by Deena Bright
“Briggs Alexander, what did you do?” I question him, accusingly
“Hell, what was I supposed to do?” he says lying back in the tub. “You’re so sexy, the jets were shooting water straight at my ass, and I was kind of sitting on my heels, a little movement was all it took,” he admits with no look of embarrassment or guilt—just a look of pride and bliss.
I laugh, kicking water at him. He grabs me and pulls me into the water, kissing me tenderly. I welcome the kiss. I’ve never tasted myself on a man’s lips before. It’s sexy and exhilarating. I feel… shit. I feel my heart flutter. No, not flutter. It’s nice to feel wanted. That’s it. My heart certainly isn’t into this.
BRIGGS AND I are soaking, snuggling in the tub, which I feel is completely out of his character and surely not something that I would have predicted. “So thanks for that apple, cute touch.” I say, giving him the props for creativity.
He laughs, “You deserve it, Teach.” I can’t believe he brought me Starbucks (ohhh, I haven’t even sipped any yet) and an apple. Briggs is a lot more thoughtful than I ever considered before. Maybe even a little witty.
“Why do you think apples are associated with teachers?” I question. He looks at me, confused. I clarify my question, “Like, I mean, do you think it’s like the whole forbidden fruit, Garden of Eden thing? Are teacher-student relationships so forbidden that people need to remind the teacher of its sinfulness, using an apple as its symbolism?” What am I even talking about? Why am I trying to engage Briggs in a conversation about symbolism? I must be trying to remind myself that this is just about sexual pleasure, not intellectual or emotional connections. Something? Right?
I can’t distinguish the meaning of the look on his face. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but I realize I’ve gone too far, too deep and for what? He laughs, then retracts his laughter as the hurt is displayed on my face, “No, no, no, I just think that you English teachers look for too much meaning in things. The first letter Kindergarten teachers teach their students is an A, and apple begins with A. Bam! Teachers, apples, there you go.” He looks so sure of himself.
“Hmmm, interesting.” I have to give him that one, makes a lot more sense than my forbidden fruit, sinful representation.
“Remember that time you gave me a detention?” he asks as I sit behind him, rubbing his back, running my hands all over his strong, muscular back. I figure if I’m behind him, that this can remain a platonic, wholesome soak in the tub. I like that he can’t see how much lust is still in my eyes.
“What? I never gave you a detention.” I smack his back. I rarely give detentions; they’re ineffective. Students don’t care if they have to stay after school, doing homework for twenty minutes. The punishment doesn’t deter their crimes. Usually the 20 minutes is worth the fun they have breaking the rules.
“Oh yes you did!” Briggs turns around and faces me in the tub, pulling my legs up over his. “We were reading that dumb play, Antigone,” pronouncing it “Anti-gone.”
“Antigone (an tee gon ee).” I correct him at the exact time he corrects himself, laughing at me. I splash him, and he grabs my hands, pulling me closer, kissing me softly on the lips.
“You’re so predictable,” he teases “Anyway, we were reading Antigone, and you asked if it was wrong for Antigone to expect her sister to help bury their brother.”
I glare at him, finally remembering his response, “And you said, yeah it’s wrong, they should just ‘dyke it out’ and make us horny bastards happy.” I smack him, remembering the incident and my anger that accompanied it. “Oh, I was pissed. That was the first detention I’d ever given.”
“You weren’t pissed,” he counters, looking at me with those eyes.
“Yes, I was. I so was!” I exclaim, emphatically.
“Nope, you were biting your lip, trying not to laugh,” he remembers, laughing and shaking his head, as if he knew everything. “You did that shit all year, when someone said something funny, but not ‘school appropriate’ for the classroom.”
Putting his hand behind my neck and pulling my forehead to meet his, he adds, “It was the second time I knew I wanted you. You became real then, not some stuck up, too-good-for-us teacher.” Briggs takes my hand in his, rubbing my palms, massaging my fingers.
“But I gave you a detention,” I argue, not wanting him to realize he was right.
“Not because you wanted to, because you had to,” he states, stating correctly.
Wow, Briggs Alexander has me thinking. Maybe my students aren’t as dumb and as “out of touch” with reality as I think. They always seem so… so… removed from real human interaction and connection. Briggs is truly in tuned, and he is definitely learning expertise in human connection.
I wrap my legs further around his waist, pulling my body up on his lap. I can feel his hardness again. There’s definitely something to be said about the younger man’s libido. Wow. I kiss him on the nose and kiss his upper lip. He holds me to him, pulling my head to his lips, kissing me deeper, passionately. His hands run down my back, tickling my spine, sending shivers throughout my body.
“And that, Briggs, is enough for today’s lessons,” I stand, dripping water and what’s left of the bubbles all over his body. He groans, putting his head back against the tub. “We’ll pick up a deeper, more rigorous lesson next time.” I extend my hand, offering to help him up. He takes my hand; yanking him up with both hands. “I need to get some actual work done today.”
BY WORK, I really meant, lying by my brother’s pool, figuring out what I was going to do with my life, with my marriage, with my soon-to-be 24 year-old boy toy athlete. I couldn’t spend all morning, afternoon, and night fooling around with Briggs, teaching him to please me in every way I could think of.
Could I?
Damn, I wanted to, even sort of felt like I deserved to.
But, I was an adult with responsibilities and promises to keep. I promised Jocelyn that I ‘d email her a list of what I wanted from my house, so Rick and Dave could pick everything up this week. I didn’t even want to think about it. Part of me, just wanted to leave it all there and let Marcus deal with it. But, I had personal things there, mementoes of my past: photo albums, keepsakes, letters, journals. I needed those things; they were important to me. I wasn’t about to let Marcus destroy more things that were important to me.
In early May, I promised myself that I would spend five hours a week this summer, at least, trying to write a musical. For years, I’d been wanting to write a modern musical. This was supposed to be the summer that I started. Just because I saw my husband handcuffed to my bed by another woman didn’t mean that I should renege on my promise to myself, giving up on myself. I wanted to outline the plot today, inserting the songs where I thought they’d work the best. I’d spend the summer writing the dialogue and action. I went to work, writing and relaxing out by the pool.
“MISS GARRITY?” I hear a voice calling my name, realizing that I must have dozed off in the sun. Waking up, I realize that I wasn’t even in the sun anymore, but shaded by the trees overlooking the other side of the pool. How long had I slept? I turn to the voice. “Miss Garrity, I’m going to start using the edger and weed whacker. I didn’t want to startle you.” Leo’s shy, apologetic words and face are so sincere and heartfelt.
Oh my God, Leo’s already here to work on the lawn. He was scheduled to come after work. Seriously, how long had I been asleep? “Hey Leo, uhhh, what time is it?” I sit up, confused, rubbing my eyes to adjust to the light. I must look like such a ridiculous loser.
“It’s almost 6:15,” he declares, looking at his phone.
“6:15? Crap. I was supposed to get so much done today.” I stand up, gathering my towel to go inside.
“It’s summer vacation; you deserve to relax. Teaching’s a tough job, and a suckie one.” Leo’s smiling abashedly at me. I never noticed his dimples before. Guys, hell, people with dimples are so adorable, so angelic and pure. I wonder if he’s pure—like really pure. Jesus Christ Ja
nelle, get a hold of yourself.
“You know what?” I say, feeling better. “I did write a few pages, and I made a list. That’s enough for today,” I add, laughing it off, as I decide to swim for a bit. It’s pretty hot out, and I do deserve a break. I sink down on the top step of the pool. God, I love that my brother has a pool. Well, I guess that I have a pool now too. I love water. Pools, oceans, lakes… garden tubs are pretty hot too. Water’s so rejuvenating and so sexy too.
“Wrote a few pages? Are you writing a book or something?” Leo asks. “Do you mind my asking?” Leo’s so careful, careful not to offend me or overstep his boundaries. His formalities and respect are so charming and out of the ordinary. I’m accustomed to everyone always shoving their way into my life—my business.
“Nah, not really.” Admitting to someone that you’re writing a book or something like that brings on all types of expectations and questions from people. I figure that I’ll just leave it alone, and keep it under wraps.
“Oh okay, because I always thought that you should,” Leo explains, excitedly. Then, realizing how he must sound, he drops his head and stammers “I mean, in class, you would tell these crazy and elaborate stories about stuff that happened to you in college or your family, and you were a great story-teller, captivating really. I always thought that I’d read a book you wrote.” Leo comes across shy, almost like he’s worried that he reveals too much. It’s kind of cute.
Strangely, I find myself drawn to him, enjoying his company, his inquisitive and polite nature. I never really talked to him when he was my student. A lot of students would hang back to chit chat after class, boys and girls both. They wanted to share stories about their weekends, their boyfriends or girlfriends, their parents, and what they wanted to do after college. I always developed a rapport with them, taking an interest in their lives as people, not just their lives as students. I enjoyed my time with them; they were my students, my kids for a year. Leo never stayed back, never told me about his life. I knew he’d gotten into Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. He’d gotten a full-ride academic scholarship. Normally, a student like him would have been in a higher-level English class, but he’d wanted to take some elective or something and ended up in my Regular Ed. English class. He was by far the smartest student I’d ever had. I often wondered if some of my students could even read. Leo could read and enjoyed reading. My other students—students like Briggs—enjoyed parties, concerts, sex, sports, drugs, alcohol. Leo wasn’t like the rest of them.
Suddenly, a calming comfort comes over me. “Well, not a book really. I want to write a musical. Have you ever seen Mamma Mia or Billy Joel’s, Moving Out?” I question.
“Hmmm, I’m not sure how to answer that without looking like a pansy,” Leo admits, smiling shyly. “But yeah, I’ve seen both of them—Mamma Mia a few times.” When he starts humming “Dancing Queen,” I choke on laughter in disbelief, gasping for air as he dance a quirky little dance to his own hummed version of the song.
Leo Cling is funny? Actually pretty damn funny. I had no freaking idea he even had a personality—let alone a charming personality. “Mom loves Abba. They’re both great shows though.” His honesty and sincerity make him easy to talk to and confide in. Pulling a chair over near the step, he sits down and takes a long drink of his water.
“Well, you know how they’re just plays written to fit the songs from those artists?” I ask. Leo nods, urging me to go on. “Well, I want to write the play that goes with Madonna’s music. It almost seems like her songs already tell a story.” I can’t quite read the look on his face. Is it awe; could he really be in awe of my Madonna idea? Interesting.
“Miss Garrity, that’s a great idea! Madonna, she loves publicity; she’d probably even choreograph it for you—as long as you made it hot and sexy enough.” He blushes when he realizes what he just said. “You should do it, for sure.” When he gets up to leave, I can’t help but feel disappointed that he’s leaving so soon. “I should get back to work, wouldn’t want to cheat your brother out of his hard-earned money.”
“Leo, wait, what about you? What’s been going on with you?” Why am I holding him up? Usually, when a former student, Briggs excluded, is talking to me, I’m ready for them to leave after a few minutes of idle chit-chat.
Leo stops and sits back down. “Nothing really. I just finished school, got my CPA license, and now I’m saving up to buy a house outside of town a ways,” he announces so nonchalantly, like everyone his age, (23?) was doing exactly that. “Just got a new car and still looking for somewhere around here to work out and keep rowing. That’s about it.”
“That’s it? That’s pretty impressive Leo. Be proud of yourself,” I exclaim, not at all shocked that he achieved so much already. “And I can’t offer you up a river to row in, but Jasper wouldn’t care if you used his pool for laps or his workout room to lift and run. He’s such an exercise freak. He’d be happy that someone other than him used it.” Smiling and thanking me, Leo stands once again, preparing to leave.
Again, I’m trying to find something to say to keep talking with him. But why? He has work to do. Why am I suddenly interested in hanging out with him? I know why. I like that when I talk to him, he listens. He focuses on me, not on his Blackberry or iPhone, not on anything around me, just on me. I never got that with Marcus—seemed like he was always looking for something better.
Not seemed, was looking for something better.
Leo doesn’t look at me like he wants to rip my clothes off either—even when I’m sitting here in front of him in a bikini—which is also nice.
Well, somewhat nice, I guess.
As he walks away, I take in how good-looking he really is. I can’t take my eyes off the definition in his calves and how strong his thigh muscles look. Dipping in to the chilly water, I decide to swim some laps and release some energy. I start getting in a zone, ignoring the environment around me, just swimming. I’m not sure how long or how far I had swum, when I hear muffled noises. I stop swimming and stand disoriented in the water.
“Give me my fucking credit card, you bitch!” I look behind me. Marcus and Lauren are standing at the pool’s edge. Marcus’ rage is apparent by the reddening of his face and the bulge of the veins in his neck and forehead. I gain a slight bit of satisfaction that I can still enrage him as such. Char will be so proud. But more importantly, I cannot believe he came here and came here with HER.
Dickhead.
Slutty cum-bucket.
I put my hair back in the water, getting it slicked back and off my face, like I know he likes. Stupid Robert Palmer video. Marcus isn’t “Addicted to Love”—he’s a addicted to skanky snatch—skanky, smelly snatch. Skanky, smelly, swamp snatch.
Smiling at my alliteration addiction, I open the top of my bikini and look inside, “Hmmm, I don’t have the credit card on me. Actually, last time I saw it, Char was using it. She doesn’t like to leave home without it.” Smirking, I start walking towards the steps.
“Jesus Christ Janelle, I mean it. If you don’t give me that fucking card, I’m going to go get it myself,” Marcus yells, threatening me.
“Marcus, you asshole, call and cancel it like any other normal person would.” How dare he come here, bring her with him, and yell at me? Who the fuck does he think he is?
“Nellie, I’m so so so so very sorry about all of this, I told Markie that I’d just cancel it for him,” Lauren whines, stroking my husband’s chest and patting his arm. “But you know how he gets when he’s upset. Can you just get the card for us?” she begs. “We have dinner reservations in an hour.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I scream, raging out of the pool, nearly wiping out on the last step. “Get her out of here Marcus, get her the fuck out of here!”
Markie?
Nellie?
“Lauren, get your skanky ass off my property now.” I screech, shaking, raging like I never have before. “Leave! God damn it.”
“Fucking shut your mouth Janelle, don’t even think about talki
ng to her that way,” Marcus warns, coming closer to me, gritting his teeth, like a rabid dog in heat. “She’s more of a woman than you’ll ever be. Apologize! Now!”
Marcus wants me to apologize to her? Who the Hell is he kidding?
“Me? Apologize? To her? Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Holy Mary Mother of God, I’m going to fucking lose it all over these people right now. I need Char; she can handle this—handle me. I’m way too in over my head here.
“Markie, let’s just go. Janelle, all I ever wanted was to be your friend.” Lauren whines.
“All you ever wanted was to fuck my husband, you skank-ass whore.” I screech at the top of my lungs—not caring who can hear us.
Marcus grabs me, and says, “Shut your damn mouth and get my credit card, you bitch.” At that moment, I’m torn from Marcus’ grip, and I hear a crack. Marcus is flat on the ground with a bloody, probably broken, jaw, whimpering like an infant.
Leo wraps his arm around me, and asks me if I’m okay. I nod, not knowing if it’s the truth or not. Leo yanks Marcus up off the ground, turns him to face me, holds him in a choke-hold and orders, “I think you owe the lady an apology, you son of a bitch.”
Marcus inhales and spits right in my face. “Fuck her,” he yells.
Leo tightens the grip, straining Marcus’ head and neck, cutting off his airwaves. “Now asshole.”
Marcus doesn’t respond; his face changes shade, hidden in crimson. Finally, he mutters, “Sorry.”
Leo warns, “I’m going let you go, but you’re going to get your ass in your car and leave. Take her with you. Don’t come back, don’t bring her back. You got it?” Still restraining Marcus, he adds, “I said, Got it?”
