Ward Michaels - Lessons After School

Betty Wingate paced up and down the rows. Her students were absolutely quiet, or as quiet as high school seniors ever can be, especially when it is spring, and graduation is only a few weeks away. They were writing themes, and Betty walked around, peering over their shoulders, trying to see how well they were doing.

She congratulated herself. At twenty-two, she had nearly made it through her first year of teaching English. Everyone told her she would never get a job, that English teachers were a dime a dozen, but she had shown them. Of course, she had to admit that her blonde good looks and her deeply violet blue eyes helped, but what did that matter? If Mr. Saunders, the old principal, was turned on by fresh, young females whose skirts fell above their knees, that was not her fault. She had taken advantage of the situation, the way anyone would. Betty smiled to herself as she remembered that first interview. She had held her eyes as wide open as she could, looking sweet, innocent, and available. When she crossed her legs, and Mr. Saunders' bifocal covered eyes fell to her bare knees, she was quite sure she had the job. She was right.

"Hey, Teach, come here a second." It was Dale Paulson. Far from Betty's favorite student, his attitude was insolent, and his appearance matched it. Tall and lanky, he looked like a fugitive from the nineteen fifties, with slicked back hair, black and greasy looking, thick leather boots with heavy heels, a form fitting tee shirt, and jeans so tight it seemed a wonder that his feet did not go to sleep. The prominent bulge in the front of the skin-hugging pants made Betty think he padded his underwear. Of course it could be that Dale simply had a perpetual hardon, but she preferred not to think about that.

"Dale, I've asked you a thousand times not to call me "Teach." My name is Miss Wingate. How can I help you?" She leaned over the boy to look at his paper. The acrid smell of sweat floated up to her, and she practically reeled with it. Didn't this boy ever bathe? There was something else too, dried urine or musk or something that reminded Betty a lot of a male crotch. She held her breath, trying to forget about the memories that smell brought to mind.

She focused on the paper. It was blank. "Why, Dale, you haven't written a thing. What's the matter?"

"I can't think of nothin' to wite about."

"Anything. You can't think of anything to write about."

"Right. Nothin' comes to mind. What do I do?" He reached between his muscular thighs and scratched at the huge bulge in his crotch. Betty's eyes followed despite herself, and she felt a rise of desire in her belly. That was wrong, and she closed her eyes tight and stood there for a moment gripping the back of the chair.

"Somethin' wrong?" Dale asked. He had stopped scratching, but his hand remained in his crotch, squeezing at the bulge lazily.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Look, I asked everyone to write about how they were going to spend their summer vacations. Surely you can put down something about that. What do you plan to do in the months ahead?"

"The usual thing, I guess."

The girl sitting next to Dale let out a snort of laughter.

"What's the matter, Susie?" Betty asked sternly.

"Nothing, Miss Wingate. Nothing at all."

Susie Walters, it was generally agreed among the teachers, was the wildest girl in the school. Rumor had it that she had already had two abortions and had been completely at a loss to name the boy involved. Lately, she had latched onto Dale Paulson. The two of them were everywhere together, and everybody was sure of what they were doing whenever they were alone. Betty did not like Susie. For one thing, she was as insolent and unresponsive to learning as was Dale. In him, though, Betty had to admit, the insolence was more acceptable to her. The word that came to her mind in describing Susie Walters was voluptuous. Her large breasts ballooned out of a low cut sweater and her short skirt barely covered her upper thighs. Betty had once told the girl tartly that miniskirts had been out of style for years. Susie snapped back that how she dressed was nobody's business but her own and stalked from the room.

"What is the usual thing, Dale?" Betty asked, her eyes still on the gently massaging hand. She caught herself wondering whether the bulge was growing larger. What if her theory were wrong? What if Dale did not stuff dirty socks into the pouch of his underpants? What if that protrusion were all his? She tried to visualize what he would look like naked, his huge penis arching out from his slim thighs. With conscious effort, she brought her mind back to the situation of the moment. "Well?" she asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she could tell that Susie was listening for the answer, a smirk on her heavily lip-sticked mouth.

"Oh, just hang around mostly," Dale mumbled. "I don't do nothing much."

"Well, I'm sure you can think of something. Just keep at it." Trying to sound cheerful, Betty patted Dale on the shoulder and started on down the aisle. His hand came up and covered hers, the same hand he had been using to knead his crotch. Was it her imagination, or could she feel the warmth of it?

"Yes, Dale? Was there something else?" she asked, her mouth going suddenly dry.

The lanky boy looked up at her, darkness in his eyes. Then he looked away again. "Naw, nothin', I guess," he muttered, letting go of Betty's hand.

The bell rang, and the students rushed from the room. Why did they always act as though they were going to a fire, Betty wondered. They were only on their way to other classrooms as dreary as this one and to other teachers suffering from the same Spring fever that Betty had been fighting for some time now.

Susie hung on Dale's arm and whispered something into his ear. He glanced back at Betty and broke into deep guffaws. Susie had made some remark about her, she was sure. That big titted little bitch! She should flunk. Betty brought herself up short. If nothing else, she considered herself professional. Wishing to fail a student on the basis of personal dislike was the height of unprofessional behavior. She would have to watch her thinking very carefully, especially when it came to grading time.

Betty gathered up her books. Her next hour was free, and she would spend it in the teacher's lounge. After dealing with Dale, she needed a cup of coffee and a few minutes for quiet reflection. What did the boy mean by taking her hand?

She pushed open the door to the lounge and went inside. The room was empty. Good, she thought to herself. She could take her shoes off and relax. Thee were times when she got so sick of the others and their constant complaints about students, working conditions, teaching loads, and all the rest of it. All she wanted was silence until it was time to face the next classroom full of disinterested students.

Betty poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down on the threadbare couch. Absently, she pushed some of the padding back into the cushion with the tip of her finger. Teaching had seemed like such a good career. Now she wondered. Much of what she had to do was so deadly dull. It seemed as though she spent hours and hours just doing lesson plans, grading misspelled themes, and poring over records. There surely was not much glamour in it.

"Betty! Hi, how you doing?" It was Ben Sommers, the chemistry teacher. He came bursting into the lounge, full of energy and enthusiasm as usual.

"Not all that well. I'm kind of tired out."

"Spring. It's always like this. I get so I think I'll throw up if I ever see another test tube full of gunk." He fumbled around and fixed himself a cup of coffee.

"That's hard to believe. You always seem so full of enthusiasm."

"It's all a front. Actually, I'm just as bored as anybody, probably more than most. I just make a game of covering it up is all." He sat down next to her on the couch. "Tell old Ben your troubles."