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I'm not a pervert. Everybody fantasizes now and then. They say it's healthy, a natural part of being human, equally prevalent among members of both sexes.
Just think back to the last TV show you watched. Weren't there some cute guys on it? Maybe a few hot girls? Seriously, that's why we watch half the stuff we do: for the eye candy. And what about the last time you went out for dinner? Or to the beach? Don't tell me you didn't spot an attractive member or two of the human race out there. You'd be blind not to notice. God made us sexual creatures, after all.
But I've got to admit, I might take it to the extreme every now and then. Instead of spotting a solid hunk and going "Hey Veronica, look at that beefcake. Ain't he a cool sip of lemonade?" I usually launch immediately into fantasies where the said hunk is shirtless with broad, well-defined pects and a ribbed abdomen, tanned by the sun (not a spray bottle), and he's either gazing deeply into my eyes while giving me a foot massage, or we're already in the throes of some hard and heavy primal mating rituals.
The thing is, they never notice me staring—or, on occasion, drooling a little bit. I'm one of those girls who blends into the surroundings, you see. Five foot two, maybe twenty pounds over the Vogue limit, freckled and easily sunburned. Those are my better qualities. I won't go into how often I have to wax my forearms, my upper lip, and between my eyebrows to keep them in line. I'm pretty sure my dad was part Wookie, and I apparently inherited most of his genes.
I work in the front office of Oak Valley High School, pride of Temecula, California. Let me tell you, there are some pretty awesome-looking studs who pass through here on a regular basis. Not students—OMG no! I told you I'm not a pervert. That wouldn't even be legal. I'm easily ten years older than most of them. I mean the coaching staff, and one in particular. Mmm-mmm, good.
Did I mention that my daytime fantasies often turn into dreams that carry me through the night? That's when I really do my heavy drooling, right into the pillow, sopping wet by the time I wake up in the morning. Some of my most memorable encounters occur in my dreams when I have the whole bed to myself and eight hours or more to really let my fantasies run wild.
"You like that, Veronica?"
I jolt upright at my desk and stare at Coach Williams. Goodness, he is a tall drink of ice tea on a hot day. He teaches P.E. for the freshmen and sophomore boys, and he's in charge of our JV basketball team. I've seen him out there running laps with the kids—isn't that cool? He doesn't just stand there with a clipboard and bark orders at them; he goes through the drills right along with them. And oh my yes, he and I have spent plenty of nights together, let me tell you.
In my dreams.
He smiles down at me with those naturally white teeth, a stark contrast to his natural tan. Everything about him is completely God-given, from his wide shoulders to the way his chest muscles stretch that turquoise microfiber polo shirt with our school logo on it.
"Hello?" I sound pathetic.
His smile broadens as he chuckles. "You look like you're really enjoying your work." He gestures at the spreadsheet in front of me, the one I should be updating, but I'm goggling at him instead.
"Oh no. Not this." I shrug. "No..."
I want to ask him, "Is there something I can do for you?" but I'm afraid it will come out like it did in my dream last night, the one where he breathed into my ear, You like that, Veronica?
And then I start sweating, because that's exactly what he said just a moment ago! Is it possible we share some kind of extra-sensory connection? Does he somehow know I've been fantasizing about him? And now he's come to me—
"Got a minute?" He leans against the wall beside my desk.
For you? I have forever! But I would never say that outside of my bedroom, alone in the dark. "Yes, Coach Williams—"
"Alan."
"Okay?" I cringe. What's wrong with me today? I've got to calm down. He can't possibly know that I spent most of the night with him naked, swinging in a hammock on a Caribbean coastline...
Get a grip, Veronica.
"I was wondering if you could check on my sick days—how many I've got left."
"Are you feeling under the weather?" My fingers fly over the keyboard, but my eyes remain on Alan.
"Uh—you might want to close that first." He's looking at my screen.
The spreadsheet. I've managed to overwrite three of the cells with complete gibberish.
"Sick days. Right." I close out the program without saving it, and Alan sharply draws in his breath. "That's okay, I'll take care of it later." He blinks and nods as I open another file. "Sick days, sick days. All right Coach Williams, it looks to me that you have four remaining. Would you like me to fill out the STAR for you?" (Staff Time Away Request.)
You're a STAR, he told me last night. My cheeks heat up, all the way to the ends of my ears.
"You're a star," he tells me now, and he winks like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "Could you make it for this Friday?"
I'm pretty sure I'm staring again. And I might be drooling just a little. "This Friday?" I nod, but then I frown. "You already know you're going to be sick?"
Another wink. He leans onto my desk, muscles rippling under that beautiful shirt. What I wouldn't give to see him tear it off right here, right now. "You gonna tell?"
"No?" There I go again with that annoying interrogative inflection at the end.
"Good girl." He half-turns to glance over his shoulder, and his biceps flex. "Glad to know I have at least one ally around here."
He's being silly. "Everybody loves Coach Williams." I know I sure do. My fingers do their thing on the keyboard, this time filling out his STAR for Friday, and I split my attention between the screen and the Greek god before me.
He winces a little. "That might be about to change."
"Oh?" I swallow. My fingers slow down. Will he take me right here on my desk, consequences be damned?
"Yeah." He's leaning again, and his smile has left the building. He gazes down at the industrial carpet between his sneakers. "You know Autumn Hayes?"
The name doesn't ring a bell. But then again, I'm more familiar with guys' names, the ones I probably gasp in my sleep: Brad (Pitt), Ryan (Gosling), Matthew (McConaughey), etc.
"She's eighteen, but I doubt it'll make much difference," he mutters.
Autumn Hayes. Of course I remember. She was the only senior who didn't walk at graduation last year. She's had to repeat most of her 2nd semester classes this fall.
"A student?" My fingers have stopped altogether. The STAR form sits on the screen half-filled.
Alan blows out a sigh and nods, bracing both arms against my desk and arching his back, hanging his head now. "It won't look good, I know. But we—I didn't do anything wrong."
"You..." I can't find the right words. They all sound too crude. "You screwed a student? I thought I knew you!" But no, of course I don't say that. "Do you love her?" Nope, not that either. "I mean..."
"She's a legal adult, you know." He fixes me with those gorgeous blues, but they're icy now. "You get that, right?"
Do I? Well, let me see. A solid hunk like him can't get enough action with women his own age—like me, for instance—so he's got to go trawling Oak Valley High for barely legal seniors? Interfering with their education? Getting them pregnant before they even have a chance to make a life for themselves? Putting them on welfare with a bright future full of food stamps?
Maybe I'm just letting my imagination get the best of me. But as you can probably tell by now, that's something I excel at.
I close out the STAR form without saving it.
"Hey—" Coach Williams points at the screen open-mouthed.
"You'll have to go through HR for this. I can't in good conscience submit a form for a sick day in advance, not when you appear to be in perfect health." Believe it or not, those are the exact words than came streaming out of my mouth. Not bad, eh?
He stands up straight like his spine has turned to iron. His features are slack, his eyes dull now. Nothing at all like the Adonis I spent last night with.
Without a word, he turns on his heel and exits the office.
And I'm pretty sure that's the last I'll see of him. In my dreams, at least.