Big Hands and a Warm Heart
I remember a teacher from high school who taught me about lust and loss
A while back, I wrote a story called Teacher’s New Toy about one of my old high school teachers taking my virginity and sharing me with his friends. It was pure fantasy about a real person, but while we had a flirtatious relationship when I was in his class, it was still a relatively appropriate one.
He called me my first year of college, and we had a somewhat less appropriate conversation, but it never went anywhere. In some ways, it’s easier to look back and fantasize about it than it was at the time. I was full of emotions and hormones topped off with confusion. My sexuality was exciting and terrifying, and he was handsome and kind, and I was uncertain of everything.
When an old high school friend visited from out of town a few weeks ago, I brought it up. He remembered the teacher and some of the context around it, and then out of the blue, he told me that our old mentor had passed away a few years ago. It took me by surprise because he was young and still very much alive in my fantasy life.
But I looked it up, and it was true, and it left a profound sense of loss somewhere within me. Because aside from our flirtations, he was also a good listener. And he gave me space, unlike many other gay men, to define my sexuality as bi and to be exactly where I was without knowing the answers.
I suspect that he fantasized about fucking me as much as I fantasized about him, especially if our last phone call was any indication. And it leaves me in a strange world where together we had a relationship of sorts, each in our heads, where I’m sure we did all kinds of sordid things.
If I fantasized about coming out to him in his car before leaning in and pulling him hard from his jeans, he thought of pushing me down, giving in to his aching desire as he felt my teenage lips around him. And if I picture him taking me into the dark behind the theater curtains where he fucked me hard from behind with a hand over my mouth to make sure we didn’t get caught, he wondered how tight I would feel as he sank into me, forcing his thick cock into my virgin hole until he pumped me full of come.
I’m not sure I can say I’m honoring his memory. Not that it matters, I suppose. But maybe, just maybe, it lets me feel closer to someone who left such a significant impact on my formative years.
Would I have respected him if he had pushed and broken that sacred boundary? Would I have been frightened if he had flirted harder, leered more blatantly, and let me know how much he wanted me? And would I have regretted following through, taking him into my mouth, and feeling his hands in my hair as I sucked cock for the very first time?
The questions don’t matter. The past doesn’t matter either. But tonight, as I sit in the dark and picture his big hands and his rough chin, wondering what it would have been like to kiss him, it’s as if somehow he’s still here.
And that’s worth holding onto, even if for only a moment.
I miss you, Mr. M. You were always in my heart. And tonight, I’ll picture you one more time and let my dreams take me away to that world where we were not so cautious.
And it will be beautiful.
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