Prologue, sort of.

Hi! I have a story, but first I need to clear, or maybe cloud up the air. There’s a guy who’s been doing a TV show, and who will soon be replacing David Letterman on late night. His name is Steven Colbert, and he invented a word he called ‘truthiness’. By truthiness he meant things that sort of sounded true, but in reality were all nonsense. The story below has an element of ‘truthiness’ to it. It was an idea outlined by a very close female acquaintance; she thought I could do something with it and I always do what I’m told when it comes to women.

I hope you enjoy it, but if you read anything that smacks at all of being political, sexist, or homophobic, or anything like that at all please don’t tear your ass over it, it’s just a story.

One modest admonition: there’s no ‘short version’ for me. If you’re in a hurry please go someplace else.

[Saturday morning in the ‘here and now’.]

Theresa Westcott sat down beside her mom, Elizabeth. It was a little after 6:00 a.m. on a Saturday in June not so long ago. Theresa, her sisters, her brothers, her mom, dad and a whole passel of grandparents would be headed out for St. Paul’s United Methodist in a few hours. Theresa was twenty-two, fresh out of college, and she’d finally landed her ‘man’; yeah, this was her big day.

Mom was just pouring herself a cup of coffee when Theresa asked, “Mind if I have a cup too?”

Mom looked askance at her oldest child, “You sure? In a few hours you’ll be walking down the aisle. You’ll be a nervous wreck as it is.”

“Come on mom, just a little. I want to talk.”

Elizabeth poured her daughter a half cup. Intent on cutting the effects of the caffeine she filled the rest with milk. She handed it across the kitchen table, “I thought we already had ‘that talk’ when you started high school?”

Theresa smiled wistfully, “No not ‘that talk’. I had something else in mind.”

Elizabeth sat down. She glanced at the clock over the refrigerator, “OK, I guess we’ve a few minutes.”

Theresa reached over and squeezed her mom’s hand, “First mom thanks again for letting me use your wedding dress, and I’m glad Marty and I are doing this on you and dad’s anniversary.”

Elizabeth smiled, “It means a lot to us.”

“Mom,” Theresa went on, “I know I’ve heard it before, but could you kind of tell me about you and dad. You know how it all started, how it happened, how you guys managed to get together, and mom, I’m an adult now, don’t pull any punches. OK?”

Elizabeth rubbed the top of her little girl’s hand. She remembered not so long ago holding this now fully grown person in her arms. She’d been so tiny, just six pounds four ounces, “No, sorry honey. That’s stuff’s special, just between me and your dad. You go back upstairs. Maybe someday you’ll want to tell me things.”

Theresa looked at her mom, “Mom.”

“No sugar. You go back and lie down. This is your big day.”

Theresa got up and sullenly trudged her way back upstairs.

Elizabeth got up and freshened her coffee. She listened out. Once she was sure Theresa had gone back to bed she sat back down. ‘Well, well’, she thought, ‘the little girl wants to know what happened’. She remembered they’d told the kids the short version, the PG version, but the long version, no that was just for dad and mom. She reflected, ‘it’d been more than twenty-years now. Twenty-two years; it was like yesterday...

[And so it was]

Elizabeth went back there...

I’d just turned twenty-four. Professionally I was working at Gaithersburg Junior High School. I’d just gotten tenure and was feeling pretty proud of myself. There were no middle schools in those days; everything was junior high, that’s seventh through ninth.

I was certified to teach Spanish, French, and Italian, but since I was still pretty new I got stuck with eighth grade French. Eight graders in those days were just a step away from Australopithecines so I knew I’d have my hands full.

I’d been a ‘wallflower’ all my life. Never dated in high school, missed my junior and senior proms. In college no sorority wanted me. I wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t a legacy, and my family didn’t have any money, but I was smart. I ended up in a dorm with all of what I’d suppose they’d call today the nerdiest girls. They were no coed dorms back then.

Well anyone could figure by the time I started my third year teaching there wasn’t going to be any ‘Prince Charming’; no hero coming around to rescue me. Heck, I was ugly, I dressed poorly, I had no money, I had a whole slew of unflattering names under my belt, never had a boyfriend, and by then I figured I’d wind up an old maid.

If Theresa only knew. I sure wasn’t much to look at; stringy brown hair, bottle cap glasses, and a totally unremarkable face. If someone were to call me plain I would have considered it a compliment. Thank God I never had acne, but my complexion was something akin to dishwater. Everyone knows dishwater; that’s the stuff people drain away after they’re done with the dishes.

Was I sexy? If sexy meant being neither tall nor short, not fat or thin, and a bra size that was too much for a B-cup, but not enough for a C. I was sexy. Actually I was the most eminently forgettable woman anyone ever saw. I mean no one ever remembered my name.

Then it happened. We started school. Like I said it was my third year teaching, and then ‘he’ showed up.

His name was Dillon Westcott. He was almost exactly six feet tall. He had the shaggiest light brown hair, and the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen. He had ‘it’! He was Mr. Charisma. When he walked in that first day it was like the parting of the waters. Jesus he had to be the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

We all found out pretty quickly how old he was; he was twenty-seven, and he was just getting over a horrific divorce. Every unmarried woman in the building started to fantasize about how they’d get his attention and mend his broken heart.

I admit it I lost a lot of sleep those first few professional days dreaming about him. Of course I knew I was just dreaming, but God what a dreamboat! It was my bad luck there were too many unmarried pretty girls in the school. I knew I didn’t stand a chance.

What could I say? There he was, the penultimate example of manliness. Those first couple days I pretended not to notice him. It didn’t matter; he sure didn’t notice me. How could he; him being surrounded by all those beautiful women.

I don’t know for sure, but I had this feeling this would be my last shot. I’d had a few chances before, but I’d always chickened out. Darn it I wanted to be a wife. I wanted to be a mother. I wanted a family. I wanted happiness. I needed to at least try. Call it an old maid’s fantasy, call it intuition, call it premonition, but Dillon somehow looked like the right one. It would take a miracle, but I had to see. Then the first of what I think were several fortuitous incidences occurred.

The school had about five hundred kids who were all distributed on three floors. The principal put the seventh graders on the top floor, the eighth graders on the second floor, and the ninth graders were on the ground floor. Each floor had its grade, and each grade it’s academic and discipline supervisor. Mr. Wonderful, being the new man on the block, was assigned the dreaded eighth grades.

His office was at the end of the hall. My room was three doors down on the right. I knew I couldn’t change the way I looked and I sure couldn’t afford any new clothes so there was no way I could compete with the babes who corralled him every morning. I had to think of something, something that would be different.

Well I wasn’t stupid; I knew there was one thing a man could never ignore, and that was a helpless female. And there I was, the ugly duckling forced to teach French to a bunch of rowdy eighth grade boys. I already said eighth graders were the classic knuckle draggers, but when it came to a hated subject nothing was worse than a foreign language, and no foreign language was more objectionable than French. In French no word sounds the way it looks. Then in terms of discipline I was weak anyway, and my reputation as a weakling preceded me. Oh did it precede me.

Whereas most of the teachers could expect about a two week honeymoon before the clowns started in, I figured I’d be lucky to get two days. There’s an unwritten rule in the public schools; ‘competent teachers’ handled their own discipline problems; only the weak, lame, and lazy sent kids to the office.

I was in and out of luck! In Maryland to get rid of a tenured teacher the administration had to prove absolute stupidity or catch someone in the actual act of a felony murder. I was neither stupid nor felonious, but I knew I’d need help. The key was to get the help and get Mr. Perfect to pay attention to me, but to do it in a way that he wouldn’t hate me or think I was a complete fool.

I was going to be an annoyance no matter what; I just had to do it in some special way where I could gain ‘points’, points I might be able to use to get ‘Mr. Right’. Wasn’t I dreaming?

Now I knew men then and today hate tedious women; they like a compliant cooperative girl. I knew when I started to send my discipline problems to Mr. Westcott I had to be prepared to be castigated and humiliated. I had to accept the trauma of professional degradation, I also had to avoid getting defensive, but I also knew I had to find a way to break through to his masculinity.

Men today don’t like ‘bitchy women, and back then they absolutely didn’t like bitches, but also back then the men, the real men I mean, had an aura of graciousness that wouldn’t allow them beat a woman to death. And so I started to send my first miscreants to Mr. Westcott.

My first ‘bad boys were sent and came back suitably humbled. Mr. Westcott stopped by occasionally, he’d smile, he’d ask after this or that child, he’d inquire about my wellbeing.”

I can remember Mr. Westcott now. I can hear his voice like it was yesterday, “Everything all right Miss Caldwell?”

I’d reply, “Oh yes sir, and thank you for helping me with Connor.”

Then he’d say, “Let me know if you need anything else,”

And I’d reply, “Oh yes sir, and thank you again.” Of course the deal was to put the butter on the bread; keep him pleased. When he stopped to see me I was all smiles. If he glanced my way in hall I always smiled. Sometimes I’d give him a surreptitious little finger wave and mouth a thank you. Men always ate that shit up.

Oh course it came to the day when I’d sent a few too many of the little monsters to his office. I got called on the carpet.

I walked in to the outer office and said to the secretary, ‘I think Mr. Westcott asked to see me.’

The secretary was an older lady. She smiled condescendingly and answered, ‘Yes, I’ll tell him you’re here.’

Naturally I remained standing; the more obsequious the better. After a few pregnant moments, probably to ice me down I got the nod to go in. I went in and stood in front of his desk. There was a student’s chair on my side.

Mr. Westcott nodded toward the chair, “Have a seat Miss Caldwell.”

I sat with my back straight, on the front edge of the seat just like I was at a job interview.

I remember he steepled his hands. He looked down at his copies of all my referrals, “Miss Caldwell you’ve been sending quite a few of your youngsters to the office.”

His statement that they were my youngsters was his message to me they were mine, my problem, and not his to discipline. I looked down and away for a second, then I looked up. I gave him my best innocent little girl look. I’d also unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blouse just before I went in. I knew I didn’t have much ammunition, but I’d use what I had. In a soft insecure voice I replied, “Yes sir, I guess I have.”

I watched him. My response had just the right effect. He felt like a real man, a demi-god. I was his devoted adherent. I believed if I’d done it right I thought I’d get a minimal reprimand and perhaps a lot of empathy.

I was right. He put his hands on his desk. He slid the referrals to the side. He smiled, “You really do need to show a firmer hand.”

This was it; time to move to stage two. I blinked several times. That brought water to my eyes. I knew they looked wet; I could see in his expression he saw the moisture. Men hate to see women cry. I looked as wide eyed as I dared. I touched myself on my chest exactly where the second button was undone. I couldn’t have behaved more self-consciously. I softly murmured, “I’ll do better Mr. Westcott. I promise. I will.”

I got his warm smile. He stood up and extended his arm in an outstretched manner that indicated I should stand, the conference was over. I passed! He told me, “I’m glad we had this talk. I get the feeling you’ll be working harder. I know eighth graders are a challenge, and teaching a foreign language to a bunch of feisty adolescents isn’t the easiest job, but I know you can handle it. I believe in your Miss Caldwell.”

God he had a thin waist and such broad shoulders. And those brown eyes were just adorable! Oh I wanted to run my fingers through that thick tangle of brown hair.

I wasn’t done, not quite yet. He’d sent me the signal to stand and lead him out the door. Not me though, I wasn’t leaving. I waited until he was on my side of the desk. I got up. We were close. Almost touching. I was wearing perfume, a soft but I knew disquieting fragrance. His right hand gently, oh so gently touched my left shoulder. I hesitated. I hesitated just long enough to allow him to fully touch me. I looked up at him, and I gave him my best deer in the headlights look. He smiled again; his hand didn’t leave my arm.

As I left his office I felt I had accomplished a lot more than getting a little help in the classroom. I know I’d stroked his ego. I know he was feeling superior, he was feeling like the sage, the mentor, the benevolent God. Also I knew he saw me as more than just an annoyance. I prayed, I believed I had become more than just another teacher, another employee. I believed I had become a person, a real person, someone he might think about later. Plant a seed, water it, and watch it grow.

Of course the office referrals didn’t stop. A week later I was back in his office for my second conference. This time he was more serious, more demanding, “Miss Caldwell it seems like you’re not doing any better. We’re not seeing the progress we’d hoped for.”

I blinked several times. I had to get the waterworks moving, “I’m trying Mr. Westcott. Really I am. I’ve kept some of the boys after school. I’ve called their homes. I even made them do punishment assignments...”

He interrupted. I expected he would. Even then in those days writing things like sentences had been identified as corporal punishment. Also I’d kept a boy longer than thirty minutes. One boy had missed his bus. I was in trouble.

He gave me a stern look, “We can’t assign punishment assignments. You should know that. You can’t keep them for longer than thirty minutes. Miss Caldwell you’ve got to try harder, and you’ve got to stay within the rules.”

He’d been stern, harsh even. My eyes started to water, “I’m sorry.” It was chancy, but I thought I had him.

He backed off, “Maybe I’ll call the homes on a few of the real hard heads, but you need to come down harder in class.”

I squeezed my hands together. I used the back of my right hand to brush aside a tiny tear, “I’ll try sir.”

He was young. He was a man. He instinctively needed to play the hero. I could see those protective instincts start to emerge, he melted, “Maybe I could stop in once or twice. I could make an informal observation; nothing official, just a ‘look in’ to see how you’re doing.”

I nodded my head. I smiled. I even sniffed, “Oh yes, that would be good. Maybe you could offer a few pointers?” I watched as he opened his notebook to check his schedule. He smiled at his book. Then he looked at me, “Yes I’ll put you down for a time. I won’t tell you when. It will be a surprise.”

I smiled at him like he’d just fixed my car on a snowy night in a dangerous neighborhood, “I’ll make an extra copy of all my lesson plans a week ahead so when you come in you’ll...”

He held up his hand, “You don’t need to do that.”

I didn’t say anything. I just smiled. He and I both knew I’d have copies of all my plans for him. I could see his look of self-satisfaction. I was now more than just a person; I’d become a project!”

This time when he got up to show me out I got up too, but I waited until he was right in front of me. I looked up at him. He was the father, I the child, “Thank you so much Mr. Westcott.”

This time he put his hand lightly on my shoulder. He let it rest there; it felt warm and strong. I’d never really liked anything like this before, but things were different now. This time I’d had three buttons undone. I knew he was checking me out. I wasn’t just a project; I was becoming a ‘sexual person’!”

Two days later he was in my room. I’d set aside a special seat for him in the back. When he came in all the kids got quiet. They knew why he was there. I did too, but I knew other things also.

All week I’d made extra neat and extra thorough lessons. I’d spent some extra money I couldn’t afford on clothes. I’d bought new blouses, dark pleated miniskirts, dark pantyhose, and I’d bought some heeled shoes to show off my calves and my ass. I know I wasn’t much, but I did have a good ass and good legs. I’d changed my hairstyle. My hair was long enough to put in a ponytail. I had a long neck, and with my black glasses I hoped to look like the prim and proper teacher I hoped he’d like.

I used all the weapons I had, and I could tell right away I’d succeeded. He spent more time watching my legs, my swaying pony tail, and my breasts undulate beneath my blouse than he did my teaching. Oh yes I had his attention. I knew he noticed me, not just as a teacher, but as a woman too! More important I knew this observation would require what I wanted more than anything-an after school conference!

That afternoon, right after school I got the news, and it was better than I ever expected. Mr. Westcott wanted to meet with me the next day, after school, and he’d noted he’d come to my room!”

Some people might have said I was being manipulative; I didn’t see it that way. I remember when I was little and my dad tried to make a little extra money by selling encyclopedias? What did he always say? He said he wasn’t manipulating anyone when he talked to them, he was only adding value. That’s all I was doing. I was adding value. The only difference was I wasn’t selling books; I was selling a person, I was selling me!”

I thought about the other teachers. Were they a little envious? Maybe I was skating on thin ice, but so what, it wasn’t like some off campus rendezvous. Besides all the office harassment stuff was still light years away. This wasn’t some tryst. This was a professional meeting. And last, it was still too early. Nobody, that is none of the other women, the pretty ones had a clue about me, and even if they did they would’ve laughed. Remember I was the ugly one. I was under the radar!

I got all ready for our conference. I set up two chairs that would be situated on the corner of my desk. That way we both could put any materials we needed on it. Our knees would almost touch. I got a clipboard and some extra paper so I could take notes. I bought a pretty new light blue blouse that almost exactly matched the shade of my eyes. The blouse had a peter pan collar, but I made sure the top two buttons were undone. I wore my ‘virgin pin’. Virginity still meant a lot back then. I even used some eye shadow and lip gloss. I had my hair in my pony tail. I was ready. The way I was situated I knew he’d get a good look at my best features. I even wore a bra made of extra thin material. The room was cool in the afternoon; maybe my nipples would show through.

When he came in I stood up. He walked over and took his seat. I was his pupil. He was my teacher. I wrote down every suggestion. I smiled at every positive comment. I tried to look apologetic at every criticism. All the while I carefully twisted this way and that. I was posing, and I think he knew it. I think he felt flattered. He sat and talked about my lesson for nearly twenty minutes while I crossed and uncrossed my legs, and then my second miracle happened.”

He changed the subject. He told me where he went to college and a little about the education programs there, and what his qualifications were.”

Then I told him where I went to school. I found out he had a friend who went where I went. Gosh we spent nearly ten minutes just talking about college. He even mentioned his former wife! He mentioned he was divorced! I didn’t push that though, but I did sort of nonchalantly, unconsciously touch the third button of my blouse. I sat stiffly with my knees close together and pushed the hem of my skirt down.

The last thing he said was that he’d be back in a few days to see if I’d followed up on any of his suggestions. I was in heaven! A second observation meant there would be a second after school conference!”

Another new thing started to happen after the conference. I had a specific time I was to eat lunch. I always ate in the teachers’ room in the cafeteria. Mr. Westcott could choose the time and place he could eat. Up until then I never saw him. Then a couple days after our afternoon meeting he appeared in the teacher’s room at my scheduled time. I saw him. He saw me. I smiled, stood up, and pulled out a chair. He was obligated to accept. Suddenly it looked like I had a school time lunch date! And I did.

I wasn’t stupid I had to plan what we’d talk about. Of course I knew the one thing all men liked to talk about-themselves.

Every day we met in the lunchroom. I packed my own lunch. Every night I made something I thought he’d like. I baked brownies. I baked a cherry pie, a bunch of sugar cookies. I even made up some homemade cupcakes!

At first we talked about school; others joined in, but gradually the others got bored when we shifted to what he liked. We talked about NASCAR and football and, ugh, fishing! I tried to find out as much as I could about those things. I checked out books. I asked around. While we talked I tried to act excited. Every chance I got I’d touch his hand or his arm. He liked it. I could tell.

Well the lunchtime thing kept on all through October. I still had discipline problems, and he still made regular visits, and we still had afterschool conferences, but the conferences slowly changed. The days got shorter and the weather turned cooler. Even then the schools were energy conscious so they turned the heat way back after school closed. My classroom was too cool so we shifted our meetings to a little tavern that was only a couple blocks away. It was a quiet little place called the Red Hen.

I’ll say this; it was slow going, but then one night we had a major paradigm shift. We were walking out to our cars. He drove a Pontiac, and I drove a little Ford Falcon. My car wouldn’t start, and I didn’t have Triple A. It didn’t matter. He called a station and they agreed to come out, but it would be a while. It was cold so we sat in his car. It was big, and it had a bench seat. I wasn’t really all that uncomfortable, but I pretended to shiver. The next thing I knew I was right beside him. He had his arm around me. We sat and pretended to talk. He wanted to kiss me. I knew he did. I wanted him to kiss me, but it was a different time; he had to make the first move. He didn’t so I laid my head on his shoulder and we talked about all the places I’d like to see. He talked about all the places he’d been. I was appropriately impressed.

Then it happened. He leaned down and he kissed me. He kissed me right on my left cheek. I knew then. I knew right then and there I had him.

The tow truck came, and they fixed my car. The battery wasn’t connected properly. I drove home that night knowing it was just a question of days before he’d ask me out, and he did.

He asked me to go to the movies with him. We saw a Julie Christie movie. She was young then. Later she played Brad Pitt’s mother in ‘The Trojan War.’ I don’t remember the movie, but I remember getting a pack of Raisinettes. He got a bag of popcorn. Nothing happened that night; in fact nothing happened until it was near Thanksgiving. We’d been out four times; then things turned dark.”

“I said Dark.”

Dillon, I was calling him Dillon when we weren’t at school. He told me he wanted to take me to DC. He wanted to take me to a nice restaurant, get a really good meal, and then go hear the symphony. I of course agreed. Then he went dark. He said he wanted to buy me something to wear. I thought he meant maybe a necklace or a scarf, but he wanted to buy me a dress! Any normal woman would have been offended, ‘Whoa, as in you don’t like my clothes?’ Not me, I was in too deep.

I got the package and I opened it. Inside was a pretty ‘empire style dress, kind of low cut and a mini. There was a pair of matching high heels, a pair of black panties and that was all. I figured he’d either forgotten about things like a bra and pantyhose or he assumed I had that stuff.

What happened next was really scary. He got to my door. I lived in an apartment building. He rang and I opened the door. He seemed surprised but didn’t say anything. We went to a great restaurant called the Embers. It’s gone now, and got a table on the side. As soon as we sat down he said to me, ‘Did I send you a bra and those hose?’

I told him, “No I just...”

He sat back and in a real firm, almost threatening voice he said, “Well take them off.”

I said, “What?”

He said, “Take them off.”

I was surprised. He was scaring me. It didn’t matter. I had to do it. I got up to go to the bathroom to take the things off, but he grabbed my arm and said, “No take them off right here.”

That really scared me. I said, “Here? At the table?”

He said, “Yes.”

I said, “I can’t do that.”

Then he looked around, found our waiter and signaled for him to come over.

I asked him, “What are you doing?”

He said, “If you aren’t going to listen, then the date’s over.”

I was plum terrified! I never expected anything like that. I mean he’d always been so thoughtful. I realized this was some kind of test; a test I knew I needed to pass. By then I was head over heels in love. I’d been maneuvering for two months, but I knew I was the one in the corner. So I told him. I said, “OK. I’ll do it.”

By then the waiter had arrived. Dillon looked at him and said, “Can you bring us a doggy bag?”

The waiter said now or after you eat?”

Dillon said, “No now please.”

The waiter looked confused, but nodded his head and left to get a bag. Dillon looked at me and said, “Well?”

The dress had three quarter length sleeves, and the bra was hooked in the back so it was really hard getting it undone and then pulling it down first through one sleeve and the other. My breasts started slipping around inside the dress top. I was a little afraid one might fall out. I know I was creating quite a little scene. Dillon seemed unperturbed. In fact he was enjoying it. People at some of the tables were watching, but trying not to show it. I got the bra out; it was a white one with lace. Then I had to first pull my panties down, and then, right there in the restaurant I had to pull down the pantyhose. It was unnerving. I had to twist and turn to get the hose down. I was really upset, excited a little too. For a few seconds my bare butt was on the chair, and it was cold. I got my panties back up as fast as I could. Thankfully they were a ‘tap’ cut, more like knickers actually.

Then what happened nearly led me to leave. Dillon told me to neatly fold the pantyhose and the bra and set them on my unfolded napkin. The waiter came over with the bag. Dillon told me to put the bra and pantyhose in the bag and take it across the restaurant and throw it in a small trash container that was by the hostesses stand. I had to get up and walk all the way across the restaurant and throw away my clothes. I had to do it right there in front of everybody. Without the pantyhose my legs felt the draft of the cool restaurant air, and my boobs kept undulating back and forth as I walked. I felt sort of naked and exposed. It was terribly embarrassing. I knew I was blushing. A lot of people were watching. Honestly, it was humiliating.

After that Dillon was a perfect gentleman. We ordered dinner. I got chicken livers. He got a steak. We ate. He left a large gratuity, and then we took the shuttle bus to the concert hall. We had good seats. He was incredibly polite, but I felt really almost naked all night. Without the nylons and the bra I felt terribly self-conscious; I felt like people were watching me all night. I knew they weren’t; it just seemed like it. I think that’s what he wanted to happen.

After the concert we took the shuttle back to where he’d parked his car. I expected he’d take me home. Maybe I’d get a good night kiss, but no it didn’t happen that way. As he helped me in his car he said, “I’m taking you back to my place.”

A normal person would have declined, but this hadn’t been a normal date, and I hadn’t been behaving normally. He had me; I realized it was going to be all or nothing at all, total victory or utter annihilation. I taught French. This was my fantasy. I was Vercingetorix and he was Caesar. I was ‘Roland’ about to face the Moorish hordes! I was Saint Joan! I was Napoleon back from Elba! I nodded my head and murmured, “I’d like that,”