.
Who watches your kids while you work? I texted as the final period of the day began. My students already had their heads on their desks and would be napping in no time. God bless videos.
Paula, my nanny. I hired her when we moved here. She came highly recommended.
I always wondered how someone who came highly recommended would be out of a job and need hiring, but I didn’t bother asking.
Does she live with you guys?
No. But we have guest quarters behind the house. Occasionally she will stay if I need her to.
Man, I bet their house was pretty impressive. I suddenly had no desire to ever drive there. Something told me the Roller Skate wouldn’t belong in that kind of neighborhood.
I suddenly had the urge to ask her to go to dinner with me. The nanny was obviously watching the kids. What difference could a few extra hours make? I knew I probably wouldn’t get to talk to her much other than at work while her husband was in town.
What was the worst she could say? No? I’ve gotten a no or two in my day. She could say “Hell no, why would I go to dinner with you? I’m a married woman, you bastard!” but I had a feeling that wouldn’t be the case.
She claimed to be bold, and now it was my turn to be. Bold Luke hadn’t come out in a while, other than in his head.
What are your plans after work? I asked. Of course, I immediately regretted sending it after I did.
I could always just say I was making conversation if she started acting weird.
Probably just go home and have dinner with the kids. The life of a mother is very exciting. :-)
Sounds like it!
Why do you ask?
Shit. I was hoping to just leave it alone now. Bold me apparently tried to go into hiding quickly.
I could lie or ask her out to dinner.
Make up your mind quickly, Luke.
And don’t regret the decision you make.
Oh, I was just mildly curious to see if you’d be interested in having dinner. Break up your mom routine a little.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
God, when did I become this way?
Years of bachelorhood will do it to anyone.
Just mildly curious?
She was smiling. I knew she was. I had never thought of someone smiling in a text unless they added those fucking emoticons, but I knew she was smiling.
Because I don’t know if I want to have dinner with someone who is just mildly curious, she added.
Now I was smiling.
Let me rephrase?
Please do...
I want you to have dinner with me tonight.
Better.
You’re going to have dinner with me tonight.
That’s a little bold isn’t it, Mr. Harper?
What can I say? I guess you just bring out the best in me.
Well in that case I don’t think I have much of a choice then, do I?
I mean, I’d hate to have to drag you against your will...
I don’t think you’ll have to.
Oh, no?
Nope.
Okay then.
Do you have a particular place in mind for this dinner, sir?
Shit. I hadn’t thought that far ahead—I didn’t think she would actually say yes. I wasn’t going to take her to Pelican Pete’s. Creepy Carl the waiter might start thinking I am the creepy one taking different women to dinner every night.
Yeah, I know where we are going, I lied.
Do you care to share?
Nope, it’s a surprise. You’ll see.
I purposely ran into her after school got out so that I could talk to her. Okay, I walked into her classroom, so I guess it can’t exactly be considered “running into.” She didn’t seem to mind.
She told me she was going to head home to check on the kids and tell Paula the nanny she would be out for dinner. I was to text her and let her know where she was going to meet me. This wasn’t like a high school date where I was driving to her house to pick her up; this was simply a dinner with a coworker.
Right, Luke.
Thankfully, she didn’t suggest I pick her up. It was possible that by this point she was aware that I skated around town in my old Suzuki, but I had no desire to make it our mode of transportation for the night. For god’s sake, her husband was a professional athlete and they had a nanny and a spare room/house in the back she could live in if she wanted! I was going to need to look for a new car pronto.
Dinner needed to be somewhat casual, but not sports bar casual. And it needed to be nice, but not anniversary dinner nice. So, I settled on an Italian place by the beach called Angelo’s, which I didn’t go to very frequently, but always seemed to ask myself “Why don’t I come here more often?” when I was there. Italian food always screamed romantic, but whatever, I was in the mood for it.
I lost the tie and changed into a white button-down with light
blue pinstripes and put on jeans. My contacts were giving me trouble, and I was tempted to switch to my glasses.
She probably already thinks you’re a nerd, Luke. You don’t need to make it worse.
A few eye drops made everything better.
Admiring my reflection in the mirror wasn’t something I did often, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t checked myself out a few seconds longer than normal before I left my house. And when I walked into the restaurant, the sufficiently buxom hostess in an undersized black dress gave me a quick once over and seemed to like what she saw too.
“Just one?” she asked, when her eyes returned to mine.
It was taking every ounce of willpower I possessed not to look at her breasts. Although I am to an extent a boob guy, I wasn’t struggling with being a pervert and secretly wishing she would turn around so I could ogle her. Her breasts were just right there on full display for everyone and hard to avoid even if you wanted to. She had a thin waist and I had no idea how she was able to stand up straight. It’ll suck to be her back in twenty years.
“Two, actually,” I replied.
She actually grabbed my arm and squeezed as she led me to a table along the side.
“My name is Gianna,” she said, as I sat down. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She smiled. “Terry will be your server. She’ll be right with you.”
One of my biggest pet peeves in life is when you go to an “ethnic” restaurant of any kind—Mexican, Italian, Chinese, etc.—and the server does not match the food. I don’t want to go to a Mexican restaurant where Amanda is my waitress, or a Chinese place where Marcus is serving me. So, hearing the name Terry kind of upset me. Maybe I was picturing Terry Bradshaw. And his ass, which he unfortunately shared with the world in some awful piece of garbage movie I had fortunately forgotten the name of.
I had told April to meet me at 6:30 and had arrived a few minutes early. I wasn’t sure if she was the early type, but I didn’t want to be getting there after her, or at the same time. The parking lot was mostly full of vehicles that were quite a bit more expensive than mine.
Gianna had seated me on the side of the table that faced her, and her glances and smiles were not infrequent. It seemed as if each minute passed that my dinner partner hadn’t yet arrived, she became friendlier. When she would turn away from me, I could see her pull her dress down along the sides, which of course increased how tight it was across her breasts.
People assume that most “boob guys” like them big, the bigger the better. But, I think as a breast guy myself, that breasts are pretty spectacular no matter the size, and that they can be beautiful as A’s or as D’s or anywhere in between. Being a boob guy shouldn’t ever mean you only like big. It should mean you appreciate them in just about every size, and should never make a woman feel inferior because hers aren’t big enough. Gianna didn’t ever have to worry about being too small, but if I was hooked up to a lie detector, I’d only pass the test if I honestly said hers just seemed too big, and therefore were really not that appealing.
I was thinking about breasts when April walked into the restaurant at 6:35. Her hair was down and straight, and she had changed into a black dress that made every thought I was having in my head start swimming around, bumping into other thoughts like blind people fumbling through a corn maze. Her dress made Gianna’s look frumpy and unappealing.
I stood up, completely involuntarily as she waited at the hostess stationed, then saw me and pointed in my direction. Gianna turned and made a disgusted face and gestured toward my table. She didn’t walk April to me, but stood back sizing her up. It was obvious April was in a league of her own, and Gianna disappointedly turned back to her station.
“Hi,” she said as I hugged her. Her body was perfect and lean and her small breasts nestled into my chest. I didn’t want to let her go. I also had a serious urge to grab her ass, but I refrained. Gianna had sneaked a peek back and was once again upset by what she saw.
“Sorry, I’m late,” she said as she sat down. “I was playing with my kids when I got home and lost track of time.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” I said, still trying and failing to form complete sentences in my head.
Just breathe, Luke. You’ve talked to her a million times.
I took a few sips (gulps) of water, and my brain thankfully cleared.
“Was it just me, or was the hostess kind of a giant bitch?” she asked as she picked up her menu. “Not to mention the fact that her boobs should have their own congressional representative.”
“She was actually really friendly with me,” I said.
“Well, of course. You’re a good looking man.”
I grinned.
“And since I am sitting with you, she probably wants to kill me. I bet she has already thought of at least ten things she could do to me to ruin my night, including pay our server to spill my food on me.”
“I had no idea women were so vengeful,” I lied. I work in a high school. I see what girls do and say to each other all the time.
“It’s true. We can be pretty rotten bitches.”
Terry the misplaced waitress returned and took our orders. April made her decision (Butternut Squash Tortellini) more quickly than any other woman I had ever gone to dinner with. She seemed to be a very decisive person. I liked that. I settled on the Spicy Penne Vodka with Shrimp.
“Did you bring me a copy of Dubliners?” I asked as Terry returned with our bread and olive oil dipping sauce.
“No,” she replied. “I got it out and set it on the counter, but I left it, like an idiot.”
“Guess you don’t want me to read it as much as you pretend you do.”
“Oh stop. I am a mother. We get distracted and forget things from time to time.”
“I suppose I will forgive you. Even though I was really looking forward to reading it.”
I heavily, and very sarcastically, emphasized the word “really” and she smiled, while rolling her eyes.
“Well, it’s still sitting there. So, after dinner we will go get it. Then you can start reading it, seeing how excited you must be to actually read something worthwhile for a change.”
Her mouth curled up into a sexy smile and her eyes actually seemed to sparkle.
“In that case, I’ll have to put my Curious George collection away for a while.”
“The man in the yellow hat will approve, I assure you.”
April called over the waitress and ordered a glass of wine, reminding me that you couldn’t have a decent Italian meal without red wine. I began to immediately hope she was a lightweight.
“So, tell me about yourself, Mr. Harper,” she said, pushing the hair that had fallen near her right eye aside. “I have heard bits and pieces from people around the school.”
“Oh god, what have they told you?” I asked. I hoped no one had told her about my previous marriage. Not that I was ashamed or embarrassed. I just had no desire to bring it up.
“Well, I hear you were holding out on me about actually being a baseball star, and not just some average player.”
I laughed.
“I wasn’t terrible.”
“What position did you play?”
Never in my life had a woman asked what position I played. They usually just nodded and changed the subject; no doubt worried I would start boring them with baseball stories, trying to relive my glory years.
“I played third base mostly.”
“The hot corner. Very nice.”
I wanted to leap across the table and make out with this woman. Fact. Gianna probably wouldn’t approve. Nor would she approve of what I’d do to April after we made out for a while.
I’d start with lowering the straps on her...
Focus on baseball, Luke, I reminded myself. I had no use for a dinner erection.
“Yeah.”
“How long did you play?” she asked. “I mean, when did you start?”
Gianna was leading
a couple to an empty table near us, and she seemed to lean forward a bit, reminding me that she had breasts, as if I had forgotten. The look in her eyes said, “She doesn’t have what I have,” and I felt like yelling out, “No, she doesn’t have herpes!” Thank God for restraint.
“I started playing in like third grade, I think. A friend of mine played, and his dad was the coach. The dad asked me to sign up every time I saw him, but I had never even picked up a glove I don’t think. I really had no desire to play.”
“So, what made you change your mind?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I just got tired of him asking. He told me to just come to one practice and if I hated it, he would never bother me again.”
“You clearly didn’t hate it.”
“No. At first I remember thinking I wanted to leave. The other kids seemed like they knew what they were doing and I didn’t have the first clue. But, then he told me to grab a bat and hit. I missed the first couple pitches, but then I hit the ball over all the kids camped out in the outfield. He just kind of stood there in disbelief and my friend was jumping up and down like it was Christmas. And that’s when I decided I loved baseball.”
“So, you kept playing, I take it?”
“Yeah, I played until my junior year in college. I was in every league I could get into, and since I was here in Florida I was playing year round.”
“Why did you stop?”
The inevitable question. She had her hands folded in front of her, and her look stayed inquisitive the whole time. I didn’t feel like she was asking to be polite. Her face told me that she seemed to legitimately want to know.
The truth was I stopped playing for Carrie. We got married when I was a sophomore, and baseball practices and training and games took up much more of our time together than she was willing to give. She knew I loved the game, had gone to just about all of them since we had started dating. But she reminded me over and over again that we were married, and working on building a good marriage was more important that perfecting my swing against left-handed pitchers. I needed to focus on finishing school, becoming a teacher, and providing for my family. Baseball wasn’t going to do that in, in her opinion. Yet, here I was sitting across from a woman who was provided for quite nicely by baseball, and whose husband made more in a week than I probably made in three years.