It was a Friday in April; the storm windows in the classroom were open to let in the fresh spring air after a grudgingly lingering winter. I was wearing a flowing fabric top after months of sweaters and cardigans, and had let my brown dimpled knees peep out between my skirt and boots (both black faux-leather) in celebration of the first week that leggings under jeans were not strictly necessary.
The class was similarly relaxedly dressed: the hardier boys in gym shorts and basketball jerseys, the girls mostly in cute skirts and short sleeved tops; even observant hijabi Qamira, who normally dressed head to toe in a colorless gray, had arrived in a pastel green headscarf in honor of the season. Less adventurous boys wore light jackets over T-shirts and jeans, and the four-girl klatsch I always mentally referred to as "the squad," who sat in the back row and held whispered conversations all year long, were dressed in color-coordinated miniskirts and halter tops, their feet in exaggeratedly high wedges and their makeup matching their outfits: dark-haired Charley wore a fetching lilac, platinum-haired Vanessa wore canary yellow, redhead Roshelle wore shamrock green, and ringleader Danni, whose tawny brown hair fell in sculpted waves down her back, was in bubblegum pink.
All of them were white; I am Black. It was my third semester teaching at this exclusive private school tucked away in the tree-lined suburb of a major Midwestern metropolis, and I was familiar with the sensation of being scrutinized and evaluated in ways that none of my white peers were, I was currently turned to blackboard, my back to the class, stretching to write the next week's homework assignment at the top of the board, since the rest of it was filled with the discussion of this week's chapter. I was aware that as I wrote the fat of my upper arm jiggled freely, unclothed by angora, rayon or wool. I was less conscious of the fact that my large, plump posterior, gripped tight by the faux-leather skirt which failed to disguise the slightest curve, jiggled in sympathy. But I could hear the stifled giggles, the rush of whispers, and even one low, incautious "damn," before I turned and glared over my glasses frames at the class. They hushed meekly, nearly all bending their heads toward nonexistent work on their desk, but Danni's gaze met mine frankly, and she smiled with one side of her mouth and slowly licked her upper lip.
I underlined the assignment more sharply than usual, and almost threw down the chalk into its tray, dusting my hands and sucking my teeth preparatory to making an admonitory speech.
But the bell rang; and as one, the class leaped to its feet and streamed out the door. Most of them were seniors, and it was their free period: they were understandably eager to be out in the sunshine, sit in their cars and listen to music, sit on the bleachers and flirt, or walk the five blocks down to the gas station and gorge themselves on sugar, sodium, or caffeine. But the squad remained at their desks, and I narrowed my eyes at them.
"Can I help you with something, ladies?" I said in my most forbidding tone. I was well aware that the student body's general lack of intimate familiarity with black people meant that we were often interpreted as being more threatening than we actually were, and I occasionally used this to my advantage in matters of classroom discipline. So it was a little unnerving when they all slid out of their desks in unison and began to walk towards me.
"Yes, you can," said Danni, coming down the center aisle, that cocky one-sided smile still twisting her bright pink-painted lips. I backed slightly up, to the edge of my desk -- to give them room to leave, I told myself, but they had left their books and bags at their desks, and were approaching me empty-handed.
Danni reached me. She was a tall girl, but I was taller, and she had to look up slightly to maintain eye contact.
"What do you want?" I said, hoping I sounded more confident and uncowed than I felt. My heart was beginning to pound, and I wasn't sure what to expect. Anti-Black hate crime? Fatphobic bullying? Some weird prank that would end with them asking for an extension on their homework? But out of the corner of my eye, I saw Charley head to the door, shut it, and lock it, and I knew to expect nothing good. I reached behind me on the desk, trying to find some object I could use to defend myself with. Danni took one step toward me.
Her eyes were flush with my mouth, but her perky young breasts thrust out over my deeply pendulous ones.
"You can help us," she said, still with that same pink smirk on her face, "by turning around and letting us see that gorgeous ass again."
I couldn't hide my surprise, and they all giggled as my eyes widened in shock and I actually felt myself give an involuntary start, like a Victorian heroine. But they all nodded, too, and I realized that their eyes were fixed not just (intimidatingly) on my eyes, but adoringly on my face, hungrily on my body.
"This is extremely inappropriate----" was all I managed to say before Danni put a perfectly manicured finger to my lips. Her nails were the same shade of pink that her lips, eyeshadow, and skirt were.
"We're all eighteen," she said in a purr of a voice near a whisper. "We waited. Roshelle's birthday was yesterday."
I glanced at Roshelle, who blushed and nodded, her eyes fixed on the slight hint of cleavage visible beneath my flowing golden-orange top. "I've been so horny for you for so long, Miss Johnson," she murmured, blushing more furiously at her words. "I rubbed myself looking at your ass all period."
"We all did," said Danni. They all lifted their skirts, and I saw four young shaven pussies in front of me, each quite obviously slick with desire and pink with recent friction. Each of them was fascinatingly different: Charley's was the palest, Roshelle's had long, flared, darkly pink labia, Vanessa's pearly clit peeped out more daringly from its grayish hood than any of the others', and Danni's had the deepest tan and dripped more wetly.
Their mingled scents rose to my nostrils and I tried to shake my head clear of that sweet-and-sour perfume. "Girls," I said, the words catching in my throat, "you can't expect me to----"
"It's free period," said Danni. "You don't have another class for an hour and a half." She took my hand; it was soft and plump in her hard strong athletic one, and pulled me up away from the desk. "Let us worship you like we've been dying to." I heard Roshelle whimper at that, and Vanessa moan. I glanced at her, and saw her green eyes fixed hungrily on my ass. And as if in a daze, I allowed Danni's hands to lead me, as if in a coordinated dance, to the blackboard, where she put an eraser in my hand.
"You have to get the board clean for the next class, Miss Johnson," she whispered into my ear, and then stepped back. And I began to sweep the eraser across the board, and I heard them all moan appreciatively as my ass wiggled in response to the side-to-side movement of my torso. I smiled to myself. It was nice to be appreciated. It had been a long time since I'd had a good fuck, what with having been so concentrated on my career, and before that on my academics. I was only five years older than these girls. And they were all eighteen. Weren't they? I had seen their naked pussies already....
I turned around suddenly and slammed down the eraser on the tray.
"Show me your fuckin' IDs," I blurted, the south side coming suddenly to the surface. "If we doing this, you bitches gotta be eighteen."
It was almost funny, the way they scrambled back to their desks, pawed through purses and clutches and gym bags, and then one my one came back up the aisle with fluttering, anxious faces and their IDs in their hands. I didn't laugh in the moment, managing to keep up the stern-teacher facade, but I would later, long and explosively, with gasping giggles, every time I thought about it.
I examined their cards closely. They all looked legitimate, and the dates matched the birthdays I remembered them celebrating, including Roshelle's the day before. I returned them one by one.
