I live in Pawhuska, Oklahoma, which you probably never heard of. It is about half way between Ponca City and Bartlesville, if that helps, though you might not have heard of them, either. Bartlesville got put on the map by the Phillips 66 Oil Company, and it has one of the best gun museums in North America in it, but if you’re not into oil products or guns, then you probably still don’t care about Bartlesville.

My point is, I live in the middle of a lot of nowhere, and pretty much nothing happens there.

This is why I was all excited when our marching band got to go on a field trip to New Orleans, Louisiana, where there could be a small (non-high school) marching band around any given corner you happen to be at. I had just turned eighteen and I thought of it as a kind of birthday present that nobody intended to give me.

It was fun and we had some clinics, put on by important musical people in N’awlins, as the people down there pronounce it. There is nothing new in N’awlins. Even the skyscrapers look a little dated.

But that’s not why I’m writing this story. Each evening we got two hours of free time, and got to wander around The French Quarter, Bourbon Street, Jackson Square, and so on, all of which were steeped in age and tradition. We did that, passing up lots of establishments because they were for adults, only. Mostly we’d get a Big Shot Cola and just wander, listening to the music that came from everywhere. It didn’t matter where you were; you could hear music.

One place we could go into was the New Orleans Historic Voodoo Museum, on Dumaine Street.

Marcie Johnson didn’t want to go in, but she was out-voted. She said it would be creepy. She was right. It was creepy. There was a whole bin full of little homemade dolls that had a sign on it that said not to touch them. Marcie said, “They should say don’t put any pins in them.” She thought she was clever. There was one whole wall dedicated to explaining “The Seven African Powers” but I couldn’t read about them because Marcie kept talking, saying things like, “Who cares? We’re not in Africa,” and “Black people in America aren’t even Africans anymore. Not really.” There were some amazingly detailed carvings, in some dark brown and black woods and the signs by them said they were fertility carvings. Marcie had to comment on them, too, snickering and saying that it must be a myth that black men have huge dicks, because the one on the carving she was looking at looked tiny.

You might wonder why I’m mentioning Marcie Johnson so much, but she’s the whole reason what happened to me happened to me. Because she was so annoying, when we left the museum, when they went right, I went left. I needed some alone time to get her simpering voice out of my head.

So that’s why I was alone when I saw an alley that goes northeast, toward St. Phillips St. I decided to go into it because I could see some little stores down in it and thought it looked interesting. About halfway along it there was this one little store, called Mamma Amelia’s Bones, which doesn’t have anything to do with the Bones family in Harry Potter, though every time I’ve ever told this story to someone that’s what they think.

Anyway, the sign over the door was faded and looked like it might fall off the wall any second, but the windows were clean and full of stuff. It was so odd looking that I went in. As soon as I got in there I knew it was a strange place. There was all kinds of crap all over the walls and on shelves. I saw a stuffed frog, riding a little wooden motorcycle that had “Harley Davidson” scrawled on the side. It was a real frog and its back legs were straddling the toy motorcycle and its front arms were on little high rise handlebars made of wire. It had to have been preserved, or taxidermized or whatever with this very pose in mind, and somehow they had blown the frog’s body full of air so it was almost round. It was freaky. Next to that was a little clay jar with a big cork stopper that had “Deadly Farts” written on the side in professional lettering. Down the way was a little diorama, I think you call it, where somebody had taken a big twig off a tree and stuck it into a wooden base, so it looked like a little tree, itself. And there was a little figure hanging from one branch of the “tree” and the face of this little figure had crosses where the eyes were supposed to be. The meaning was obvious.

I started seeing some things like I had seen at the Historic Voodoo Museum and then I came to a set of shelves that had patterns and paints that could be used to make up your face like people do on the Day of the Dead in Mexico. I later found out that kind of thing is popular in New Orleans on other occasions, too. Anyway, it made me think of the fall festival at school, which combines Thanksgiving and Halloween, as odd as that sounds. I had been trying to think of a costume to wear in school on the day of the dance and I thought this Day of the Dead thing might work.

I was kind of sifting through this stuff when I heard a noise and turned to see a wizened, little old woman standing behind a counter. On top of this counter was one of those big, antique cash registers, where the keys make little numbers pop up in a window the customer can see. The thing looked huge next to the woman, who couldn’t have been an inch over five feet tall. She had to be standing on a box or crate for me to be able to see the front of her dress.

So she says, “How can I help you, young man?” in this voice that sounded like papers rubbing together in the wind.

“I saw your sign and came in because I was curious,” I admitted.

“Ahhh. I see. And what is it you desire?”

“I’m Just looking. I don’t really want anything.”

“No, not want. What do you desire?”

I laughed.

“This isn’t that TV show called Lucifer,” I said. I thought I was clever ... probably like Marcie Johnson thinks she’s clever.

“And you know this how?” The old lady tilted her head and peered at me. I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

“Okay. I don’t know it isn’t.” I grinned, uncomfortably. “I just need an idea for a costume.”

“You still haven’t told me what you desire,” she said. “Tell me your desire and I will help you obtain it.”

Okay. Enough was enough.

“All right. What I desire is to get in the panties of Mrs. Jefferson, the Geometry teacher at my school,” I said. “That’s what I desire. Can you get that for me?”

I thought that would shock her, but she didn’t seem fazed at all.

“Perhaps,” said the woman. She reached under the counter and came up with a small, blue bottle, which she held up. I leaned forward to read the label.

It said, “Love Potion #9”.

I laughed again.

“I see we have moved from Television series to Oldie Goldie classics,” I said.

“You must put just two drops of this in her food or drink, and then make sure you are the first person she looks at after it goes into her mouth.”

The old woman stared at me. She seemed entirely serious.

“I don’t believe you,” I said.

There. Gauntlet thrown down.

“Then do not buy it,” she said. She put the bottle back under the counter.

You know that feeling they try to portray in movies where the teenager is about to go through a door everybody knows she should not go through? Yeah, suddenly I felt like that.

“Thanks anyway,” I said.

I eventually found paints and a pattern to make myself up like a skull. I also got a big black magic marker to draw rib bones on an old white T shirt I had.

I paid her and she rang it up on that old cash register, which worked just fine.

Then I scooted.

For the rest of the day I couldn’t get the old lady out of my mind. I even told Ronny Thompson about her and the dead frog and the love potion. He laughed, too.

“You should have bought it,” he said. “If nothing else you could put it on your shelf. How many people can say they have a little bottle of Love Potion Number Nine?” He laughed again. “You could even show it to Mrs. Jefferson and tell her why you got it. You might get lucky. Her husband has been in prison for two years. She has to be getting horny by now.”

I was tired of him laughing so I went to get something to eat.

That night I dreamed about Mrs. Jefferson.

Said teacher is in her middle to late twenties. Pawhuska High is her first job. Everybody likes her. She’s always smiling and upbeat, even though her husband fucked up and drove drunk and ran over an old man on one of those handicapped scooter things. The old man didn’t make it. It was her husband’s third offense and the judge threw the book at him. So there she is, gorgeous, a cheerleader in her previous high school and college life and still fit enough to do the stunts they do. She’s even an advisor to the Husky cheerleaders. So, anyway, she has long light brown hair, kind of between blonde and brown, and it comes clear down past her shoulder blades when it’s down. She usually wears it up, in one of those high ponytails that bounce a lot when the woman walks. That’s not all that bounces, if she’s wearing an old bra. She’s got big knockers and a slim waist and nice round hips. She’s got a great ass, too. I’m a boob man, but if I watch her walk away I’m really happy too.

So her husband has served two years of a twelve year sentence and the relatives of the old man sued her, but the judge said she wasn’t at fault, which was good because they wanted a million dollars.

I tell all this to show how hard it must be for her to smile so much and be so positive. I have a thing for her not just because she’s so gorgeous and sexy, but because she has such a great attitude, too.

So, in this dream, I had a bottle of the love potion and for some strange reason she and I were out to dinner. I spiked her wine and we had sex. There were a whole lot more details than that, but when I woke up I couldn’t remember them for more than about thirty seconds. I had morning wood when I woke up, but it didn’t go down after I peed, because I was thinking about the dream.

We were there for four days. The Band Boosters had paid for the transportation and two of the three nights of the stay. We had a big bake sale, and a car wash, but with only 2,900 people in the town population, our parents still had to fork out for most of one night in the hotel. We were really lucky to be able to go at all. Personally I think one of the boosters is rich from oil money or something, because it was a zing dinger of a bill.

I found Mamma Amelia’s Bones on the third day, which meant I had that dream on the third and last night. The next day was Saturday and we had the last clinic that morning. We were supposed to have our luggage at the bus by four P.M. and the bus was supposed to leave at five. It was a twelve hour trip and our parents had been told to pick us up at the school around five A.M. Sunday morning.

Our luggage was already being stored in a room at the hotel, because we had to be out of our rooms by eleven. So our last chance to be tourists was between lunch and four.

It was two-thirty before I couldn’t take it anymore. All I could think about was that little bottle she had showed me. I knew it was stupid. I knew a “potion” like that was fake. I knew I’d never be out at dinner with Mrs. Jefferson. But it was like something was driving me nuts and once I left N’awlins, I’d never get back there. When you live in a place like Pawhuska, New Orleans is like another country.

So I went back. I almost ran.

And when I got there, the door was locked.

I looked at my watch. It was two-forty-five. I peered through the window in the door where the hours of operation were. It was faded, but it said they were open on Saturday until four P. M.

I knocked on the door.

Nothing happened.

I rattled the door knob.

Still nothing.

I felt panic, and then I felt stupid. It was a hoax and I was panicked over it? Give me a break.

I turned to leave and knocked over Mamma Amelia ... or whoever she was. She’d had a sack in her arms and that went flying. Her groceries went everywhere. I was mortified and must have apologized ten times as I helped her up and helped gather her groceries.

She unlocked the door and I said I was sorry one last time before I turned to leave.

“Young man!” came her raspy voice. I turned to face her. “You came for what you desire ... yes?”

Now that was just spooky. Did she remember me? I had told her I wasn’t interested.

“Come inside,” she said.

I followed her and she went to a thick, black curtain at the back of the store. Before she went through it, she peered at me and said, “Wait.”

It was a command, which seemed silly coming from a tiny, old woman, but I waited. When she came back she went behind the counter. She got up on her box and reached to put the little blue bottle on the glass top, right beside the cash register.

“This will get you what you desire,” she said.

I swallowed.

“How much is it?” I asked.

“For you?” She squinted. “It is free.”

“What? Why? I knocked you over and made you spill your things.”

“You did,” she said, sagely, “but you also helped me up and helped me pick up my groceries. You were polite. Most young people your age would have laughed and left me on the ground.”

“Well, I was just trying to be nice after I almost killed you,” I said.

She smiled and it looked wrong on her face, like she never smiled, and this was a manufactured smile.

“Even if you tried, you could not kill me,” she said, softly. “Now. Take it and go. It’s time for me to close and you need to go meet the others to return to your home.”

I swallowed again. How the fuck did she know I was going home? How did she know I was going to meet others?

I reached for the bottle. It felt warm in my hand, like it had come out of a hot car in the summertime.

The old lady just watched me, until finally, I stumbled to the door, with one last, “Thank you. I’m sorry.” I was suddenly in sunshine and was blinded, for a few seconds. I heard a loud clicking sound and didn’t have to try the door to know it was locked.

I think I walked funny the rest of the day, trying to make sure I didn’t bump into anything, or fall or do something to hurt my little bottle of Love Potion #9, in my pocket.

I couldn’t relax until I was on the bus, leaning against the window, and it started rolling out of the city.

Back home I put the bottle on the shelf where I have my trophies. Don’t be impressed. There are only two of them. One is for second place in the four hundred at the track meet we had last year when I was a junior. I twisted my ankle as I slowed down after the finish and after that I could never run fast again. The other trophy is for a bowling tournament I was in when I was twelve. That was another field trip, to Tulsa, which has five or six bowling alleys. Gutter balls were the norm that day, and seeing pins knocked down was cause for extreme celebration. I got first place with 79 pins. Yay. I’ll be able to brag about that to get girls when I go to college.

And there the little blue bottle sat for three weeks until the Fall festival finally got there. I got up early on Friday and applied my paints. I had already done up the shirt. I thought it turned out pretty awesome and I was eager to get to school.

There were five Spidermen there, that day. There were two Supermen and three Supergirls. There were six zombies. Randy Dawes is the quarterback of the football team and he put out the word that he was the only one allowed to dress up like Thor. That’s kind of stupid because, while our mascot is called Thor, he’s a husky they put in an orange shirt for games. So Randy was dressed like a mythical god, pretending to be a dog?

Anyway, there was only one Day of the Dead skeleton in school that day, and I got a ton of attention. It felt good. Mrs. Jefferson even commented on it.

“That’s a fabulous costume, Chuck,” she said. She smiled and my knees got a little weak.

So it was a good day, all in all.

But the best part of the day was when my best friend, Phil Olson, mentioned that Mrs. Jefferson had signed up to be a chaperone for the dance that night.

I hadn’t planned on going to the dance, but I changed my mind.

And before I left home to go, I slipped my little bottle of Love Potion #9 in my pocket.

And yes, I know I was being an idiot, who had ridiculous expectations, or at least the hope of expectations.

But I had nothing to lose, now did I?

It was dark in the gym, whether by intent or just because they didn’t have all the game lights on. I looked around and saw some of the same kids in the same costumes. Lots of them had just ditched the costume and come in regular clothes. I saw Mrs. Jefferson standing at the drinks table, probably guarding the punch bowl so nobody could spike it. I had this errant thought about dumping the whole bottle in the punch and then watching as multiple people drank. I tried to imagine an orgy, but since I’ve never seen anybody naked it was hard. Well, I’ve seen the guys naked in the locker room, but none of them had boners. If you want to be laughed at your whole life (assuming you stay in that town), get a boner in the locker room while it’s filled with other guys.

Even though I couldn’t imagine a big orgy, my mind was stuck on “sex”. That isn’t odd. Teenage boys think about sex all the time. And dances like this was where a girl could be a little daring and not get called on the carpet for it. So I was ogling some of the girls as I walked around.

I ended up by the punch bowl, of course.

Mrs. Jefferson was not in costume. She had on a dress made of, I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s really light and moves like a flag in even a slight breeze. It hugged her tits close and then went into a tiny waist before swelling out where her hips were. It was hot and she was fanning her face with a piece of brown cardboard, like might have been torn from the flap of a box. Her hair was down and it flowed down her back.

And I got an instant boner.

“Do you want some punch?” she asked, with a smile.

“Um ... I guess so,” I managed to say.

She dipped the big, clear ladle in the frothy pink fluid and it dripped as she lifted it and put a plastic “fancy” cup under it. I swear I didn’t do it on purpose, but I imagined my penis, dripping like that as it was right beside the pussy lips I’d seen at a porn site online as I jacked off before I came to the dance.

Of course I jacked off before I came to the dance. The second most embarrassing thing in the world, after getting a stiffy in the locker room, is getting one that you can’t hide at a function like this. It leads to people saying things like, “Look at Carson! He thinks he’s going to get lucky tonight!” and everybody knowing there isn’t a chance in hell of that, since you don’t have a girlfriend.

“I particularly love your costume,” said the woman of my dreams. “It’s very original and you look really scary.”

“Don’t be scared,” I croaked.

She laughed. I had never heard her laugh before. She smiles all the time, but I hadn’t seen her laugh. It was amazing.

“Are you dangerous, Chuck?” she asked, with a grin.

“Not to you,” I said, without thinking about it, first.

“I feel relieved,” she said, still joking.

She had a little name tag on just above her left breast, which gave me a reason to lean forward and get close to her boob.

It read “Linda Lee Danvers.”

If you’re not a geek, that is Supergirl’s alter ego.

“You should have worn the costume,” I said, thoughtlessly. “I bet you’d look amazing in it.”

“Why, Chuck, are you actually flirting with a teacher?”

“No, Ma’am,” I said, knowing that was the right answer. “I just read lots of comics and sometimes you imagine people you know in those roles.”

I felt stupid, and then said something stupid.

“If I was flirting with you I’d ask you to dance.”

She looked me dead in the eye, with no hint of a smile, and said, “That would be completely inappropriate, Mister Carson.”

“I know,” I said, weakly.

“But thank you for the compliment,” she said, looking out at the dance floor. “Just don’t tell anybody we had this conversation. Why aren’t you dancing with your girlfriend?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I said.

“That’s odd,” she said, looking back at me. “I don’t see anything wrong with you.”

“I’m kind of shy around girls,” I said.

“Now I’m even more flattered,” she said. “You’re not being shy around me at all, and I’m a girl.”

“Not even close,” I blurted.

She stared at me again and then said, “Do you want to become my assistant for a little while? Your costume is amazing and lots of people should see it.”

“Sure!” I said.

My boner did not go down. If anything it stiffened even more and dripped, like the punch ladle did each time you pulled it out of the punch. The table hid my shame, however. Actually, I shouldn’t have felt shame. Standing next to her I kept getting whiffs of perfume and women put perfume on to smell good on purpose, right? To men, right? And like she hadn’t put it on for me, but I was getting the benefit of it and she didn’t mind that.

“Can you handle this while I go potty?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said. “Fly safely.”

She stared at me and then smiled.

“I’ll fly low,” she said.

So she left, and I spiked the shit out of the punch in the glass she had been sipping from since I got there. By “the shit out of” I mean I put in more than two drops Mamma Amelia said was the proper dose. It was probably more like six or seven drops. I hastily screwed the cap back on and shoved the bottle in my pocket.

Then she came back, smiling like always.

“Did you miss me?” she teased.

“The EMT’s treated me and said I’d be okay,” I quipped. I do not know where this bravery came from. All I was thinking about was watching her and that cup. I couldn’t just shove it at her and say, “Drink this and look at me,” of course. And when she did finally pick the cup up and sip it, I felt terror grip my heart because I barked, “Mrs. Jefferson! Look at me!” The terror was because I was sure it wasn’t going to work and I’d look stupid.

But she swallowed as she looked at me and then she frowned.

“This is very odd,” she said.

“What is odd?” I asked.

“I’m ... missing my husband quite a lot, right now and...”

She kept staring at me.

“And what?” I asked.

“I suddenly feel very affectionate toward you. I know I shouldn’t, but I do, and I think it’s because I miss my husband so much.”

“I’m sorry he’s in jail,” I said. “What would you do if he was here?”

She didn’t yell at me for asking improper questions.

She just said, “When the dance is over I’ll show you.”

I cannot convey how crazy it felt to follow Emily Jefferson through the darkness to the back door of her house, and then into the house.

Before she even turned a light on she whirled and hugged me. Her lips came down on mine and I suddenly realized I didn’t know how to kiss a woman. I had kissed five or six girls, but those were pretty much all the girls who went on dates, so they got taken on dates by every guy. They wouldn’t let you do much because none of them wanted to be stuck in Pawhuska, Oklahoma because they got pregnant.

She pulled back and breathed, “You’re a virgin, aren’t you, Chuck?”

“Uh huh,” I panted.

“I can tell by the way you kiss. I’m really excited to be able to do this with a virgin. I’m going to teach you so many things.”

Then she commenced to teach me to kiss.

She did not tell me to go wipe the paint off my face. She was not in a hurry. Maybe that’s because it was a Friday night and she knew she could catch up on missed sleep the next day. Or maybe it was because this was like getting a special dessert for her and she wanted to take her time and enjoy each and every bite.

We had been there in the dark at least ten minutes before she started taking her clothes off.

“It’s so hot in here,” she complained, as she reached behind her and did something to the dress that made it slide down off her shoulders onto her wrists. My eyes had adjusted to the dark, which wasn’t completely dark because her neighbor had a yard light that bathed the back of her house in light. Her white bra stood out like a sore thumb.

She stopped.

“Aren’t you hot, too?” she asked.

I’m not stupid. I was freaked out, but not stupid. So I pulled my bone T shirt over my head and pushed my jeans down. She reached behind her again and I saw the whiteness of her bra move as if it had its own power. It dropped on the floor beside the dress she had kicked there.

Now the paleness where her chest was comprised naked boobs, which flabbergasted me. I tried to take a step forward to see better and tripped on my jeans, which were still around my ankles. I went down and yelled, but I wasn’t actually hurt.

Then she was there, right next to me, and I could smell whatever perfume she was wearing and feel the heat of her body. She helped me up and there were her boobs, right there in living black and white.

She squatted and helped me get my shoes off and my feet out of the jeans. Then, just like that, she pulled my briefs down and exposed something no woman had ever seen.

“Oh, good. You’re hard,” she breathed.

Then, Mrs. Emily Jefferson, my dream lover, pushed her face forward and sucked my dick.

“Stop crying, Chuck. You’re young and you’ll be hard again very soon.”

I was sitting on her couch, still in the dark, both of us naked, after she sucked me for maybe fifteen seconds before she leaned back and said, “You taste good. I hoped you would.”

I, on the other hand, was mortified and I’ll blame it on the shock, but I started bawling like a baby. I was telling her how sorry I was as she pulled me deeper into the house, abandoning our clothes by the back door. When she sat us down she hugged me and comforted me, like the baby I felt like I was.

“We have all night, Honey. We’re going to do this all night. I’ll help you last longer. I don’t care how many times you cum. I’m going to teach you how to help me cum and I promise you, it isn’t going to take much. I haven’t been this excited since ... ever!”

She pulled me to a set of stairs and then up and into her bedroom. The lights came on and I was blinded.

“So much potential,” she said. My eyes adjusted a bit and I got my first good look at Mrs. Jefferson, naked.

I got a boner almost immediately. I mean it just popped up, like it had a mind of its own.

“See?” she said. “Now we can have more fun.”

It wasn’t until I was on my back and her boiling hot pussy was clenching my cock, that she just sat there and looked down at me.

“Why am I doing this, Chuck?” Her internal muscles squeezed my penis. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” she added.

I didn’t say anything.

“I’ve always liked you,” she said. “But not like this. I can’t help myself. I have to have you. I’m elated I get to have you, even if this is completely wrong.”

She started moving and put her hands on my chest. She leaned down to kiss me, just a peck, and said, “I’m about to cum all over your beautiful cock.”

Then those internal muscles went wild and I lost it again, shooting off inside her. It was insane!

She groaned and moaned and when she was calm again, she kissed me again.

“I’m married,” she whined.

“I know,” I said, finally able to speak.

“But I want you so much!” she moaned.

“I want you, too,” I said, like the idiot I am.

“My husband never made me feel like this,” she said, sitting back up. “Do I need to suck you again to get you hard?”

Long story short, Emily Jefferson got my penis in her pussy for a heck of a lot of the night. I got hard and then soft and then hard again five times, which was an all-time record for me. It turned out she had super sensitive nipples and if I sucked them and rubbed her clit (she showed me where it was) a little, she could get off two or three times in a row. That gave me a little time to recover.

Eventually, though, we were exhausted and fell asleep.

Mamma Amelia neglected to inform me that the effects of Love Potion #9 begin to fade away after about twelve hours.

Which is why Emily was completely freaked out when she woke up and my paint-smeared face was right there beside her, in her bed.

Then she realized she was naked. And so was I.

And then her body told her, somehow, that she’d had sex.

“I thought it was a dream,” she gasped.

I realized she was no longer under “my spell”, and that I was going to have a heck of a lot of explaining to do or she’d call the cops and tell them I drugged and raped her.

Which, I have to admit, I sort of did. I mean she was super willing, but only because she was drugged. So was she actually willing?

My own values were catching up to me, too. What I had done was wrong, plain and simple. Things had moved so fast that everything got out of control. But she told me I was going home with her and she took the reins from then on. She was the one in control ... except my drug was controlling her.