I have a confession to make. I will not attend my daughter’s parent-teacher conferences this year. In the spirit of full disclosure to all of you, I didn’t attend last year, either.
I am aware that I won’t be winning a Mom-Of-The-Year award any time soon. I don’t even give a shit about it. More disclosure: my daughter’s teacher is a fucking hottie and I can’t handle the idea of being alone in a room with him for ten minutes.
Writing that down on digital paper makes me feel like the world’s most pathetic, lame-assed moron but I can’t help it. When I envision myself sitting down to a parent-teacher conference with this gorgeous beast of a man, I’m overcome by a paralyzing fear that I will turn into a babbling idiot or worse—that I won’t be able to wipe the lustful grin off of my face as soon as his eyes meet mine.
Heaven help me if he were to ever shake my sweaty hand, I think I would die. Or at the very least, come in my pants.
Tall and athletic, he is devastatingly charismatic and he walks down the hall with a stride so effortlessly sexy that it appears to be some sort of primal mating dance. I can only imagine what those chiseled hips are capable of when they’ve been freed from the confines of his dress pants, but I’d give anything to find out. He is only a few years younger than myself and I generally prefer older men (I’m looking at you, Mr. Superintendent), but that doesn’t stop me from feeling anxious flutters in the pit of my stomach every time I see hottie teacher at school.
While we’ve hardly ever spoken anything beyond a brief “Howya doing?” as we pass each other in the hallway, his sarcastic wit is equal to my own. I know this for a fact not just because my daughter tells me so, but because I’m in the school building on a fairly regular basis. I volunteer for way too many things and while I normally appear to be thoroughly engrossed in whatever mundane task lies in front of me, my ears and sidelong glances keep my radar finely tuned to his presence should he come within a radius of 100 feet.
The first and only time we ever had an actual conversation with one another took place a couple of years ago. I was sitting in the library alone, reading a book on my Kindle when he approached. He stopped and stood about five feet away from me as I felt my nipples involuntarily harden under my shirt. I wondered if he noticed and subconsciously hoped that he did. I can’t recall much of anything we said to each other during our momentary interaction—he was searching for something and unfortunately did not invite himself to ravage my willing body right there on the table—but he thanked me anyway and called me “sweetheart” as he left the room. Like the quintessential protagonist in a trashy paperback bodice-ripper, I swooned. He strikes me as the type who probably says that kind of thing to all the girls; many women would deem it a derogatory and sexist term but I thought it was completely fucking adorable. The beating wings from the storm of butterflies within my abdomen wholeheartedly agreed.
My infatuation runs deeply. He’s so cute it literally makes me want to puke. It even makes me want to write haikus:
He’s so fucking hot
it makes me want to throw up
Our eyes meet and… BLAAARRRRRRGH!
I have my doubts that he even knows who I am. Or perhaps he does. He might think I’m weird because I stand out among the crowd of typical parents at the school. Or maybe… maybe he thinks that’s awesome. I have no idea and I probably never will.
All I do know for sure is that I fantasize about him. Often. I can tell he works out; I guess he has to since he’s involved with the athletic department outside of school. It’s probably a law or something. Regardless, he looks amazing and I would fuck him fifty ways from Sunday if ever I was given the opportunity. The things I envision doing to him, with him, would make you blush.
I honestly don’t know how my daughter handles sitting in his classroom five days a week, but she did it last year and she’ll do it again this year. She loves his class and always receives a good grade so thankfully I don’t feel compelled to make myself attend a conference with him. I’ve got another kid coming through his class in about two years’ time who is a kick-ass student so he shouldn’t expect to see me at parent-teacher conferences then, either.
I, on the other hand, will be seeing plenty of him in my lasciviously indecent, imagined scenarios at night.