Hello, Melissa,
I just finished grading your semester theme paper. I am sorry to say that it just isn't good enough to pass my English class.
Melissa, I also know that you have problematic thoughts. I have known pupils like you. I know the kinds of terrible things that go through their minds. Through your mind. Thoughts that you try to dispel, but which return again and again, each time stronger. You don't know where they come from, and you can't control them. But you know they are wrong, and so do I. I can see into your mind, and I am very concerned about you.
I know you think about me. They were abstract, inchoate thoughts at first. Then the thoughts became a bit clearer. Now they come to you with such detail and clarity that you can see, hear, smell, and taste them, so real that you sometimes forget they are only in your mind.
You think about finding me in my office after school. In your mind, you picture me distractedly letting you in. I then sit behind my big mahogany desk, and gesture for you to sit in the chair facing me across the dark, glossy surface. You make sure, out of habit, that the skirt of your uniform covers your thighs, and you pull your knees together tightly. You hold your books against your chest, and cast your eyes downward.
"Yes?"
You force yourself to look me in the eye. You hope I can't tell that you are trembling. You struggle to find words, as the maelstrom in your mind makes words impossible. I grow impatient, and you feel yourself blushing hard. Your cheeks feel hot. Tears well up in your eyes. You try to fight against crying, but your mouth, dry, tastes metallic as the tears begin to stream down your face.
I frown. I know I won't be able to get back to work until you leave. I sigh, rise from my chair, and approach you from around the desk. As I stand beside you, I put a hand on your shoulder. This small gesture of kindness, which you know you don't deserve, causes you to sob. You cannot look up at me. With blurred vision, you look at your black, patent leather shoes, and at my dark brown wingtips partly hidden by my the cuff of my wool trousers. Your feet look so small beside mine.
Eventually, your sobs subside. I offer you a handkerchief from my breast pocket, and you hesitate--it is so clean, so soft, and is embroidered with my initials. But you need to use it; by now you have no choice. You don't know what to do with the handkerchief afterward, holding it out, and are grateful when I simply take it from your hand and stuff it into my trouser pocket.
Finally, you bring yourself to look up at me. Your mouth opens to speak, but the power of speech has deserted you, and you feel so foolish. You look into my eyes, hoping for some signal, some hint about what to do. You can't quite read my eyes, though. You simply haven't had enough experience to understand what a man's eyes are telling you. But something feels strange. You are acutely aware of my large, heavy hand on your shoulder. Everything feels hyper-real. You feel something below that confuses you, embarrasses you. You have had this feeling before, and you have prayed for it to go away, but it hasn't, and you feel it more strongly than ever. Why now? You are so ashamed.
You wonder if the other girls--the juniors and seniors--would know what to do. You admire them and fear them. They know things. They have secrets. You feel so lost and confused, wishing you knew what they knew.
Your shame deepens as you feel your nipples contract into hard nubs. You hope I can't tell through your blouse.
Then the strangest thing happens. Your right hand, seemingly of its own volition, slowly rises, and touches the top button of your blouse. Why? What is happening? Looking into my inscrutable eyes, your fingers undo the first button. It's so slow. You feel as though you are watching yourself in a movie.
I do nothing; I say nothing.
With no sense of what I want you to do, you are compelled to continue. You undo another button, then another. It takes agonizing minutes to reach the last one. You slowly pull your blouse open. You know that I can see your bra--your first. Is it too plain? Does it look like other girls' bras? My expression doesn't change.
With your left hand, you push the strap off of your right shoulder. Then you do the other side. With two trembling hands, you undo the clasp between the cups of the bra. Your eyes beg me to tell you what to do, but it is so hard to tell. You slowly push the bra open, feeling the cool air of the room on your breasts. You have never felt so naked, so vulnerable, even though you are mostly clothed. You are consumed with anxiety. You think your breasts look nice, but you're so unsure. They don't look like the heavy, prominent breasts of the older girls. You are seized with horror at what you have done, wishing with all your might that you hadn't opened your blouse. You imagine my scorn, imagine me scoffing at your breasts. But my face still tells you nothing, which is even worse. If only I would yell at you, slap you, spank you for being so terrible. But I still stand there beside you with a hand on your shoulder, which, you just now notice, has slipped underneath the open blouse and rests warmly on your bare shoulder beneath. Your mind is fiercely willing my hand to slide down to your breast; you don't know why, but you feel you'll die if I don't cup your breast in my hand. You imagine my fingers pinching your nipple, a thought so vivid that you feel a fresh flood of dampness between your legs. You can't tell whether I have noticed. Can I see? Can I smell you? Yet my hand remains on your shoulder as I peer down at you.
You avert your eyes, ashamed. But you see a slight bulge in the front of my trousers. You think you know what this means, but you don't know for sure, having only heard confusing bits of whispered tales in the dorm hallways. You can't bear to look up, so you continue to gaze straight at the trousers. With trepidation, your hand begins to reach. It touches the rough wool, feeling the spring of my stiffening cock beneath. You gasp, and feel another flood of moisture beneath you, although you cannot fathom the connection.
You again look up at me, yet still cannot tell what I want you to do. But you know what you want to do, even though you know it is wrong. You awkwardly reach for the zipper, and pull it down, struggling when it sometimes catches on the zipper's teeth. The bulge in my underpants is more prominent, now free from the thicker material of the trousers. You reach through the fly, at last touching my cock. It surprises you how warm it feels, how smooth, how dry. You wonder how it can feel so stiff, yet with such soft skin upon it. Held in your small hand, it looks huge to you, bigger than you thought they could be. The thought of one of these pushing into you, into such a narrow and mysterious channel between your legs, is terrifying. What you heard about men and women just can't be right.
