I never thought this would happen to me, but . . .
My teacher, a widow with a chest enormously too big for her blouse, cascading blonde hair that partially covered her eyes, and pouting lips and demeanor, asked me to stay after class was dismissed, to discuss my writing assignment.
Well, naturally I was intrigued and aroused. She tossed her hair and tossed out some compliments on my writing, as she fingered the top button on her blouse. It was half out — I remember that detail very clearly.
She fiddled with the collar of her blouse — which was also loose — linen on snow-white flesh — crossing and uncrossing her legs, even though this was considerably difficult in a pencil-thin skirt. Her high heels, like her fingernails, were fire-engine red, and in constant motion.
We discussed the assignment, and she sent me home. Reality really bites the big one.