After I retired as a professor of English at a small New England college where I had worked for many years, I occasionally made some extra money by working as a substitute teacher at the local high school. But basically, I hated it. About 20% of the students were actually eager to learn and worth teaching, 50% didn't care one way or the other, and 30% would go out of their way to make your life as unpleasant as possible.
One year, I accepted a long-term sub position as an English teacher because the former teacher had given birth to her first child and wanted to take 6-9 months off to be with the baby. It turned out to be nine months, so I taught several classes for virtually the whole school year.
Interestingly enough, among the 20% it was a pleasure to teach, nearly 75% of them were girls. That shows you how much the world has changed in recent years. Girls are taking over.
The student who it was the greatest pleasure to teach had the odd name of Christmas Cross, since she had been born on Christmas. She hated her first name and instead called herself "Crissy." She was very bright and an eager student, but two of the reasons I liked her so well were that she obviously liked me as a teacher—and she was strikingly beautiful: about five-foot-seven with long straight blonde hair, a beautiful and delicate figure, and a face and smile that would melt an iceberg. And pale blue eyes.
It probably was for that reason that as we neared the end of her senior year, and I knew she was going away to Boston U, I told her she could seek my help at any time with essays that she might have to do there, and I gave her my personal home e-mail address. Little did I know how she was going to use it.
She entered Boston U in September of that year, and by the first of October I had an e-mail from her. What follows is an account of the e-mail exchanges we had over the next 2-3 months.
"Hi! Remember me?" she wrote. "I hope you meant what you said about taking a look at some of my essays and offering your suggestions, because I would like to take advantage of that if you have the time. Here's the first one. It was for English Composition, and the assignment was "The Most Embarrassing Thing I Ever Did." I thought you would get a kick out of it since it involves you. Crissy"
I wondered how it could involve me? I found out when I read it. In her ten-page essay, she confessed to having had a crush on her English teacher all of her senior year. The teacher obviously was me. She even admitted to having sex dreams about him and actually confessed to thinking about him when she masturbated at night in her bed! I certainly hoped this English prof at Boston U was a woman and not a man. I hate to think what might develop if it was a man. Finally, she confessed that in an effort to get that teacher to think about her sexually, she had gone to class wearing a relatively short yellow-and-brown tartan wool skirt with no panties underneath. Since she was sitting in one of those chairs with a wrap-around platform to write on but otherwise nothing in front—and since she was sitting in the first row—halfway through the class, when the teacher was sitting at his desk in front of her, and all of the other students were busy taking a test, she slowly slid the skirt up on her thighs and parted her legs. She knew that the teacher but no one else could get a clear view up her skirt. She even admitted to having brushed her pubic hair the night before with hydrogen peroxide to make it even more blonde. But the teacher never even noticed! She felt humiliated.
And that was her "most embarrassing experience."
It took me awhile to calm down, but finally I made some suggestions about her essay and tried to pen some detached and objective comment back to her.
"I'm really surprised that you would show me this," I wrote. "I had no idea you felt that way about me, and yes—I never noticed, and that's just as well. But I certainly admire your ingenuity—and your nerve."
She sent a reply back the following day.
"I was a virgin at that time—which I am not now, thanks to my boyfriend, Larry—but I used to masturbate every night and imagine you doing the most outrageous things to me."
"And the most illegal things if they had been real," I responded. "You were not eighteen at that time."
"But I am now. Listen, I'm going to set up a chat line just between us, so we don't have to keep mailing back and forth, and no one else will see it. Is that okay?"
"Sure. What do you need from me?"
"Nothing. I know how to do it."
So the rest of what follows was in back-and-forth chat.
"How often have you done it—with this Larry?" I asked her.
"Three times, and I hated it the first time, it really hurt. But it got better the next two times, and I began to enjoy it. But I dropped him after he started calling me his 'little fuck bunny'—and I think he told other people about it."
"That was a wise move on your part. You're too good for him."
"I know. I agree. So I'm back to thinking about you when I masturbate every night."
"Are you crazy? I'm old enough to be your grandfather."
"So what? I like older men."
"Have you ever had any?"
"No, but the idea sounds appealing."
