The senior end-of-year dance was coming up, and I inserted myself into the planning committee long enough to serve as an official liaison and ask Mr. So I put my mind into creating the perfect plan: I’d just have to present him with an opportunity he couldn’t say no to. I’m going to have to be the one to do something. He’d get in too much trouble, I reasoned. But understandably, he never did anything more than cast a lingering glance my way. Once I entered his classroom in a dress that particularly accentuated my curves and I could have sworn I heard him groan. Fitzpatrick certainly noticed when I wore something low-cut or a little more form-fitting. Fitzpatrick.Īt first, I thought I could be subtle. And so I became consumed with the idea of hooking up with Mr. Surely I should make a move, if the consequences of being rebuffed were so low? What could they do? I was almost gone. When graduation was only a few weeks away, I felt bolder. I didn’t ask, but I was sure my increased interest in him was one of those byproducts he was talking about. The text was thrilling, I was in a constant state of suspense and I held myself to not reading ahead, and being completely present in class when he talked about the role adrenaline plays in our bodies physiological state as we read. The week he spent on, The Haunting of Hill House, was one of the most oddly erotic of my life. I spend the 50 minute class period imagining his lips - his teeth - on my neck, finding me in secret, lusting after my “life force” as Stoker says. ![]() Even in the clinical, fluorescent-lit classroom it was sexual. When he taught Dracula he became brooding and obsessive, delving into each character. But his charm was undeniable, who else could make the classics so sexy? Every day when he taught his inflection would bounce up and down with passion as he taught us about Bram Stoker and Shirley Jackson. I’d tried to pretend I wasn’t one of them before, it’s not interesting to have the same crush as everyone else. He was the new cute teacher this year, the one the girls whispered about between classes. When he perched on the edge of his desk reading from The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, I let my eyes wander up and down his body, imaging a new use for each part. ![]() But I still had unfinished business here, and today he was wearing a black tie over a light blue button-up and jeans that were just snug enough to drive my imagination wild. Glued to my seat even in the late, late spring when my classmates were terminally zoned out, focused on graduation, the summer ahead of them, college. He was the high school english teacher I hopelessly crushed on, and I couldn’t help but notice that his eyes lingered on me when he said the second word. ![]() Fitzpatrick taught us were part of every gothic horror novel. “Blood, sex, and death.” Those were the three things Mr.
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