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The Teacher

In high school, we had an English teacher who walked the earth like she was God's gift to mankind, but that's because she was. She had the kind of looks that started wars, and every year that I had English in her class was a year that always had me smiling for at least one period a day. I was thirteen when I started there, she was my form teacher, and from the second I saw her my teenage hormones kicked into high gear. I'd dream about her often; hot, sticky dreams that always resulted in me sleeping on a towel for the rest of the night, and on the nights that I didn't have a spontaneous, natural release, I usually awoke to find myself satisfying my urges in the only way I knew how. Yes, she was that beautiful. But oh-so-unattainable.

God smiled down on me in the five years I was there, as every year I was assigned to Mrs Watts's English class, and as the years passed, I matured from a gangly prepubescent teenager into a solidly built 18 year old young man. A few times throughout my final year, my sex-obsessed imagination thought it noticed Mrs Watts looking at me a little longer than she rightly should have, but I convinced myself that this was just my overactive, oversexed imagination seeing what it wanted to see. After a few months of telling myself this, I caught her staring one afternoon as we were writing essays. I looked up for a second to think about how to spell "tumescent", and as I did she looked suddenly down at the papers in front of her, like she'd been caught ...

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