My Teacher by Christian Bodart
19th August 1994

Miss Lambert's fingers curl authoritatively around the comic book, whisk it into the air above my nose and release their grip. They remain forward, to attention, stretched, taut with an underlying quiver. The comic, once my brother's, flickers an arc toward some classmate's chuckling embrace but my eyes are set firmly upon this impending woman.

Her nipples tremble slightly too, pushing at the soft fabric of her blouse, staring me out with their exuberant authority. Her other hand waivers along the crest of her hip, ushering the audience to her flanks. Her curves fight harshly the restraining skirt almost overflowing, almost bursting forth revealing her secrets, her sex, but only almost. They sway, how they sway and so do I, Miss Lambert's scolding lost on me, outshouted by the hormonal stirrings erupting within me, my briefs now uncomfortably tight as the world stands to witness this woman.

- I'm sorry Miss Lambert

(She smiles at me, or is it my imagination?)

- I won't do it again

(But we both know that I will, anything to gain her attention undivided.)

I wasn't reading the comic, I was reading her, her hips, her lips, her breasts and her thighs.

This time she does smile. God can she see my groin? Is she about to laugh at me, parade my boyhood to the class as it presses tight to my trousers, serenading her nipples, reciprocating them?

Here comes her hand, the fear throbs in my groin - I want to be humiliated - but no it falls to her side and adjusts the cloth wrapped to her, strapped to her with belt and button and rests finally on her hip, just off beat with its partner, enhancing

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the sway, the swing and the curve.

She glares, her nipples glare, her groin stares and my penis rears. All these feelings are so new, so adolescent and so enjoyable. Especially afterwards when I ache for nights on end, after class, after her. I can hardly touch myself without a wince. Even Vaseline is no real help but I always find a way for I must; sleep is no friend until I have enjoyed Miss Lambert's engulfing thighs and depths between.

And God what a woman, no pupil plays truant to a teacher like that, even the girls here sense it, they sit in awe, learning more than English, with the taint of fear we all share. I suspect that even they quiver occasionally, moistening their seats as she scolds them for reading a word wrong or while she stretches to pull down the blinds to vanquish the sun. (And as her silhouette gracefully tugs at the blinds it stamps itself in each of our memories.)

As we file home from class, how many fingers sore with writing feel new zest as they reach down through trousers, skirts, knickers and briefs to find the place to pay homage to Miss Lambert and ease the tension of a frustrating, difficult lesson on a summer's day.

And one day I shall find the courage to take her, to break the restraints and unleash that flesh seductive. Set to liberty the breasts, those nipples aglow and aglare, the tight waist, the subtle belly and it's tongue tempting rift, the swerve of her hips and the 'V' of her sex. A forest and it's fire revealing their flame's hidden secrets.

One day I shall, against the odds, against the improbability, the impropriety of a pupil-teacher liaison, come clean - after all why else would an established journalist attend Adult Literacy classes but to study Miss Lambert?

       
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