Readers who have made it this far may wonder why none of my encounters with my fellow students had led to any of them becoming my girlfriend.
Courtney had come the closest (perhaps she was unofficially my girlfriend for a few short weeks), and the heartbreak I experienced when she moved, having loved her for so long, simply made it difficult for me to consider anyone else (though Rhiannon and Elsa would normally have been contenders).
Taking advantage of my unattached status proved fruitful, as I was able to continue sowing my proverbial wild oats.
On that note, it is time to tell the story of Ms Mannall.
Despite leaving primary school six years earlier, I had kept in touch with my former teachers throughout my secondary schooling. Because the terms at my secondary school finished a few days earlier than the primary school, I was able to visit my former teachers on the last day of their terms.
Most teachers used the last day of the term to prepare their classrooms for the start of the following term, ensuring that everything was neat and packed away, ready to begin again after the holidays. The specialist staff — the art teacher, the music teacher and the librarian — all did the same, but, unlike regular teachers, they didn't have children to supervise.
Ms Mannall was the primary school's art teacher. Her classroom was in a wooden building at the far end of the school that had been the only building when the school was founded. The brick buildings that formed the modern part of the school were set a short distance from the original building, separated from it by an asphalt quadrangle.
I liked Ms Mannall — she was a nice teacher, and I had fond memories of her classes. Beyond being nice, she was also quite attractive, something I noticed even when I was still in primary school.
Although she was a teacher and now in her late-forties or early fifties, her face was that of a sophisticated, mature woman, rather than a weary, ageing teacher. Her wavy blonde hair hung around her shoulders, framing her pale skin. She kept a slim figure, and her long fingers were slender and bony. Like many art teachers, her "uniform" primarily consisted of loose-fitting slacks and sleeveless blouses, and sometimes summer dresses.
I had fantasised about those slender, experienced fingers for a very long time.
At the end of the second term I made my customary pilgrimage to the primary school. After seeing a few of my former teachers, I made my way to Ms Mannall's classroom, the furthest from the school's entrance. The blinds were down and I thought she might have already left, but I knocked on the off chance.
"Come in," a voice said.
I opened the door and entered the classroom. Ms Mannall came into focus. She was manipulating a chunk of clay on a pottery wheel near the centre of the large classroom. The lights were off, except for a lamp dangling above her like a spotlight.
"Hi!" she said, looking up.
"Hi, Ms Mannall!" I replied. "Not got any cleaning up to do?"
"Already done! There wasn't much to tidy up this term, so I thought I'd use the rest of the time to work some clay — it's soothing," she explained. "How are you?"
"I'm well, thanks. Finished school for the term. Only two more terms to go and I'll be finished forever."
"Off to university next year?"
"That's the plan!"
I perched myself on the edge of a nearby desk and watched her fingers shape the clay as we made small talk about my future plans, my younger siblings leaving and starting primary school, and how my parents were. After about twenty minutes our conversation petered out.
"Well, I should go," I said. "I'm hoping to catch Ms Rutgers at the library before I leave."
"I'd give you a hug," she said, "but my fingers ..."
She held up her hands and smiled. I laughed.
"Of course." I stood up and stepped into the light. "Well, goodbye, Ms Mannall. It was great seeing you again."
Her smile dropped and she stared straight ahead.
"Uh, you, er, probably shouldn't go out there like that."
She gestured and I followed her gaze.
I hadn't noticed, but watching her play with the clay had caused a prominent bulge in the front of my trousers.
I turned my back to her, feeling awkward and uncomfortable.
"It's nothing to be ashamed about, but you should probably get rid of that before you leave. This is a primary school, after all."
"What do you suggest? Waiting for it to go down could take a while, and I'm not sure being here with you is going to help the cause."
"What do you mean?"
I wasn't sure if she was being deliberately coy or she was truly that naïve. In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought; she can already see I'm hard.
"You're an attractive woman," I confessed. "Working that clay is a bit ... seductive."
Ms Mannall's face became serious. Naïvety it was.
"I'm sorry," she apologised needlessly. "I keep the art supplies and equipment through that door."
I turned my head and looked in the direction she was pointing.
"You'll have privacy, and there are some rags you can use to clean up," she continued.
"If it's nothing to be ashamed about, why do I need privacy?" I asked, then bit my tongue, worried I'd gone too far.
"Touché, but I'm not really sure it's appropriate for you to do that in front of a teacher —"
"A former teacher," I interjected.
"Former teacher," she conceded. "But I'm old enough to be your mother!"
I was relieved that she hadn't taken my joke badly, and I decided to push the envelope a little further.
"You're not that old," I said, though it was true that she was at least thirty years older than me. "Besides, it might help things along a bit if I had someone to look at."
"And you want to look at me?"
"Who better than an alluring older woman?"
I thought I saw her pale cheeks blush a little.
"You make a convincing argument," she said.
That seemed to settle the matter. I undid my trousers and sat back down on the desk, with my underwear bunched around my knees. I was finding myself increasingly relaxed around the opposite sex, and this wasn't even the first time I'd been exposed in front of a teacher.
I took my member in my hand and slowly began to stroke, watching Ms Mannall as she resumed working the clay. My gaze alternated between Ms Mannall's face and her hands, imagining what it would be like to have her hands on me — or her lips.
The clay started changing shape, turning long and thin in her hands. It looked almost phallic. I looked at Ms Mannall's face. She was staring at me. At my groin.
