The Art Teacher

“So,” asked John, speaking for the boys, “now it’s our turn to select the pose, right?”

“Yes,” I replied softly while standing before them naked, my left hand barely covering my private area and my right arm across my breasts. “Now you get to pick the pose.”

How, you might ask, did I come to find myself in this most embarrassing situation? Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

My name is Amy Parker, and I’m a high school teacher in a small town in the Midwest. I grew up in the South with a loving family, one younger brother. I wanted to experience life away from the safe cocoon of my family and my upbringing and so I decided to leave the South and attend a university in a big city in the Midwest. It was perfect for me, and I really loved the wholesome, casual nature of Midwesterners.

If you looked at me, even today – an athletic blond - you’d think that I had been a cheerleader, but I wasn’t. I’m pretty sure I could have made the squad. I had been a really good gymnast in high school so the routines would have been easy for me, but it left me with little time for anything else.

I elected not to pursue gymnastics in college. My favorite uncle had jokingly said to me when he heard I was going off to college, “Don’t let your studies interfere with your education!” I guess I thought the same way about my sport. It had required almost total dedication, and I was looking to broaden my experiences, not limit them. Not long after I stopped the strenuous training, I noticed two things: my period became regular, and my breasts started to grow.

It surprised me to find that what I missed the most from gymnastics was the adoration. Our meets in high school had huge audiences, mostly boys. They were not all there because of their love of the sport! I guess I’m a bit of a showoff – aren’t most of us? I crave the feelings that come from being in the spotlight.

I loved my time in high school. I had begun to develop as a person. But I hadn’t been able to explore my sexuality. My sport had left me with little time for boys. When I left for college, I had been kissed but was still a virgin.

My first year in college was a blur. I quickly got familiar with my new surroundings and routine: living in the freshman dorm, attending class, finding time to study, football games, fraternity parties, and I even had a few dates. During spring semester, I befriended some boys from one of my classes, and we went on several group outings, but nothing romantic came from any of it.

There was one memorable event that did happened with the boys. One Sunday afternoon just before the end of the spring semester our group was at a fraternity house party. There was a pool table in the rec room and one of the boys challenged me to a game of Eight Ball. He didn’t know that I grew up with a pool table in our basement and regularly beat my little brother. My small frame well disguised my athleticism. I accepted his challenge and let him go first. A few minutes later I was first to pocket all of my balls and just needed to sink the eight ball to win the game.

I had left myself with a difficult shot – I needed to send the cue ball on just the right line and with enough speed to knock the eight ball into the near-by side pocket. But, hit too hard, the cue ball would reach the corner pocket. If it fell in I would lose - I had little margin for error.

As I chalked my cue stick in preparation for the shot, I looked at my opponent. He was cute and normally confident - I had flirted with him before. But now he looked uneasy - he had challenged a better player, and he knew it.

I loved the feeling I got from competition but accompanying it this time was an ill-timed feeling of acquiescence. For just the briefest of moments I considered missing the shot on purpose. I wondered where that thought came from, quickly shook it from my head, took the shot and pocketed the eight ball - the cue ball stopping inches from the corner pocket. I had won.

This event was memorable for me because it marked the first time I felt the desire to be subservient to a potential mate. I would feel this desire many times in the years to come, and one day, I would allow it to guide my behavior.

Meanwhile the semester ended and I headed back home for the summer – still a virgin. That summer, my slender frame started to fill out, and I noticed the boys becoming more attentive. I welcomed the change and hoped it would continue!

Just before heading back to school, my favorite uncle asked me what was going to study. “I’m planning on a double major: Art and French Literature,” I proudly announced, feeling like the world was my oyster.

“Hmmm,” was his response. Then he added, “Let me tell you the way things work, Amy. After graduation the architect asks how the building will function, and the engineer asks how the device will work, and the banker asks how much is needed to fund the project, and the liberal arts major asks, ‘Did you want fries with that?’”

I thought his comments were funny, then considered my own situation and decided I needed a back-up plan. As soon as I got back to school for my sophomore year, I made an appointment to talk with my faculty advisor.

My faculty advisor, Professor William Stanton, was an older man who was one of the kindest, neatest men I’d ever met. He had a great sense of humor and could talk comfortably with anyone. You could tell he had been cool his entire life. When I got to my appointment, he was sitting at the large oak desk in his office and beckoned me to come in.

The building had two corner offices that looked out onto the campus. The Chair of the Department had one; Professor Stanton had the other. Both offices had great views of the campus and of old brick walkways lined with trees that seemed to be watching over the students as they moved with youthful purpose.

In the corner of Professor Stanton’s office, near one of the drape lined windows, was a small sofa that looked too comfortable for just sitting, but too short for a good nap. Books were randomly arranged on the large coffee table and on the bookshelves that lined every spare wall. It looked comfortable and lived-in and should have; Professor Stanton had been in this office for 10 years; before that he was 15 years in a nice office in the middle of the hallway, and before that he was in the small office by the staircase. In that office he only had room for a desk, one bookshelf, and a small chair for visitors. I knew all this because he had shared this with me during our first two visits.

Professor Stanton was a senior tenured professor, no longer required to advise student – that was a job for the junior professors. But he still wanted to do it – wanted to stay connected – liked knowing what his students were thinking. I was glad to have been assigned to him.

There was a comfortable chair in front of his desk, and he asked me to take a familiar seat as he rose to greet me. Then he began, “Amy Parker, as always it is good to see you. Since you requested this meeting I’m guessing that something is bothering you. What is it and what can I do to help?”

I shared my concern about the job market, and he asked, “What about adding a minor in education? There is always a need for teachers. You only need to take a few education electives and add a couple of extra courses; you could do that fairly easily.”

“No offense, Professor Stanton, but I’m not sure I ever want to teach.”

“No offense taken, Amy Parker. You need to be honest with yourself here. There is no point having a back-up plan that you’d never want to execute. Would it surprise you to learn that I felt the same way when I first started to teach?”

“Yes, it would,” I responded. “You are a natural!”

“You are kind to say that. But it took several years for me to appreciate my choice. But once I did, I realized that teaching was a rewarding and honorable profession. You have what it takes to be a great teacher, Amy Parker. You are empathetic, you have a thirst for knowledge, and a love of the truth. I think you should consider it.”

I thanked Professor Stanton for his encouragement and took his advice – I added a minor in education. The next three years required a lot of study.

When I wasn’t going steady, there were many opportunities for dating – I just was seriously turned off by anyone who came off as immature, and I absolutely hated getting “hit on.” I guess the only thing that might have been worse was a boyfriend who didn’t try anything. And that’s where I found myself in 2011 when I posed for my four students, but more about that later.

It was early in my junior year that I realized that my body had become my superpower. My trim, athletic gymnast’s frame had filled out, and I enjoyed the attention it was getting. Boys seemed to be drawn to me because of my looks. I didn’t understand why people were so enamored with physical attributes. Little 5’4” me held a power over most men that surprised me.

I noticed that men like to see a cute girl with narrow hips, a slender waist, and a nice bust. It seemed few men could resist me in a simple sundress - it left my athletic limbs exposed and showcased my trim figure. And fewer men yet could resist me in a bikini – especially my red one – where the thin fabric stuck to me like a second skin. I expected I would be irresistible with NO clothes, but when I graduated college, only my two college boyfriends had seen me that way. I was hoping that would soon change.