Page 103 of Try Me

“They’ll wait for me.” He nipped my earlobe and unzipped my fly with his other hand.

“So cocky.”

He turned me around, curled my fingers over the sink, and took me right there in the kitchen, fast and dirty, his fingers digging into my thighs as he filled me before manhandling me back around and lowering to his knees. I saw stars and it wasn’t even eight in the morning. When he kissed me goodbye, I tasted myself, and my dick gave a half-hearted twitch at the idea of us going to work like that, with lingering remnants of each other. Four years, and I still couldn’t get enough of him, proving that I’d been right all along. It turned out that it wasn’t the thing to fear that I’d thought it was, though. It was never enough at the same time it was completely fulfilling. I supposed that was one of the paradoxes of love. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“Don’t forget, five at Stead Park.”

Chet paused in the doorway and grinned. “Hope you’re ready to get whupped.”

He said it every time, and sometimes he was even right. We’d kept up our weekly games. No matter who won, it always ended up with us sweaty in bed, or on the floor, or in the kitchen, the bathroom, the hallway. Sometimes the car. But today my anticipation was ratcheted up more than usual.

A half hour later, I pulled into the parking lot of Elmwood High and flipped down the visor mirror, checking myself over. Carrie had gotten in my head about high school kids, and I worried I was going to bomb. Then I flipped the visor up and steeled my balls because fuck it, I was doing exactly what I wanted to do, and I’d had plenty of experience dealing with kids by now. I’d loafed around for the first semester of senior year at the U, trying to figure out what the fuck I was doing, going around and around in my head between finance and law. But I kept coming back to history. It was Chet who’d given me the final push one night when we were lying in his room.

“Stop fighting it, Farrow. You already know what you want to do, so what’s the deal? Teaching history isn’t as high-profile?” I didn’t even have to say it; he could read it in my expression and grinned. “Forget that. Remember eighth grade history class with Mr. Norton? I didn’t even have to try in that class. God, he was so hot, I swear I remembered every word that came out of his mouth that year because I couldn’t stop staring at it.”

“You thought he was hot?”

Chet nodded.

I remembered Mr. Norton more for how engaging he’d been than his attractiveness. I’d assumed he was middle-aged—anything beyond high school had seemed old back then. Shit, he’d probably actually been in his midtwenties like me.

Chet had shoved me onto my back and straddled me. “You know I’ll love you whether you’re a CEO or mixing shakes at Slurpy’s. I just want you to do something that makes you happy. Not gonna lie, though, I’ve got a hard-core teacher fetish, and I solemnly promise to let you practice disciplining me as often as necessary.”

It took me one extra semester to bump up my minor in history to a dual major in finance and history, a year to get my teaching certificate, and another year of student teaching. Chet and I had practiced all sorts of “disciplining” techniques. Unsurprisingly, he enjoyed the role of unruly student.

But today was my first day with my own classroom in a public high school, and I felt the weight of it as I stared up at the gargantuan red brick facade.

I picked up my phone when it chimed.

Chet:You’re going to slay. Now get out of the car and walk inside.

Mark:It creeps me out when you do that.

Chet:Love you, too. Go.

He’d been wrong before. His predictions weren’t always perfect, but more often than not, he was right. It was as annoying as it was endearing. I chuckled to myself as I got out of the car and locked it behind me. I was just tucking my phone away when it chimed again.

Mom:Good luck on your first day, sweetie. I’ll be thinking of you.

Mark:Thanks, Ma. Talk soon.

No message from my dad, but that wasn’t surprising. It wasn’t his style. We’d settled into a kind of functional acceptance of each other from a distance. We were polite, sometimes even conversational, and his begrudging acceptance of Chet had morphed into something approaching congenial over time. We probably weren’t ever going to have the kind of relationship my mom and I had, or even the kind Chet had with his own dad, and that was fine. Not everything fell into place in life, but enough had that I didn’t miss the things that hadn’t.

After the bell, the first students filed into the room. The class clown immediately made his presence known. I’d discovered this pattern while student teaching, and the day-one clowns were usually easier to manage than the ones who revealed themselves more slowly.

The guy dropped his book bag on the floor loudly and promptly lay his head on the desk and pretended to snore.

I considered him a moment, hands in my pockets while the class tittered in the background, then went to the window and yanked up the blinds next to his desk.

“Awww, c’mon, man, it’s not even nine yet. I can’t stay awake for this shit.”

I shrugged. “Then go sit at the back so I don’t get jealous. I was up at 5:00 a.m.”

He cocked his head at me, like he was unsure whether or not I was fucking with him, then stood, hitching his backpack over his shoulder as he rose to his full height. He had a few inches on me, and he stared down at me like he wanted to make sure I knew it.

“How tall are you?” I asked.

“Six four.”