by Deena Bright
“I met your parents. Remember, we had to find a way to get you to read a damn book?” He never read a book in my class, as far as I knew.
He laughed; it was contagious. I loved hearing him laugh, being able to laugh with him while my marriage and world was crumbling around me was welcome. I really shouldn’t be sitting at a bar, yukking it up with old students, while my world fell apart. But I had to ignore it. At least for now. I loved having a distraction.
“Nah, you didn’t meet my old man. My dad was some country club prick who knocked up my mom when she was 18. As soon as he found out she was pregnant, he bailed.” Briggs spun my ring again. “My dad’s parents would’ve freaked their shit if they knew he’d gone black. The man you met, my dad, the one who counts, adopted me when I was nine. He made me who I am today.” He seemed so proud of his adoptive father. Had always seemed so.
“I never heard this story. When I had you write your personal narrative in class, you wrote about starting Varsity as a freshman. Why wouldn’t you write about your adoptive father or the flaws in your biological father ?” I was shocked. I couldn’t believe that I didn’t know something so personal about one of my students. I was the teacher who knew her students, who personalized their educations, who they could talk to, come to, confide in. This was important information; I didn’t know it. That was unlike me.
“Shit. Right. I’m not even that deep now; you think I could think past Friday night then?” As I looked at Briggs, I began to realize that I didn’t know him as well as I thought I had. He was always a dumb-jock, with a beautiful body, and great athletic talent. I hadn’t given him the benefit of the doubt.
Continuing, he said, “Actually, I think it’s some shit that black dudes always get the rap of knocking up our women and leaving our kids high and dry.” He took a long pull from his beer. He was such a man. A sexy man. “That’s bullshit. My white dad bailed. The black one stayed. My white dickless father can rot in Hell. He’s a son of a bitch.” I could see the anger in his gorgeous blue eyes; they flared with anger and became a darker more prominent blue. “But he did give me these eyes and they have certainly paid off.” He sat back, smugly, and put his hands behind his head, his triceps rippled as he did so.
“I don’t get it, what’s that mean?” He lost me with that last bit.
“Blue eyes on a black man are panty-creamers.” I stared at him blankly, not understanding. He laughed, leaned forward, grabbed my hand, pulled me closer to him across the table, and whispered, “When I look deeply into a woman’s eyes, any woman, with these blue eyes, I know I’m making her wet.” I blinked, staring at him, not able to pull my eyes away. Finally, I chuckled, shaking myself free of his intense gaze.
Laughing it off, I said, “Well I’m sure that works on a lot of young girls, Briggs.”
Still staring straight at me, he smiled slightly, winked at me and said, “Not girls Miss Garrity. Women—all women” he said as he slipped my wedding ring back on my finger. Even that move was sexy and seductive.
With that, I decided that I needed to use the restroom. I excused myself from the table, but as I did so, Briggs gave me a wink and an all-knowing smile. He knew that he was getting to me, but why? I was old enough to be his…his sister? My subconscious was talking, and I needed to listen: Alright Janelle, calm down, think this through. You’re hurt. This is about Marcus. You have NO feelings for Briggs. He’s getting you hot, because you haven’t had sex in 82 days, well 83 now. You walked in on your husband eating out Lauren, his secretary. You are just vulnerable, hurt, and in a bad place. Pull yourself together. Briggs is just a kid. Well, he should be about 23 now. Right? Let’s figure it out, talk it through. You had him in senior English your first year teaching. He was 17 or 18 that year. That was six years ago. Yep, he’s 23, maybe even 24. So, 23’s legal. He’s incredibly sexy and hot. But you’re married. Yeah, to a scumbag cheater. Yes, but you’re 29 years old and his OLD TEACHER. Not that old.
Oh my God, I didn’t know why I was letting my mind wander like this. Briggs Alexander was not hitting on me, and I was not about to accept his advances if he was. He was my student. God, I am not that immoral and unethical. Clearly, he wasn’t my student now, but for a short time period he was. He trusted me; his parents trusted me to guide him, teach him, and prepare him for the real world, a successful and meaningful future. I certainly did not spend all of that time educating him to guide him straight into my panties. I had to pull myself together. I dampened a paper towel and dabbed it on my flushed and warm face. Damn liquor. Damn sexy black man. I shook out my hair and reapplied some lipstick, knowing that there was nothing worse than smudging my lipstick. I never even drank with fresh lipstick on. Hopefully, applying lipstick would keep my mouth away from places it shouldn’t be. Please let this lipstick work. I think lipstick stains are trashy, and I, Janelle Lynn Garrity-Flowers, was not a trashy woman. Not now. Not ever. I held my head high, breathed deeply and left the bathroom.
“Damn girl, what took you so long? Let’s dance.” As I exited the bathroom, Briggs grabbed me around the waist and pulled me toward the dance floor. My attempts at protest were futile; I was no match for his strength and power. It was the slowest rap beat I had ever heard. I couldn’t imagine how people danced to this music. It wasn’t the fast-pumping rap or upbeat pop music I was used to dancing to. It was a slow, rhythmic pounding. I quickly learned people don’t really dance to it, they just slowly grind against one another. It was hot, slow, and so erotic. Oh, so hot. It’d been long, way too long.
Well this certainly wasn’t helping my cause. Holy shit. Briggs placed the front of his body tightly up against my back and bottom. I could feel his breath on the side and back of my neck. His arms were around my waist, holding me tightly against his pelvis. I could feel him rubbing, grinding, and moving into my backside, imitating a slow, easy, love-making motion. He used his hands to move my hips in a way that he wanted them to move. My body melted and melded into his. I lost control of my senses and actions, letting him control my movements, as well as my desires. This had to be his ammo. These moves, this seduction, had to be his weapon of choice. I couldn’t allow my will to cave, for a student to do this to me. But my God, it felt so good, so right. It had been so long, so frustratingly long. I felt my will faltering, my decisions wavering. His cock began to enlarge against me, finding its way to my ass. Only my linen skirt and thong and his loose-fitting athletic shorts stood between his hardening shaft and the crack of my butt. I could feel its size. Oh God.
“You’re so sexy Janelle.” His raspy whisper was right in my ear, making me shiver and long for more. He just called me Janelle. Oh shit. This was getting out of hand. I had to stop this. Please give me strength to stop this man. No, to stop myself. But instead of stopping it, I heard myself whimper, a sound of acquiescence. A sound of my will failing. I felt Briggs’ tongue slowly travel from the base of my neck to the tip of my earlobe. He started to turn my body to face him. I moaned and succumbed to him, facing him. His blue eyes were smoldering with the most passionate look of desire, a look I had never seen on a man’s face before. Never. I had to have him. I leaned in to him; our lips met. His tongue found mine, and my knees weakened. I wanted to have him, devour him, feel him. I needed him. I swallowed his moan and returned my own. His hands ran down my back, pulling me closer into him, onto him. I needed this man. I had to—
The song ended, and the lights flooded the bar.
It was the last song of the night. I’d missed the “last call” when I was in the bathroom. Briggs looked at me and my well-overdue emotional crumbling hit. My eyes welled with tears as I ran from the bar to my car, a car that I clearly couldn’t drive. I stood fumbling for my keys, not seeing through the tears that flooded my eyes and streaked my face. What had my life become? I felt him come up behind me, turning me slowly around. He kissed my forehead and pulled my chin up, forcing me to look into his eyes. “I’m sorry Miss Garrity. I was out of line. I had no right--”
I had to stop hi
m. This wasn’t his fault. I couldn’t allow him to feel guilt or accept any blame. This was my problem, my shit to deal with. “Briggs stop. I’m the one who’s sorry. Before you got here tonight, I was drowning myself in Tequila.” I paused, afraid to go on, but I couldn’t let him feel guilt. This wasn’t his problem. I took a deep breath and said, “I went home earlier tonight and walked in on my husband fucking his young, hot, slutty bitch of a secretary in our bed.” His face filled with sadness. He reached for me; I moved out of his reach, shaking my head. “What happened here was just stupid and…and…Dammit! I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m a mess.” I hated the sympathy, pity, and sadness on his face.
Students weren’t supposed to feel sorry for teachers. Teachers didn’t confide in students. Hell, husbands weren’t supposed to bang their secretaries. This whole night was a clusterfuck of “not supposed tos.” I finally managed to put my key in the door. Briggs moved my hand, removing the key from the lock, putting my keys in his pocket.
“Pancakes,” he said. I must have looked at him with a baffled look, because he repeated himself. “Pancakes. I like to end drunken nights with pancakes.” He looked down at his phone, checking the time. “When I was little and we didn’t have much money, my mom would make pancakes, a ton of them. Pancakes always made me feel better.” He took me by the hand, led me to his car, and opened the door as I got in. “I think we need chocolate chip pancakes.” I stared at him in awe. He wasn’t trying to cheer me up or get into my pants. He merely wanted to take me to get breakfast to sober up and calm down. God, I really didn’t know this kid like I thought I did. He was a man, yes, definitely a man, not a kid.
We drove in silence. No talking. No radio. Just the sounds of cars passing and our own breathing. I felt tired. Very tired. To think, twelve hours earlier, I was ecstatic, because the bell had rung, students left, and the summer had just begun. My phone beeped at that moment. It was a text. From Marcus.
Where r u? Its 2:15 in the goddamn morning.
How dare he talk to me that way! He had no right to think he can question me or cuss at me. If he cared where I was, then he should’ve kept his dick in his pants.
I simply responded with:
I came home, Marc.
I felt so numb. I wanted to scream at him, tell him how I really felt, but I didn’t even know. For Christ’s sake, I was sitting, wasted, in a student’s car, a student who 20 minutes ago had his tongue down my throat. Oh God. What happened to my life?
WTF???? When? Where r u?
Marc, I left. I saw Lauren. I SAW you. I left.
I didn’t know what to say to him. I didn’t want to say anything to him. I was curious to find out what he was going to say now. He was a smart man; he’d try to finagle his way out of this one. I looked over. Briggs was staring at me; we were parked at I-hop. I hadn’t even realized we’d stopped.
“You okay? Need a minute?” I wondered if he knew who I was texting. He had to. I was holding my phone, shaking and trembling as it dinged again. I looked down. I was surprised it wasn’t ringing, but beeping with a text instead. I saw his words. Utter disbelief.
I want the ping pong table & Keurig. You don’t drink coffee anyway.
Really? Married two years, together for five, and the only thing he had to say was that he wanted our ping pong table and coffee maker! No apology? No stammering excuses? No promises of making it up to me? He should’ve been calling me. Begging me to come home, so he could explain. Not giving up on me, on us. Trying to make me listen. Who’d I marry? Who did I let myself fall for? Oh My God. Never again. I was done. Done. No question about it. This was over. Ping pong table! He never even used it!
“Miss Garrity?” So, now I was back to ‘Miss Garrity?’ which was better. I supposed.
“Pancakes, lots of pancakes and syrup,” I declared firmly. As I got out of the car, I felt better. Much better. Ping pong table. That’s what it all boiled down to. My husband cared more about a ping pong table than he did about me, about our marriage, about our life together. Fine. Who knew a ping pong table and an overpriced coffeepot could seal the deal and be the closure I needed in a relationship that lasted five years, 4 ½ years too long? Done.
Briggs didn’t speak or really even look my way until after we’d ordered. He said, “I really wouldn’t have graduated without you Miss Garrity. That’s no joke.” He was staring at me, searching my face for comprehension. I didn’t know where he was going with this. “When you told us all about your parents leaving, that hit home.” Briggs shook his head and looked at me with awe. “You did it without parents. I had two parents there helpin’ and pushin’. It wasn’t fair that crap your parents pulled.” He sounded so serious, so honest.
I had great parents. Perfect parents. Storybook parents, all the way up until my sophomore year of college. My aunt died. My mom and her sister, Lillian, were really close. My mom holed herself up in her bedroom and couldn’t deal with anything. This went on for months. Then, to add to her pain and worry, she found a lump under her arm and FREAKED. It turned out that it was an enlarged lymph node, due to an infection. She was fine. But she still couldn’t shake the feeling that she “was next.” She and my dad changed; I mean really changed. They packed up all of their belongings and left. They quit their jobs, withdrew their savings accounts, sold my childhood house, sold their cars, and left. Really left. They said that they had spent the last 27 years raising kids, fulfilling responsibilities, and doing what “the man” wanted. They wanted to do what they wanted: spend the last years of their life together, making memories and crossing items off their bucket lists, one by one. They do make sporadic trips home, for our weddings, their grandkids’ births, and that’s about it. In eight years, we’ve seen them five times. Last post card we got, they were living in New Guinea, teaching English to underprivileged children. For free.
“I’m not QUITE as bitter as I used to be.” I laughed nervously, not even convincing myself. “They did what they wanted and are actually happy.” I stated. Thinking about it for a moment, I said “I guess they should be my inspiration. I need to do what I want.” I loved giving myself drunken pep talks at 3:00 in the morning at I-hop.
“So, what do you want?” Man, Briggs was gorgeous. He was a good-looking kid when he was in my class, but sitting here across from me, eating his pancakes, he was more than an old student, he was one beautiful man, a man I could see myself getting lost in. I couldn’t believe that I was still having these thoughts; I was starting to sober.
“I want to order more whipped cream and syrup for my pancakes, leave my husband, and spend the summer figuring the rest out.” That was the truth. I wasn’t about to try to “work through” my problems with Marcus. They went beyond him fucking his secretary. We’ve never had what Jocelyn and Rick have. We’ve never had anything really. Counseling and talking weren’t the answers. If someone hooked me up to a lie detector test and asked me if I loved Marcus, and I answered “yes.” It would detect the truth. I love him. He’s my husband. He saved me from being alone, from being lonely. If that same someone asked me if I was passionately in love with him and couldn’t wait to spend the rest of my life with him, and I answered “yes,” the machine would spaz all over the place. Marc wasn’t my one. I think I always knew that. Sadly enough, he knew it too. Now, I knew it was over. I felt it.
“Want to know the first time I really wanted to fuck the shit out of you?” Holy shit. Chocolate milk just shot out of my nose and mouth. Did he just say that to me?
“Umm, first time? I didn’t realize that there were any.” Wiping my mouth, shirt, and lap, I felt my face redden and my lips moisten and twitch, not the ones on my mouth either.
“Well Christ, tonight I had a hard time not taking you right on the dance floor, ripping you in half. But yeah, the first time, back in high school.” He looked so serious, so sincere. Looking at him, you’d think that we were talking about the stock market, not about sex. He was so nonchalant, at ease discussing sex with a former teacher. People just do
n’t get that teenagers aren’t who they used to be. Not that Brigss was a teenager. That, he was not.
“Well, I guess. Wait! No, that’s not appropriate,” I said, finalizing my statement. Sitting there staring at the most attractive man I had seen in a long time, I couldn’t help but wonder what he saw in me so many years ago. “But, yeah, I guess I do wanna know.” Crap. I was crossing a line again. But Hell, I needed a little ego boost after seeing Marcus’ tongue…. I looked at Briggs, and sighed, “Go ahead, tell me.” I caved.
“It was Spirit Week. You were a baby for Wacky Wednesday--”
“What the Fu—heck is wrong with you? That’s sick, ya pedophile!!” He raised an eyebrow. Who was I to call anyone a pedophile? Yeah Briggs was 23, but to me he was a kid, did that make me a pedophile? It had to. Right? “Okay, before we talk about anything else, how old are you?”
He laughed, knowing what I was getting at. “Janelle, I’m done with the Miss Garrity crap. I’m 23; I’ll be 24 next month. You’re 29, and single—almost anyway.” He stopped, double-checking that he hadn’t just crossed a line, a line that may or may not have pissed me off. “I’m not your student anymore; I’m a man who cannot wait to get you alone again, privately, so we can finish what we started.” He grabbed my hand, kissed my fingers, and said, “I’m praying that time comes soon, because that was the best start to anything I’ve ever had.”
Briggs stopped, took a drink of his Coke and looked at me with lust in his eyes. Then added, “And yes, the baby costume. I wanted to unzip those footie pajamas, from top to bottom, and see what you were wearing under them. You looked so hot. I’m getting hard now thinking about it.” He shifted in his seat, adjusting himself.
