Getting Played

For most guys, any problems we have in life can be traced back to one source—our dicks. Mine’s no exception. It’s all his fault. The bastard’s become finicky. Choosy. Totally pathetic.

Lainey is still the last woman I had sex with.

It’s been months—the longest drought since the night I lost my virginity to Samantha Perkins in the bathroom the night of her senior prom when I was a freshman. There’ve been offers—there always are—Pam Smeason when she came home to visit her parents next door, the receptionist at the car wash, the backup bartender at Houlahan’s with the pouty lips and fantastic rack.

But my dick wouldn’t even raise his head to take a look. Asshole. He’s obsessed with a ghost. A memory.

Even when I jerk off—which has been, like, three squares a day—that bolt of desire doesn’t strike until I think of Lainey. Imagine her sounds from that night—her scent, the clasp of her snug, wet pussy or how gorgeous she looked with her mouth full of my cock.

That last one does it every time.

Screw this—I’m taking matters into my own hands. Or . . . out of my own hand.

We won the game, I’m feeling the rush of sweet, sweet victory—so tonight my dick better get with the program. We’re celebrating. We’re going out and picking up a hot-as-hell woman who can’t wait to rip my clothes off. If past is prologue, finding her won’t take long. Then I’m taking her home and screwing her until I forget my own name.

And more importantly—until I forget Lainey’s.

~ ~ ~

Teachers are a funny breed. We’re social creatures—teaching is a social art—but excluding soldiers in the same foxhole, I don’t think there’s another profession on earth that bonds coworkers together so strongly. Teachers become each other’s support systems, their social network, their closest friends—even if they’re the type of personalities that wouldn’t normally mesh if you didn’t work in the same building.

Also—and this is universal—get a few drinks in a teacher, they spill all kinds of hilarious personal shit.

It’s how I know Lakeside’s creative writing teacher, Alison Bellinger, has a thing for gray-haired dudes. And gym teacher Mark Adams has never done anal. And science teacher Evan Fishler thinks anal was done to him—by aliens. And guidance counselor Jerry Dorfman has hyper-sensitive nipples. And English teacher Peter Duvale has a deeply-rooted fear of the color lime-green.

After the football game, I go home, grab a shower and head to Chubby’s—Lakeside’s local bar. It’s tradition. The students have their beer bashes in the woods or maybe the basement of some upperclassman’s house—the faculty has Chubby’s.

One night that will forever live in infamy, even our principle, Miss McCarthy, and her assistant, Mrs. Cockaburrow, showed up after a particularly hard-won game. Turns out after a couple boilermakers, Mrs. Cockaburrow’s an animal on the karaoke machine—and the woman’s got pipes.

By the time I walk in, the gang’s all there, gathered around a few pushed-together tables in the back. Jerry’s wife, art teacher Donna Merkle, is here along with Kelly Simmons, Alison, Mark and Evan. Garrett was here too—because he’s hella superstitious during football season and would never mess with a tradition—but he only stayed for one beer before heading home to Callie and Will.

I grab a drink from the bar and slide into the empty chair next to Kelly as she texts on her phone, her fingers moving quick and pissed off. I never did hit her up for that hookup. My head—and other body parts—just wasn’t into it. But from the looks of it, the rumor about her troubles in marital paradise might be true.

She slams her phone down on the table and takes a long drink of whatever dark pink fruity concoction is swirling in her glass.

“Problem?” I ask.

“Richard is working late again. I’ve been dropping hints that I’m feeling neglected and he’s playing it off like he doesn’t care.”

Kelly enjoys a good head game, she always did. Acting a certain way to get someone else to act the way you want.

“When you marry someone whose nickname is Dick, you can’t really be surprised when they act accordingly.”

There was a time I was into head games too—when I was young and selfish and an asshole. I’m ashamed to say it was a rush to see how much I could get away with, how much a girl would put up with until she snapped. But I lost interest in games around my third year of college. I guess it was maturity—messing with another person’s emotions didn’t make me feel cool or smart—it just felt shitty. Now raw honesty is my policy.

I take a drag off my beer and focus on more important matters—scanning the bar for the lucky lady who’ll get to ride my face tonight. And I know it when I spot her. Three o’clock, at the bar, long straight dark hair and a sweet bubble ass. Perfect.

I rise from the table and make my move.

This is going to work. I’m going to get off the bench and back on the field. This is going to be awesome.

I lean my arm against the bar beside her. “Can I buy you a drink?”

And then she turns around.

“Coach Walker!”

And my cock keels over like a sad, dying tulip.

Her name is Kasey Brewster. She was a student of mine about ten years ago.

“Hey Kasey, how are you doing?”

Ruby-red lips smile brightly. “I’m great. I’m home visiting my parents. I’m working in the physics department at MIT.”

“Good for you.”

Kasey was always smart. Bubbly. That doesn’t seem to have changed.

“It’s so good to see you. God, you look exactly the same!” She leans forward and puts her hand on my arm. “You know, we all had the biggest crush on you back in the day.”

It happens. When you’re a good-looking, naturally charming teacher, student crushes come with the territory. I typically ignore them, but if things get out of hand I go with the kind but firm, “I’m your teacher and it’s never going to happen” speech. Kasey hid her crush well.

“No kidding?”

“Yeah. The more things change, the more they stay the same.” She wraps her lips meaningfully around the straw in her glass. “Are you married? Seeing anyone?”

“Nope. Still swinging single.”

Her smile grows wider. “You want to get out of here? Go somewhere to get . . . reacquainted? Now that we’re both adults?”

Even if my libido wasn’t a barren wasteland, since Kasey was once my student, in my mind she’ll always be my student—which means she’ll never, ever, be hookup material.

I jerk a thumb over my shoulder and let her down gently. “I’m here with some people. But it was great seeing you, Kasey—I wish you the best in everything you do. Take care, sweetheart.”

Her eyes dim with a hit of disappointment, but she recovers and the smile bounces back.

“I will. You too, Coach Walker.”

As I drag my sorry ass back to the table, Toby Keith is singing from the jukebox about a dream walking one-night stand that he can’t forget.

I feel you, Toby.

When I sit down, my coworkers’ eyes dissect me like a frog in Bio 101.

We’re teachers. This is what we do—read emotions and analyze behavior. If a kid’s on the verge of doing something epically stupid, like pulling the fire alarm or releasing snakes in the girl’s locker room—which actually happened once, because seniors have way too much time on their hands—a good teacher will feel something off in their gut before it happens.

And every person at this table is a good teacher.

Alison cleans the lenses of her bright, yellow framed glasses then pops the question.

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

Merkle leans forward, her wiry red hair spilling over her shoulder. “No, something is definitely up with you—I can smell it. It’s the stench of old cheese and desperation.”

I lift my beer. “Thanks, Donna.”

Kelly points toward the crowded bar. “There are plenty of p

rospects here tonight. If you’re so desperate, get out there and turn on your famous charm.”

I scrub a hand down my face.

“I think I’m having an existential crisis. Is that a thing or just an excuse pussies use when they’re having a bad day?”

“Definitely a thing.” Alison does a little jiggle in her chair. “I love crises—what’s yours?”

Ah, what the hell—I might as well tell them—it’s not like things could get any worse.

I blow out a breath. “Okay. Over the summer, I hooked up with this girl and she was like . . .”

I search my mind for an adequate way to convey all that Lainey was, in a way they’ll understand. My voice goes wispy with awe.

“. . . a Hot Dog Johnny’s hot dog, with everything on it.”

Jerry hums with appreciation, nodding. So does Alison, Kelly, and Mark—they get it.

Donna and Evan don’t—they didn’t graduate from Lakeside.

“What does that mean?” Evan asks.

“Hot Dog Johnny’s is this shabby miracle of a hot dog stand upstate,” Jerry tells him.

“In high school, a bunch of us would go camping in the summer,” Kelly explains. “We’d stop by Hot Dog Johnny’s every time.”

“And once you have a Johnny, there’s no going back,” Mark says.

“They also had great buttermilk,” Alison adds.

Kelly rolls her blue eyes. “You’re the only one who ever liked the buttermilk, Alison. Cause you’re a freak. Who mixes buttermilk with hot dogs?”

Alison is unbothered.

“It was really good buttermilk.”

“Anyway,” I sigh. “Since her, all other women are just—” I grimace “—plain old hot dogs. I don’t have an appetite for any of them.”

Kelly snickers, cause that’s her way. “Player Dean has an unrequited crush? We are witnessing karma in action, people.”