Life’s Lectures - Part Two

I could feel his eyes on me. They were burning a hole in my fine knit pink sweater and making me flush, over heat with heart-eyed emojis oozing through my pores (plus a complementary water splash for good measure). Well, what did I expect? I had worn that sweater on purpose, with the pleated skirt, and the cream Mary Janes. I tried to concentrate on whatever the fuck I was pretending to jot down on my notepad, but the sound of my breath quicken became the loudest part of the whole ensemble. Fast-forward ten years and you would have called me Anastacia and him Christian, chapter one.

He made an excuse to stop me as I made a ‘casual’ b-line for the door – the model student (for once), ever so keen to get to my next class. “What are you getting up to over the summer?” Aidan asked, looking me square in the eye. That question had a series of encrypted attachments. I don’t remember my response, but it resulted in my hands trembling as I typed eleven numbers into my pink Samsung (cringe). I could not believe what just happened in my Cher Horowitz attempt to seduce the opposite sex (as if!). My intuition was en point and my hormones were ready to host a public pool party.

I was 19 years old and about to unravel the ultimate school girl fantasy. Aidan was 30, a married man and also my lecturer.

A week later he kissed me in the guitar room during lunch hour, where the ‘normal’ music students were outside smoking joints and arguing about the talent of Kurt Cobain. I had never been kissed like that before, by a grown man.

We finally met in private at the latter end of the summer, he had been struggling to get away, until now. I was so nervous I lost my words and control of myself as he introduced me to an orgasm (the real kind) with one finger. I was so mortified I couldn’t speak on the drive home either. Aidan thought this was cute and hilarious (nice spin on my juvenile antics I thought). When I arrived home to my parents from the [insert made-up story here] I’d been to, I ran in my room closing my door firmly behind me and released a gasp of euphoria. I paused for a moment and thought about his hopeless wife; and my parents none the wiser that I’d lied (probably for the first time ever), but that was no fun. Then there was my boyfriend Jon.

You horrible little bitch.

I felt alive. In the “Not a girl, not yet a woman” transitional (non-sex-change) emotional phase. I was no virgin, having popped that crimson cherry with Jon the year before, but I was ready to be re-born.