A junior student in my Advanced Placement English Language & Composition class, Maria became a favorite of mine for many reasons. First and foremost, she enjoyed my class, and made every effort to let me know so (kind words, a nice Christmas letter, an end-of-the-year gift). Not the most gifted student, she worked extremely hard, took all suggestions to heart, and came to every tutorial session. When scores came back the following summer, Maria unexpectedly passed the exam and earned college credit. (It is so satisfying as an educator to see students exceed expectations through their own will power.)
I have been fortunate to teach many wonderful and appreciative students, but I might have forgotten Maria had it not been for two things: Her amazing breasts.
As a high school teacher, I meet many attractive girls, but--honestly--they are only girls to me. I don't find them sexually appealing. They simply aren't ready. Cute, yes, but not sexy. Maria, though, was different. She had that coy look in her eye--a burning, passionate vivacity. Her smile hinted at untold pleasures that awaited behind closed doors. And she was aggressive: She wanted to turn me on.
Other girls might show flesh by accident, or incidentally, but Maria insisted. And I found this terribly exciting.
She sat in the front desk of the middle row, by choice: The seat before where I generally stood. The others in her small class of 15 sat towards the back. No one else chose to sit in the front row.
There are 180 days in the school year. Maria must have worn a low cut top on at least 160 of them. By low cut, I mean to say that perhaps 50 percent of her firm young breasts were visible. Though extremely busty, she often enhanced her assets with a push-up bra, such that the visible portion heaved out of the top of her dress. No doubt that most outfits violated school dress code, but I gave Maria a daily pass. Her other teachers must have as well, since I had her last period.
So there she sat, Monday through Friday, shoulders squeezed inward, leaning lightly forward. Giving me all that I could bear to see.
You can't, of course, just look. I had to be stealthy. (Maria certainly didn't care, but there were other students present. I did have a reputation to uphold.)
Standing above her desk, reading a passage, I would quickly peer down between pauses. Her eyes would be deep into her book, allowing my glance to linger as long as possible in her full cleavage.
Passing out papers, I might accidentally drop one to the floor next to her. As she reached down to help me, I enjoyed the hanging softness created by gravity's pull.
But I really didn't need to be so discreet.
Working at my desk, Maria would bend over in front of me to ask a question. (She didn't have to bend, but she always did.) She would hold the position throughout my answer, never making eye contact, looking away, permitting me to gaze upon her white young breasts.
I realized that we had a game. A quiet, unspoken game. It was exciting to her, and exciting to me. But it was only a game. I never tried for more, though I felt my advances would be welcome. I am just not that kind of person, to take advantage of an adolescent girl's infatuation.
With sadness the year ended and I said goodbye. I announced to students that I would be leaving the school to work in another district closer to my home. That I would no longer need to make 60-minute, round-trip commutes. Many students were disappointed, but of course they understood. Maria was one of them. She wrote me a beautiful note, thanking me for all that I had taught her.
That fall came and I busied myself with my new surroundings. It generally takes two or three years to establish yourself in a different school, building a reputation among students, fostering positive relations among peers, becoming a known figure in the parent community. One morning I left my room to go down to the mail room. I turned the corner to take the steps and...Maria! She was coming up the steps. I was a bit shocked. It was a school day, and she should have been attending her high school classes 30 miles away. We had no meeting planned, and I hadn't even communicated with her since the end of the previous school year. It was random luck that I came across her. In fact, it was random luck for her that I wasn't teaching a class.
I don't remember my words, but I welcomed her, explaining my surprise. With a soft smile, she offered that she didn't have any classes that morning (a lie, I knew) and that she wanted to make her request in person, not through email. My mind, of course, instantly speculated on what this request might me. The answer was mildly disappointing and dull: College recommendation letters. The curse of a secondary teacher. After some small talk about college and plans, we went over what she needed. I was more than happy to write them, but I was disheartened that she wore one of her rare full tops that revealed no skin (although her skirt was excessively tight and her high-heeled shoes were meant to excite). She did give me a quick hug on goodbye--the first time I ever remember touching her.
Three weeks later, nearly the exact situation occurred. Again, I was surprised by her sudden appearance, this time after school. She had one more letter and a thank-you card, but I sensed something else troubling her. We hadn't talked more than five minutes before her cell phone rang. Her eyes were wide when she answered. I didn't follow the conversation, but I could tell it was her mother. When she hung up, Maria--without making eye contact--said that she had to go home. She quickly turned and hurried off without saying another word. The moment was strange and awkward. I could tell that something else was going on. I did note, however, that she wore an extremely low-cut blouse. Her breasts were beautiful.
Over the next year, Maria emailed a few times. Simple blurbs reminding me that she appreciated all that I had done and had been accepted at one of the Texas schools for which I had written a recommendation. But thereafter, I didn't hear from her again. It is a part of life. I concluded that she had had a crush on me. And I was honored to think that a girl--now a woman--with such an amazing body would find me attractive.
It is always a pleasure to hear from former students. I do get several contacts a year from former students who update me on their lives and remind me how much they enjoyed my class. It is these random appreciations that keep me going. Most simply write, but on a rare occasion I might meet one at school or a local coffee shop. I must say that I was excited to recently find this email in by inbox:
Mr. Duncan,
I am visiting my family next week. If you are not too busy, I would like to see you. More than any other, your class prepared me for college. I don't know if I would have made it without your help. I hope you're not too busy. I can drive to meet you anywhere.
Love,
Maria ------- (last name removed)
Usually, in such situations, I invite the former student to visit me in my classroom at the end of a school day. But I must admit that I hoped Maria still dressed as I remembered and--anticipating that--I decided it best to meet her at a coffee shop. So I sent a polite return email suggesting such a place not far from my school.
Please do not think that I expected anything to happen. I am married with two children. The marriage is a functional one, if not a happy one, but I am content with my life. My children are everything to me, and I would never knowingly do anything that would put our relationship in danger. They must sleep under the same roof as I.
But Maria.... Well, there are those that tempt even the strongest of us.
Upon entering the door, I glanced around the coffee shop. It was more an adult hangout than a student one, but I am characteristically paranoid that people I know are secretly watching me. Teachers are like celebrities. In their community, everywhere they go, people recognize them. There are many people who know me that I wouldn't know by sight. (It's why I drive quite a distance away if I plan a night of drinking.)
I didn't recognize anybody.
After ordering my usual bold, black coffee (like my soul, I like to joke), I settled down in a comfy chair in an isolated corner. I love modern coffee shops: The pleasing aroma of fresh ground coffee, the soft furniture, the dark mood lighting, the abundance of reading material. Before I knew it, I was relaxed and engrossed in the sports pages, losing all awareness.
"Mr. Duncan?"
The soft-spoken words, in a light mellifluous voice, aroused me from my readings. I gazed upwards. Maria loomed over me, hands on her hips. She looked stunning. Her body had strong womanly curves, accentuated by her tight-fitting clothing. She wore a pair of heavily washed bluejeans that hugged her wide hips. Her top was a small red blouse, buttoned down the center, stopping just above her navel, baring her lower midriff. A deep line of cleavage burst forth from the dropping V-neck. Her naked arms reflected the tight muscle tone of youth. I was frozen by her sight: She was beautiful. I had difficulty removing my eyes from her abdomen. I had never before seen this part of Maria. This area was not thin and muscular; rather, it was full and firm. Just the way I like it. The fact that her jeans rode low added to the appeal. There are, of course, good reasons why school dress codes restrict the showing of feminine flesh. For us guys, well, it's simply hypnotic. Even the mere hint of forbidden flesh leaps the mind to lusty places. Who knows how I stared at this flesh until Maria broke the spell.
"Mind if I sit down?"
"Oh, of course, of course. Please forgive my rudeness! I must say you look amazing. You're not the little girl from the front row anymore. It's always surprising to see high school students actually grow up and become real people."
For me, those words were unusual. When speaking to female students, I never compliment them on their appearance. I always carry myself with a professional demeanor. But, I had already convinced myself, Maria was no longer a student.
As she sat down, I stole a glance at her breasts. It was hard not to. Her red top dipped down between the breasts in a sharp "V." Deep cleavage peeked out. As she swing her shoulders to face me, I saw a generous jiggle. I was most certain that she was not wearing a bra.
"So tell me, what have you been up to the past few years?"
The small talk began. I will not bore you with the details of her classes, undergraduate degree, first job, and apartment. To put it simply, she did well, got a job in a small design company, and had an apartment in Austin (she had gone to the University of Texas). I listed intently and asked follow up questions with interest. Reassuming a gentlemanly posture, I kept my eyes focused on hers. Of course, to this point, I haven't described her face. Perhaps its the curse of a woman with a great body that her face becomes an afterthought. Maria's? I would have to say plain or average. I know that seems to be a criticism, but it is not. Her face was neither striking nor displeasing. She had high cheekbones, a sloping nose, and full lips (which today bore a deep red lipstick that matched her blouse). Her hair was somewhere between blond and a light brown. It hung to her shoulders, twisting and curly towards the bottom. She looked fine. Not the type of face to grace magazines covers, but certainly the type that a person could fall in love with.
