Creative Writing Ch. 01

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*Note to readers: The first erotic story I ever wrote was about an affair I had with my high school English teacher. When I wrote it, I was involved with someone who had a huge BDSM fantasy and I let myself get talked into adding in things that didn’t happen to please this person. It’s bothered me ever since. (Ironically, the best comments I received in private emails told me how much they liked the mild BDSM stuff.) I’m assuming most readers won’t have read that first attempt at erotic storytelling, but in case you did, there will be some old ground re-plowed here. But because I write mostly about my own personal experiences, the ground needs replowing. I hate that I allowed myself to cloud what was my first affair and second sexual experience with a bunch of BS that didn’t happen. C’est la vie, no?

This is setting the record straight because it matters to me. Her real first name was well, I’m not going to say because she’s still teaching, but mine is Cal, and this is our story.


“Welcome, Miss Parker. Nice to see you again, Mr. Abbot. Come in and have a seat, Mr. Thomas.” Mrs. Lloyd stopped smiling and said, “I’m sorry. You must have the wrong room. I know every name on my class list but I don’t recognize you. I’m Mrs. Lloyd and this is creating writing.”

“Hi, Mrs. Lloyd. It’s me. Cal. From your Mythology class?”

Several other juniors and seniors filed in as Michelle Lloyd said, “Oh, my goodness! I swear to God I did not even recognize you, Cal. I’m so sorry but you look like a completely different person. I’ve seen some amazing transformations before but yours is really something. Please go in and have a seat. And by the way, I’m really glad to see you again. You were such a kind, decent guy.” She paused and said, “I hope this new look of yours doesn’t change that.”

It was the first day of my senior year and I was so unprepared for the reaction I got I’m sure a fair number of people must have thought I was full of myself when I didn’t speak to them. But nothing could be further from the truth. In reality, I was so shocked by the way I was being treated, I honestly didn’t know what to say so I said nothing. The very same girls who had just the year before moved to the other side of the hall to avoid me were now openly flirting with me and inviting me to parties. Inside, I was still the same shy, overweight kid who had been nicknamed “Bucky” years before because his teeth so horribly misaligned.

On my best days, I’d been left alone. Most of the time, however, I heard several comments about my teeth or my weight or the kind of clothes I wore. My family was quite literally dirt poor so having nice clothes wasn’t an option. I grew up in an 800-square foot wooden shack on a gravel road. We had plastic for windows, large holes in the floor, and for several years, a lovely outhouse. My dad was an alcoholic for many years before my mom finally stood up to him. One day, she’d had enough and she gave him an ultimatum. She told him to stop drinking or lose his family. To his credit, he quit cold turkey. He moved us out of the city limits of our small town near Seattle, Washington, and bought the only house in the country he could afford, that rickety wooden shack and an acre of undeveloped land. He worked all day for Weyerhaeuser then came home and worked on the house or cleared land until it was dark. He never took another drink in his life but we were still very poor.

At the end of my freshman year, my mom finally went to work as a nurse’s aid in a rest home. It was awful, dirty work dumping bed pans and cleaning bed sores. It paid next to nothing, but that extra money allowed her to do something she’d wanted to do for years but couldn’t afford. She was able to get braces for her son.

I wore them my sophomore year but my teeth were SO bad, that there was very little change and certainly no noticeable effect on my life. I came back for my junior year still some 20 pounds overweight and my teeth were beginning to come into alignment but they were still pretty bad. My hope was that eventually, I wouldn’t have to endure any more taunts about having bucked teeth. The worst one I ever got came from the cutest varsity cheerleader who was a senior during my freshman year. There were a lot of kids around her when she saw me coming and called out to me, “Oh, Calvin? Could you come here?” Everyone was staring and smiling in anticipation of the joke we all knew I’d soon be the butt of as she said, “Thank God you’re here. Listen, I need you to kiss me.” Everyone chuckled and my face turned beet red. “You see,” she told me, “I have this terrible itch at the back of my throat and I thought that with those teeth of yours, you might be able to scratch it for me.” By this time, there were some 50 kids standing around and all of them roared with laughter as she puckered up for me. I lowered my head and slunk away the way I had so many times before.

I’d also been held back in the first grade so I turned 18 during my junior year. During the winter break of that year, I asked my dad—again—if I could start lifting weights at school. He’d told me no several times before claiming I was too young and that I would hurt my body. This time he said yes but on one condition: I casino şirketleri couldn’t quit. I had to lift for six months or no deal. I was so excited I hugged my dad for the first time in several years and promised him I’d stick with it.

Two days after classes started, I went to mom the following morning and said, “I hurt so bad I can’t even turn over in bed. You have to ask dad for me if I can quit lifting. This was a huge mistake. Please, Mom?”

She cut me off at the waist. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Do you know how hard it was to convince your father to let me get braces for you instead of spending the money on the house or fixing the car? You made a deal with him and by God, you’re going to honor it. I am not stepping in and getting involved. Now you get your butt to school and you will lift weights today and every day for at least six months just like you promised.”

I started to beg but this time, my mom was stronger than steel. No way. No quitting. And I’m still grateful for her resolve to this day.

A few days later the intense soreness went away and after that all I faced was an almost-pleasant kind of stiffness the day after a workout. By the end of the year, I noticed that all of my baby fat was gone and I was starting to see some real results. I actually had a chest! Hell, I even had shoulders and traps and my arms were showing the earliest signs of some “guns.” They might only be popguns, but they were definitely there.

I got my braces removed shortly after the end of my junior year and kept working out at a small, local gym over the summer where I cleaned up each morning in exchange for the privilege of using the facility. Just before the start of my senior year, my mom’s sister came to visit and she said, “Oh, my goodness! Is that Cal?” My mom assured her it was and she said, “Come here and let me see you!”

I’d just finished a workout when my Aunt Jean was looking me over. She was shocked by what she saw. She told my mom, “This is unbelievable! I want him to get dressed and come with me.” I had no idea what she had in mind but my mom told me to go find out and I always did what me mom said.

She took me to the beauty salon where she worked and sat me down and cut and styled my thick, black hair. I’d always just worn a mop on top because haircuts were too expensive. My mom would trim it up once a month or so and that was plenty because I was basically invisible to the whole world anyway.

When she finished up, she showed me the final result. “Holy cow!” was my reaction. “I look like that guy on the TV show Friends,” I told her.

“You sure do!” she said. “Joey, right?” I couldn’t remember his name but that was the guy. My hair looked amazing and I had no idea it even could like anything like that.

The only other decent feature I had were what my mom called “girly eyes.” Later someone told me they were “Bradley Cooper eyes.” I hated my mom’s term when I was young but I found myself grateful for being born with something that would turn out to be so appealing to so many women once I was able to fix all the other cosmetic problems that kept them from looking at me twice.

She also took me shopping and bought me several new shirts, pairs of jeans, and other things we could never afford. My first experience with being flirted with came at that store. There was a girl who was home from college working there. When I came out with the first new outfit on she said, “You look so HOT!” As I handed her the stuff we were keeping, she said, “My name’s Janelle, btw. If you want to go out sometime, just let me know.” I blushed heavily (as usual) because NO girls EVER even talked to me, let alone asked me out. Especially not the cute ones and Janelle was very good looking.

My braces were off and my teeth were very white and perfectly straight. The bird’s nest on top of my head was styled and combed. I had decent clothes and after almost eight full months of lifting and eating right, my body was beginning to look nicely ripped. Because I didn’t have a single friend at school outside of Glen, who was almost as unpopular as me, there was no one to tout my new changes over the summer to the “ruling class”, so all of this came crashing down on me at once.

When that first day of school arrived, I had never been on a date. In fact, I had zero experience even talking with girls so I had no idea what to say when one of them spoke to me. Inside, I was still the ugly kid everyone knew as Bucky. So when those same girls who didn’t know I was alive just three months ago started coming up to me and asking me to this party or that dance, or telling me how amazing this change was, I panicked—after my face turned red, that is. I’d just do what I’d always done. I lowered my head and slunk away. Everywhere I went, clusters of girls were stopping, turning, smiling, and pointing. Deep down, I knew it was for positive reasons, but you don’t erase a lifetime of negativity in a few days no matter how dramatic the change.

That takes me back to that first day in my creative writing class with Mrs. Lloyd.

There were three primary reasons why she was my favorite teacher. The first was well…she was just so good looking! She was 37 that year casino firmaları and yet she was so attractive it made my ‘heart hurt.’ She had long, sandy blonde hair she often wore in a swept-up style but every now and then she it wore down around her shoulders. Her hair framed a very young-looking, heart-shaped face which had beautiful blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a perfect, gorgeous smile with soft, full lips. If that wasn’t enough to get any young man’s motor running, she also had a killer figure with slender legs, a tight butt, a tight waist, and perfect C-cup boobs. She wore just enough makeup to enhance her natural beauty and pretty much every guy in school had a thing for her. My thing could more rightly be termed an obsession. A big part of that was due to the way she dressed, which coupled with her amazing figure and beautiful face, made her absolutely freaking gorgeous to me.

That’s where my quasi-fetish come in. You see, growing up near Seattle means it’s cold most of the year. Not Minnesota cold but 45-degrees cold. It’s often just raw and gray. So most girls and women wear what I like nine months out of the year. I’ll call them ‘sweaters’ but that’s just the generic term for what I like. My thing is for form-fitting knit tops, not just sweaters. If they’re ribbed, that’s a huge extra for me. Mrs. Lloyd wore that sort of thing nearly every day and it just drove me out of my mind. She wore pants more than the skirts I favored so it was a special treat when she’d wear a pretty sweater with a short skirt and heels. The ultimate was to see that combination with her long, silky hair worn down. I thought I might wear my dick down to a tiny nub from whacking off while fantasizing about her so often but I really didn’t care. To me, it was well worth the risk!

She was also very kind to me. As the ugly duckling, she’d been my protector. I was teacher’s pet and although I got a lot of grief for it outside the classroom, no one dared criticize me in her room when she was there. She told me several times what a nice, polite young man I was and how she wished every boy was as courteous as me. That was the reason she expressed concern I might change internally in conjunction with all of the external changes. That I didn’t, later played a huge role in the two us ending up together just before Christmas and throughout the rest of my senior year.

Lastly, she was just a really good teacher. She was always well prepared and she made all of the mythological creatures we studied in her class come alive in such an interesting way. I wasn’t sure how she could make creative writing interesting, but I thought if anyone could, it would be her.

I, of course, had no idea what her personal life was like. I only saw her for 50 minutes a day, five days a week, and then occasionally in the halls at school. I didn’t know she was married to a very successful architect who was cold and distant and often away from home. Even when he was there, he wasn’t available for her. But as hard as that was for her, what made it all bearable was having her 17-year old son, Brad, living at home with them. He was her world. Well, at least until the day he came home and told his parents he was enlisting in the Navy. Michelle told him, “Over my dead body! You will NOT do that. You’re staying in school, graduating in June, and going to college next year. End of story!”

That’s when her husband put down his newspaper and quietly said, “If you pass the GED, I’ll sign for you, Brad.” He picked the paper back up and kept reading as though his son had just asked to borrow the car. I had no idea he took and passed the GED and would be leaving home (and his doting mother) right after Thanksgiving? Very few 18-year olds can imagine a beautiful, married woman being sad, lonely, and desperate for affection. Especially one like me who was utterly clueless about women in general, let alone one as attractive as Michelle Lloyd. To me, it was impossible for her not to be showered with love, attention, and endless affection at home. That just couldn’t happen.

As those first weeks of class came and went, the still-unwanted attention kept coming. And coming. And coming! Rumors began spreading that I was gay because I was ignoring the cutest girls in school. I wasn’t gay, I was just scared to death to talk to any of them.

Sometime in September, the closest thing I had to a friend, Glen, a Mormon kid who was almost as shy and awkward as me, asked if I’d like to meet a girl who was home from Brigham Young University who needed a partner for what he called “Dance Festival.” Her father was ill so she was given a six-week furlough without having to drop out. She just did her work on-line and sent it in from home. I’d visited his church once before but I didn’t care for religion. It wasn’t just his, it was the whole God thing. Because it was church-based, I almost said no until he told me who this girl was. She was two years ahead of me in school and I’d had a crush on her for as long as I could remember. I was both excited and afraid when I agreed to meet her.

Karen Mooreland was, in a word, a babe. That’s the only way to describe her. She was the one girl (other than Mrs. Lloyd) who was the object of most of my masturbatory güvenilir casino fantasies. I knew she had no idea who I was and my hope was that she might actually find me attractive enough to want to ask to be her dance partner.

That was an understatement. Karen was a Mormon but she was also very sexually aggressive. From the moment my friend, Glen, introduced us she grabbed my hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Cal. You’re my partner. End of story!”

I had a hard on the entire time I was with her from that first moment on. She told her friend who brought her to rehearsal that I’d be driving her home that first night and on the way to her parents’ house she said, “Do you wanna to go parking?” I didn’t even know what ‘parking’ meant but I said, “Sure” hoping it was something nice. Was it ever!

We sat and made out for at least an hour and my mouth and jaw were so (wonderfully) sore the next day I could barely eat. On the next “date” we were doing the same thing when she took my hand and put it on her breast. I nearly came in my jeans when she said, “Sometimes, I just really need a cute guy to do that.” We petted and kissed for what seemed like hours before I finally took her home. A few days thereafter, she told me she knew what I needed and reached over and put her hand on my crotch. Before she could even unsnap my Levis 501s, I came all over myself. She didn’t make fun of me but rather said, “That’s okay. Sometimes that happens. We’ll try again later.” And try we did. She gave me my first-ever blow job while driving to Seattle for district dance practice. A week later we were at the drive-in (at her suggestion) and within minutes found ourselves completely undressed. Karen smiled as he caressed one another’s naked bodies and said, “It doesn’t take long for us to get naked, does it?” Moments later she said, “Cal? I wanted you to know I’ve decided I’m willing to do anything for you. Anything at all.”

Later that night, I lost my virginity near a bridge on a country road not too far from the Weyerhaeuser Mill where my dad worked. Before she left to go back to college, I was at least minimally experienced in the ways of pleasing a woman. And more importantly, I gained a small amount of something I’d never had—self confidence. I wasn’t cocky. I wasn’t arrogant. I just stopped being so utterly timid and shy and thank God—I stopped blushing all the time. And once the word spread that I had a girlfriend and a college girlfriend, to boot, most of the flirting and the other attention died down. Hey, he’s NOT gay spread around campus like wildfire. Whew!

I liked Karen. I loved having sex with her, but my real romantic interests lied elsewhere.

So this brings us to the end of October of that year when Mrs. Lloyd gave us the assignment that would later change both of our lives by bringing us together at a time when both of needed someone to make us feel needed, cared for, and special.

“Okay, we’ve written several papers so far and this will be the most challenging assignment yet. I want a 5-10 page paper on the following topic: Who would you most like to spend a day with and why? It doesn’t matter whom you choose as long as you support your choice well. Everything we’ve covered up to now will be graded. Introductory paragraph, transitional sentences, coherence, summary paragraph, etc. It will be due the day before you go on Thanksgiving break.”

Because of my positive experiences with Karen, I felt embolden to put on paper what I’d been feeling about her since I was in her Mythology class. I decided to write a paper about a hypothetical high school senior who had a crush on a hypothetical English teacher. In it, I explained the way this student had always admired this woman not just for external beauty but for the wonderful, caring person she was; for the way she always made this awkward, unattractive young man feel like he mattered—to her. I wrote about the way this young man dreamed of spending just one evening with the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. What would it be like to have dinner with her? To watch a movie together? To just sit and talk? I summarized the paper with a line I hoped would help win her heart: I chose “these are the things dreams are made of” because I she’d said more than once she loved Bogart movies. I’d never seen one but I did know how to use a computer and a search engine.

I carefully laid out how this boy was too shy to ever tell her how beautiful he thought she was let alone the way he admired her taste in fashion and style. It was sophisticated, classy, and even sexy but not what anyone would call pretentious. All those things were true, but this young man didn’t see her like that. Whenever he looked at her, he saw this beautiful person for the kind, loving human being she was. He wasn’t sure why but he often wondered if somehow this lovely girl who gave so much of herself, who was so considerate of others and their needs, might somehow not receive such gifts in return. It seemed unimaginable to him that such a lovely creature could live even one day on this earth without being reminded how beautiful and special she was. And yet couldn’t help but wonder if that same kind of love was missing from her own life. The thought brought him to the brink of despair because he, as well as any other boy, knew the heartbreak of unrequited love. Although he often felt himself unworthy of such love, he believed that this woman, whom he so adored, should have that and so much more.

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