Alissa Nutting - Tampa

“I think, like, if they’d never… you know…. done it …” She paused, smiling with glee as the class erupted into giggles. Marissa was an instigator, pushy. If Jack ever became her target, I recognized her as the type who might relentlessly pursue.

“Had sex, you mean,” I added. More giggles.

“Right. I think if they’d never had sex, they wouldn’t have killed themselves and stuff. I saw this video about how sex can, like, release stuff from your brain and make you crazy.”

“Interesting.” I surveyed the room; most students were now taking the conversation to its less-appropriate further conclusion in whispers to friends. “What do people think? Does sex make you crazy?”

A variety of jocks eager to imply they had firsthand experience spoke up. “No doubt,” Danny’s low voice boomed from the back of the classroom. His meaty face had drawn upward into a not-so-subtle grin.

“I dunno,” another football player said. I confess I didn’t trouble myself with learning their names or distinguishing one from another. Physically, they were far too developed to be appealing—their growth spurts were finished, their muscles already wrought into the structured mold of the finished male form. “I think not having sex is what makes you crazy.” Shrieks of faux disbelief sounded through the classroom; when the bell rang moments later, it seemed like an alarm set off by the high-pitched screams.

Jack’s face was flushed when he walked by me toward the door, his eyes trained shyly down at his shoes. I stood and said his name very softly—so quietly that he easily could’ve failed to hear me, or could have pretended not to hear. But he turned. I beckoned him over as the class emptied, staring warmly into his eyes but not speaking until the door shut for the final time and we were alone.

I continued to speak in hushed tones, enunciating, exaggerating each movement of my lips as I spoke. “You’re very quiet in class, Jack Patrick.” I gave him a wide smile to show it wasn’t a criticism.

He scratched the back of his neck and grinned while his face blushed to a deeper red. Perhaps he continued looking at the ground because the heat in his cheeks embarrassed him. Reaching out, I placed my pointer finger upon the tiny cleft at the bottom of his chin and raised his head upright until he was looking directly at me. In heels I was taller than him; the top of his blondish hair was level with my mouth. “There,” I whispered, barely speaking, trying to simply exhale the words. “That’s better, isn’t it. So tell me, Jack, since you don’t speak up in class and leave me guessing at the thoughts inside that head of yours. What do you think makes someone crazier—having sex? Or not having it?”

His eyes widened; it seemed to take a moment for his brain to confirm I’d really asked him that question. He laughed and lowered his head a little, shaking it nervously.

“Ah-ah,” I cooed, this time using all my fingers to cup his chin in my hand and guide it back upward. His fuzzy cheeks had a downy softness. If I squeezed, I would be able to lift apart his top and bottom jaw, open his mouth and lower mine down to meet his. “Here,” I offered, “I’ll hold your head up so you don’t have to worry about eye contact.” Staring at him, Jack returning the stare as the pulse of his throat began to strike against my finger, I felt as though someone were licking my inner thigh.

“I… um,” he started. When he swallowed, his throat strained against the gentle pressure of my fingertips.

“I know you have an opinion,” I teased, my words silken. “Everybody does.”

He cleared his throat and sent vibrations up my wrist. “I just wouldn’t know about the having-sex part,” he said. Then, with an afterthought that nearly made me move my hands to his neck and force him against the wall, he added a foreshadowing phrase. “I mean,” he added quietly, now speaking even more quietly than me, “not yet.”

I let out a long breath; it was involuntary. Nearly a whimper. Worried he’d seen too much in my reaction, my hand slipped from his jaw and I took a step back. “Of course.” I nodded. There was a long beat of silence. “But the not having sex, just between you and me—I’m curious. Does it make you crazy? I forget what it’s like to be your age. You’re fourteen, right?”

“Yeah.” On his brow I noticed the beginning of the slightest glimmer of sweat.

“Juliet was going on fourteen. You can tell me, I won’t judge you. Does it make you crazy?”

Perhaps fearing my guiding hand again, he did his best to continue looking me in the eye; ultimately, though, he couldn’t do it. His glance wandered to the left. “I guess it feels that way sometimes,” he said. “When I let my mind run with it and stuff.”

My composure regained, I stepped forward, closer now than even before, touching my face against the side of his head as my lips found his ear. “And when you do let your mind run, Jack Patrick,” I whispered, asking him in secret so that not even the walls of the room could overhear his answer, “when your mind is running as fast as it can… do you ever feel like if you don’t get relief you could physically die?”

Placing my hands on his shoulders, I lowered my head and moved my ear against the warmth of his mouth, awaiting a response. For several moments I could hear nothing but labored breathing that sounded like an answer in itself.

“I don’t know,” he said, his breath hot upon my hair. When he stopped talking, I pulled more tightly on his shoulders, drawing his mouth so that it actually pressed against my ear. “It can feel intense,” he admitted.

Just as my right hand began to move from his shoulder down his left arm, the tardy bell for lunch rang; in the silence of the classroom after our whispered voices, it sounded so loud as to seem internal. We jumped in unison. It felt as though the noise had just caught us there, standing too close. He looked up at me, worried—late to lunch meant a write-up, three write-ups meant in-school suspension. I gave his shoulder a final squeeze, then quickly moved toward my desk as though nothing had happened.

“Don’t worry,” I said, my voice back at normal volume, “I’ll write you a pass. I appreciate you staying and sharing your point of view with me.” He was silent as I wrote, but I could feel him looking at my body in a revised manner, his assumed boundaries having just been proven wrong. “Do you already have any write-ups?”

He shook his head. When I handed him the pass I felt an enjoyable sense of commerce, like I was giving him a check for his services. “Good boy.” I smiled.

But the moment he left the room my smile faded. I reached up my shirt and pinched my nipples as hard as I could, my fingernails digging in until my eyes began to water.

It was impossibly difficult, but for the next two days I managed to ignore Jack completely. I wanted him to miss the attention, crave my furtive glances even though he always looked away in seeming shame, as though he’d walked in on a scene inside a room he had no business entering. Instead I lavished praise upon his blockhead counterparts ( Yes, Heath, that’s very perceptive—we could in fact blame Romeo and Juliet’s parents! ) and encouraged the foulmouthed girls of the class in their lewd comments, hoping he’d feel ignored when my glance avoided his direction. If it was safe to cross lines with Jack, I figured open house was where I’d find out. An appearance by his mother or father (or worse, both) voicing some concerns about my keeping their son after class would mean I’d somehow have to write our planned future together out of my loins for good. I was afraid that if things fell apart with Jack I’d have to grab Trevor and pound him in the PE storage shed, then flee town immediately—surely, Trevor wouldn’t be able to keep the secret longer than an hour. There’d be no other choice than to take a bus across the state line and try to assume a new identity.