His skin. It was his goddamn skin. We couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop licking it. Sucking on it. Wanting it. Stealing him in gulps.A fifteen-year-old boy. Made of dirt, and sun, and trees older than both of us. Isn’t that what we all wanted to be? What we all should want to be?

 

And so – in a way – he was more human than the rest of us. Folding little secrets into the dirt beneath his fingernails, under scabs that hugged his knees. 

 

How could he not know – know that he owned what we wanted? Truth. Absence of need. Wholeness.

 

His was fifteen. Cary was thirty, I was thirty-two. We had been high school teachers for about eight years. Had dozens of boys come onto us. And sure, in the beginning (admittedly even still) it was flattering. Every now and then, we’d even indulge one of them with a stare that lasted too long. But we were much more interested in the boys our age. (And believe me, they were definitely still boys – just taller, and with more girth. And less love.)

 

Sam was different. He didn’t know how wanted he was, how perfect he was. How much power he held. He held all of our secrets – yours, and mine, and the stranger you don’t even know exists. He was covered in so much life. Life chose him because he was safe – because he would never understand what he carried.

 

He looked like his father. We saw his father once. We dropped Sam off at home. Down the block so no one would see. Cary said it wasn’t a big deal – that we should give him a ride, because he really was a sweet kid, not like the rest of the immature little assholes he hung out with.

 

And so we drove him home. Cary took the long way. (I knew. Sam did not.) I said nothing. Only stared at his jeans – jeans that he hadn’t washed for days because “it wasn’t a big deal.” Just the sight of his thighs – imagining him in tighty-whities (because he would definitely wear tighty-whities) – was enough to make me wet. 

 

Cary was much more cavalier about it. Joking with him as though they were peers. Talking about girls in his grade. And how Kevin Janis had a small penis, which is why he overcompensated in football. Sam knew. He had seen Kevin naked in the shower after practice. 

 

When we pulled up to the curb, Cary leaned over Sam to open the passenger door. She didn’t need to. (I knew. Sam did not.) Her face passed over his, leaving her chest at eye level. Her breasts momentarily grazed the top layer of his white t-shirt. I saw him get hard. It was subtle. I said nothing. I don’t even think he really noticed – not enough for him to think Cary did it intentionally, or even that we noticed. (Believe me, we noticed.) I would have gone down on him right then. Just imaging him in my mouth made me tight. I almost couldn’t stand it. But only seconds were passing.

 

I wished he didn’t have to go. 

 

How could I be thinking any of this? We were his teachers! We were supposed to guide him along life and show him how to acquire the things he wanted in order to become whole. And yet, all I could think of was taking him inside of me. Showing him how good I could make him feel. Not letting him understand how much I needed him. How much I was really taking from him. 

 

He’ll become a good looking man one day. But Cary and I won’t be around then. We’ll be in jail by then. But we’ll still long for him. This boy we defiled because his skin so goddamn beautiful.

 

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