Fucking Mrs. McKinley

Most of my friends have two or three crazy stories to tell. One of them fucked a co-worker in the employee bathroom while the manager thought they were moving freight. Another guy had a threesome—a goddamn threesome—in the high school band hall. I remember being surprised that people actually did that sort of thing outside of porn.

I’ve only had one sexual encounter that was really anything to brag about, and the cruel irony is that it’s something I can’t brag about. People could lose jobs. A marriage and a childhood could be ruined. So congratulations, reader. Seven years of not being able to relay this story to my closest friends has led to it being posted anonymously online.

Because the teacher involved in this story has a very unique last name, I’ll be replacing it with a more common one. I’m changing my name as well, but that’s less paranoia and more of a personal choice. I’ve never written anything like this before, so I’d like to apologize in advance if the pacing is weird. I tend to ramble.

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I was the weird kid growing up. Not all of it was my fault, but regardless of how many of the kindergarten rumors were true, I was stuck with them. Most of the specifics faded over time, but the residual “that guy’s weird” remained. I tell you this to give a little context. I became the quiet guy who sits in the back of class and doesn’t speak unless spoken to, and that’s how I went through most of my high school career. Theater Arts was the only exception.

If you asked the principal, Theater Arts was the class that taught acting, improvisation, shit like that. If you asked a student, it was the class everyone wanted to take, mostly thanks to Mrs. McKinley. No, she wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous with huge tits and a tiny waist. Think of a more “girl next door” look, then age it up to thirty or so. Round face, cute features with dark brown hair, not particularly skinny but nowhere near big enough to have rolls, just curves. She was attractive for a teacher, but not the one the guys talked or fantasized about. No, people took Theater Arts—myself included—because it was a blowoff class. We didn’t do a goddamn thing in that class. There were literally couches in one corner of the room, under the guise of “a place to read and rehearse more comfortably.” Mrs. McKinley was the type of teacher to pass out books, then turn around and tell us to be ready to pretend to be reading if the principal poked his head in the door.

I figured out pretty early on that she and I shared a sense of humor, which is probably why hers was the one class where I actually talked pretty often. Cracked jokes, had a good time, basically acted like the opposite of what I was in the rest of my classes. I honestly think that was what led to the events that followed, but I’ve never come right out and asked her.

See, the principal wasn’t an idiot, and neither was Mrs. McKinley. She knew that he’d catch on eventually, so in order to avoid that, she had to look busy. She set time aside to work with students on Theater Arts-y stuff. The students knew the tutoring sessions didn’t matter, but as long as both parties played along with the rouse, everyone would stay happy. It was during one of these one-on-one sessions that things took an unexpected turn. (Again, this happened seven years ago, so understand that the dialogue is only approximate.)

“So, Tyler. You’re great at improv. The things you come up with are unique, and your timing especially is great.” She paused for a second, and I could feel the “but” coming a mile away.
“But, you can’t handle anything else.