Getting Played (Getting Some 2)

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.”