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 bursa escort 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.
The rest of the period took an eternity until the bell finally rang. I stayed in place until the last of the chatty girls left the class when Mrs. Lyman asked me to close the door. As I did, she turned a spare chair around and sat it in front of her desk. “Sit down, please,” she said quietly. I noticed she never so much as glanced at me. My heart sank as I anticipated a stern scolding and the most embarrassing moment of my life.
“I read your essay—three times,” she began. “First, let me say how flattered I am. No one has ever said anything that nice about me ever. Beyond that, I felt like you’d somehow found the opening into my soul I guard so closely and were there seeing my deepest needs without having been invited. I couldn’t get beyond the fact that an 18-year old boy—young man—could be that insightful. I am indeed all those things you wrote. But…”
After feeling my hopes soar, my spirit crashed as she uttered the word I most dreaded. With a somber feeling of hollowness, I finished her sentence by saying, “But this can’t ever happen.”
“Yes,” she added. “Never. Not now. Not ever. Cal, I’m your teacher and I’m married and this kind of thing could cost me my job and my reputation. Do you understand how dangerous this would be for me? What it could do to me?”
I’m not sure where this came from but I said in a quiet, caring voice as her eyes met mine. “I do. I honestly do. And I addressed each of those concerns in my paper. Or at least I tried. But what just jumped out at me was what you didn’t say. You told me how dangerous this could be and what it might mean, but what you didn’t say was you’re not interested or that you don’t feel the way I do.”
For the briefest of moments, I was sure I saw a slight blush. Just a quick flash of red along the apples of her cheeks as she quickly regained control. “Cal,” she continued, “You are a very good looking young man. More importantly, bursa escort bayan you’re unusually mature for your age. You’re polite, kind, and well-mannered. If I was your age, well, I’d… But I’m not. I’m nearly twice your age and I do have a husband.”
“But you’re not happy,” I quietly added as I saw her lower her eyes which told me I was right. “You’re married but you’re alone. Worst of all, you feel lonely. You know I’m right. I can see it in your eyes. They’re beautiful, you know. Your eyes.”
I could see her fighting her own deepest emotions as she sought to regain control of the discussion. “Thank you,” she said. “But that’s not the issue. The issue is so much deeper. The risks are so great. As flattered as I am, I just can’t. So please. If you really care about me as much as you say, then you’ll respect my feelings and let this go. Now. Here. Okay? Please?”
I held her gaze for the longest time and waited for her to blink first. “You’re so beautiful,” I said softly and slowly. “You know I would never, ever betray your trust and I can tell you know that’s true. I can’t change how I feel about you, but I will do what you ask. I mean, I’ll try. I’ll try and give you your space, but it won’t change how I feel.”
“I know,” she replied. “And that means a lot to me. Really. Thank you for understanding. I was sure you would. It’s just who you are. You deserve someone closer to your age who’s free to love you back. Again, I can’t tell you how flattering it was to read what you wrote and if I was free, well,…” She didn’t need to finish her sentence. The sadness in her eyes said it all.
As I stood up to leave I told her, “If you ever do change your mind—tomorrow, next week, next month, you know, just ‘if’… All you have to do is put a tiny note on the corner of my paper to let me know when and where. Saturday at 8 o’clock would be just Sa8 or Friday at 10pm would be F10. Unless you tell me otherwise, I’ll assume you mean at your place.”
She didn’t say another word, but as we looked at one another I could almost feel the deep yearning within her for someone’s touch. Someone to talk to. Someone to share with. Someone to hold her and to love her. As we stood up together, I reached out as I looked directly into her beautiful eyes and touched her arm just above the elbow. I ran my hand up and down the back of her arm just once as our eyes locked in a stare that told me I’d not only touched her arm but her soul. “Thank you for being so honest and understanding with me,” I said as I prepared to turn and walk away. “You’re not only physically beautiful but equally so internally. What I wouldn’t do to trade places with your husband even for just one day.” Her eyes and her smile gave me renewed hope.
Two weeks went by and neither of us so much as mentioned either my essay or the conversation. I’d finally convinced myself there was no hope I’d ever get the chance to even kiss the woman I loved let alone make love to her when that Friday afternoon just seconds before the final bell rang, my latest paper was returned with a lightly penciled Sa8 in the corner. My heart leaped and my blood pressure rose in an instant along with what was an instantly rock-hard erection. My hands were moist with sweat as I stuffed the paper into my bookbag as though it was radioactive or about to explode. We made eye contact just as she took her seat and then only briefly. Our eyes no sooner met than she averted her glance and looked down and then away. Not wanting to draw any attention to myself, I also looked away and then back at her for another brief moment. As I did, I noticed her looking my way again before returning to the stack of papers in front of her. The longing was there. I could feel it as I left the classroom, my mind dizzy with the thought of being alone with Karen. I needed to clear my head and think.
I spent that night and the next day imagining everything from another lecture to the most passionate round of love making a guy my age could envision. I acted like the young kid I was as I worried about what cologne and what clothes to wear. Should I bring flowers or would I look like some sort of desperate nerd who’d seen one too many made-for-TV movies with past girlfriends?
I settled on jeans and a button-down shirt with topsider shoes and my brown leather jacket. After all, I was 18 and that’s just how we dressed for a big date. A date. With Karen Lyman. My cock stiffened again at the thought. I decided that if she liked me, it wouldn’t really matter. Of course, I wouldn’t care what she wore but realized I really, really wanted her to look like the teacher I’d described in my essay—a woman who wore her long hair down, cascading around her shoulders. The curves of her tight body were accentuated by a brick red, form-fitting, rib-knit, sweater with a neckline that showed her cleavage with a necklace that fell into it. My “fantasy” teacher wore a short grey-colored pleated skirt with grey stockings escort bursa and matching heels. “You’re a chick!” I told myself as I kept imagining what she’d wear for me or if she’d even dress with me in mind. Even as I chided myself I wondered if it was possibly this kind of caring about little details that had attracted her to me.
I dismissed the thought as I left the house and got into the Chevy Camaro I’d bought with money earned from working on a friend’s farm the last three years. Panic set in as I approached her home. I suddenly fretted about whether I should park in front or around back. What if she had unexpected company? What if her husband was home? I drew a few deep breaths and forced myself to relax as I headed toward the neighborhood of “Eagle Heights”, by far the most upscale housing development in the county. I knew her husband had designed and had their custom home built two years ago because the pictures were front-page news in our relatively small town.
As I approached her home, I could see the large plate-glass window taking up more than one third of the front façade. I wasn’t able to focus on what was inside as I was occupied with looking for the driveway and hopefully, one that wound around the back. I wasn’t disappointed. The wide driveway led me directly to the back of the 5,300sqft home and into an open and waiting third stall in the four-car garage. As I pulled in and turned off the engine, I again forced my heart rate to slow, then wiped my hands on the hand towel I kept in the passenger’s seat. I took a breath, exited my car, and walked to the garage-entrance door.
After steadying myself one more time, I rang the doorbell and heard the distant sound of a dark barking which grew louder by the second. I heard Mrs. Lyman say, “Shh. Hush! Sit!” and then saw the door open in toward the hallway of her laundry room.
“Hi,” was all she said as she quickly looked at me, then away while she stepped aside to let me come in.
I closed the door behind me and then looked up to see a site so beautiful I will never forget it as long as I live. She’d worn everything I’d hoped for except that the sweater was beige and the pleated skirt and shoes were black.
“Sorry, this was the best I could do,” she said almost apologetically as she smiled and indicated we should walk together toward her spacious kitchen. She clearly knew from my essay how important this was to me and had made a real effort to be accommodating. “I wanted to try and make you feel as comfortable as possible so you’d know that I really do care about you but try and explain better why I—why we—can’t happen, Cal.”
I still don’t know where my level of understanding came from at 18. Perhaps it was from those many talks with my grandmother. I just instinctively knew her words belied her feelings. I “sensed” she’d gone to great lengths to fulfill my fantasy then changed her mind at the last moment. She was clearly using her position and perceived advantage as the married teacher to soften the blow of rejection she intended to deliver.
We’d taken the few steps to reach the tiled floor of her designer kitchen when I reached over and took her hand and turned toward her. “Mrs. Lyman,” I began. Then, more confidently, I said quietly but firmly while moving closer toward her, “Karen. Please. You don’t have to pretend. I know. I feel it, too.”
“Cal,” she protested while looking down unable to meet my gaze, “No, you don’t know. You have no idea the flood of conflicting emotions I’ve felt the last two weeks. Fear, excitement, resentment, foreboding, and so much more. I can’t do this. I can’t. I just need you to understand. Okay? Please?”
I moved closer and looked down at her and waited for her eyes to meet mine. I tenderly placed my hands on her shoulders and whispered, “I do understand” as I leaned in to softly kiss her full lips for the first time. Initially, I felt no reply and sensed she was about to pull away when I heard her gasp then moan ever so softly. Unlike the crazy, boundlessly passionate kisses in the movies, this was a gently tender first kiss meant to meet some unfulfilled need for love and intimacy and to try and put her fears to rest. After what seemed like minutes but in reality was no more than two seconds, the damn broke and she responded kissing me back. That kiss was water in an empty, dry desert devoid of passion or even feeling. That first kiss lasted perhaps only five seconds as she raised her arms to wrap them warmly around my neck in order to pull me closer to her as just the tips of our tongues touched for the briefest of moments.
“I’m in so much trouble,” she said quietly as we held one another for what seemed like an eternity, our hands gently exploring one another’s arms, backs, and faces. We kissed again a second time then took one another’s hand as she took me toward the marble island in the middle of the room.
“Most upscale kitchens only have granite,” I managed to nervously say not really knowing where to take a real conversation with a real woman.
“I know. This was all Dick’s idea. He thinks these things make me happy. He’s always tried to buy my love when all I ever wanted was his time.”