As soon as I enter the room I want to fuck someone. A kaleidoscope of colors and words assaults me.

While other students filter to their seats, I’m bewitched by a canopy of poetry scribbled in bad penmanship on all the walls and ceiling. A banner of Blake reads:

The unfolding of the imagination is the only true education.

The bell rings and a buck-toothed dancer in pink tights and high-waisted tweed shorts brushes past me hurrying to her desk. I scan the room for a seat and find one near the back corner underneath a verse of Poe.

While I’m reading the wall, Tom Dillon walks through the door in a white t-shirt, ripped Levi’s and clunky motorcycle boots, duct tape holding the soles and buckles digging canyons into the leather.

 

We make eye contact and time goes all gooey while he walks to his desk, a desk I long to mount. Instead, he climbs atop, the desk, not me, unfortunately, and roars, “I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.”

Ok, maybe I don’t want to fuck him. Maybe he’s just a dork who watched Rebel Without a Cause orEasy Rider one too many times. Maybe he won those boots off an East Side Rider in a back-alley gambling ring. My dad once won a 1969 Jose Ramirez classical guitar in a poker game.

Mr. Dillon pounds his chest, another yawp I presume, but I’m not really sure because I’m no longer listening. I’m watching his mouth, the way it puckers when he comes to the end of a phrase.

He reminds me of a rooster my grandparents once had who used to chase the dogs with his chest puffed out.

“Full of hot air,” my Grandpa used to say before the IRS killed him.

I look around to see if any of the other kids in my class are buying what Mr. Dillon’s selling. Three inky-haired goth girls wiggle their asses in their seats, and the boy next to me wearing a shredded Day-Glo jacket and oversized rhinestone earrings checks out Mr. Dillon’s package.

It is a nice package, I note. Nothing like a dick in Levi’s. I can imagine the boxers underneath. Probably light blue. Maybe striped. I sneak my hand into the cotton hole; feel the steamy warmth, the flesh of the balls, warm and soft, like fresh baked dinner rolls.

“Stop staring,” the boy next to me snaps.

“You’re the one who was staring. I was just trying to figure out what you were staring at.”

He scoots closer. “He’s fucking hot, don’t you think?”

I glance over at Mr. Dillon possessed by the Whitman rant.

“His teeth are kinda small,” I break. I don’t want to be one more groupie.

“You’re fucking crazy,” my Day-Glo pal snipes. “You can’t tell me you’d kick him out of bed.”

“Eh,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders like he’s no big deal.

Mr. Dillon seems enraptured by the poem, but I can’t help wondering what the big fucking deal is with Whitman and why Mr. Dillon seems so moved by him.

Or is he? Maybe he’s just another poser sycophant teacher who wants to ride the clock and fuck all the little girls. He keeps reading:

I think I could turn and live with animals,

They’re so placid and self contain’d,

I stand and look at them long and long

They do not sweat and whine about their condition,

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,

They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God…

Though I don’t want to, I love him. His small teeth. His big feet. The way he colors his world with bright hues. The way he smirks when he gets to the end of a stanza.

I’d never loved a teacher before. Some of the girls in junior high were crazy about Mr. Nuggins, but I thought he had a big butt. There were also rumors at my last high school that Mr. Millie raped a student, but then that student was expelled, so I gathered it was all bullshit.

My earliest teachers were nuns with nose hairs and halitosis. Not very fuckable nuns. Not like Julie Andrews or anything. Except Sister Brigettte; she was pretty, even if she didn’t wash her hands all the time. They always smelled of cigars and shrimp.

When I switched to public school after my parents divorced, I spent most of my time practicing my super powers to turn invisible, so I didn’t pay too much attention to my teachers, which worked out great because they didn’t pay too much attention to me, either.

“I heard he’s fucking Amy Wattingen,” my new friend purrs, pulling me out of myself.

“Who’s Amy Wattingen?” I ask, scanning the room of fluttering eyelashes.

Day-Glo examines his navy blue nails for chips. “Oh, she’s in regular English,” whispering the word like it was pedophilia or cancer.

“Is she pretty?” I ask, regretting it immediately. I sound jealous.

I am jealous.

“She’s tall and thin,” he laments, sucking in his cheeks like a New York junkie. “Go ahead and hate her. I do.”

I turn to my book, ashamed of myself. Ashamed that I’m jealous of a girl I don’t know. Ashamed that I love a man I don’t know. Ashamed that at the end of the day I’m just like everyone else, falling for some scruffy boots and a line of poetry. Not like he wrote the goddamned poem. 

I didn’t want to be like everyone else, so I vowed to fall out of love with Mr. Dillon immediately. Love was a choice, and I would simply make another. But as he climbed off his desk, I noticed a small hole in the crotch of his jeans. Though but a fleeting glance, what I saw made time stop and go all gooey again. 

Mr. Dillon wasn’t wearing underwear. No boxers. No briefs. No tighty whities.

Blake me now.

 

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When she isn't making movies or music, DUCKY WILSON serves as a spy for the Bokonon Underground Army, living by the foma that makes her brave and kind and healthy and happy. Her poetry has been published in several literary magazines, none of which you've ever read, and her nonfiction work can be read exclusively on The Nervous Breakdown. Currently, she is in development on her next film, an offbeat musical about misfits looking to belong.

One response to “A Thousand Words: Blake Me Now”

  1. ducky says:

    Comment by Zara Potts
    2009-09-04 22:03:27
    Ha! Funny.
    I never loved any of my teachers. It didn’t matter how good looking they were, I thought they were all jerks.
    I can’t believe the hole in his jeans didn’t put you off immediately!

    Reply to this comment

    Comment by Ducky
    2009-09-05 04:42:07
    Oh, that hole unfolded my teenage imagination in ways I’m sure Mr. Dillon hadn’t intended. Lately, I’ve thought about going up to the school to see how he’s aged. Just out of curiosity. Probably because I’m working on a series of stories about high school. It’s taken me 20 years to revisit that stuff as a writer.

    Reply to this comment

    Comment by sheree
    2009-09-05 10:52:05
    Excellent story. Loved this: “He reminds me of a rooster my grandparents once had who used to chase the dogs with his chest puffed out”.

    Nothing like a young man cutting a strut across a yard. Feeling all set with himself. There’s a Grand Funk Railroad “Inside looking Out 1969″ video on youtube that shows one struttin muthafucker at 3:13 to the end…

    Reply to this comment

    Comment by oksana marafioti
    2009-09-05 11:27:42
    Ducky, I hope you’re either a famous published author already, or are on your way to becoming one, because this stuff is brilliant!

    Reply to this comment

    Comment by Ducky
    2009-09-05 13:13:29
    Ah, you’re too kind. Wouldn’t mind being published. An advance would be even better.

    Reply to this comment

    Comment by oksana marafioti
    2009-09-05 14:34:19
    Well, I got one of those, and let me tell you, it’s nothing to brag about. Remember that old line, ‘don’t quit your day job’? It definitely applies. You have talent and that counts for a lot.

    (Comments wont nest below this level)

    Comment by Ducky
    2009-09-05 18:29:22
    Thanks. I appreciate that. And I’d never quit my day job. Love it too much.

    Reply here

    Comment by Simon Smithson
    2009-09-05 13:48:36
    Ah, it was Ms. Leong for me. Other kids had a thing for Ms. Rowlands (and she was a looker, make no mistake… she ended up marrying a previous student from some years ago), many found Ms. Mulcahy the best reason to come to school, and one kid from Hong Kong wrote a love letter to Ms. Cotton (it didn’t work out how he’d hoped).

    But that Ms. Leong… in Year 12, I had a twenty dollar bet running with a friend that I could sleep with her by the end of the year. And then she moved to Malaysia halfway through the year.

    Reply to this comment

    Comment by Ducky
    2009-09-05 18:30:45
    There’s still time. Look up old Ms. Leong and take her a bottle of mezcal.

    Reply to this comment

    Comment by Simon Smithson
    2009-09-06 16:34:08
    Don’t think I haven’t tried.

    (Comments wont nest below this level)
    Reply here

    Comment by jmb
    2009-09-05 16:51:57
    Ducky Wilson is the nom de plume of Janette Oke.

    Reply to this comment

    Comment by Ducky
    2009-09-05 18:31:28
    Ha! You caught me.

    Reply to this comment

    Comment by Kimberly M. Wetherell
    2009-09-06 07:13:53
    There isn’t a nun alive who looks like Julie Andrews or Audrey Hepburn. They’re all, instead, of Mary Wikes variety – all cigars and shrimp. (genius!)

    Nothing like a dick in Levi’s

    Truer words were ne’er penned.

    Reply to this comment

    Comment by Kimberly M. Wetherell
    2009-09-06 09:07:11
    That was meant to have read “…of the Mary Wilkes variety…”

    Reply to this comment

    Comment by Ducky Wilson
    2009-09-06 10:56:11
    Thanks Mama! No nuns like Andrews. Too true. But why do they all have to have nose hairs? Why! Is it a sin to tweeze? Or wax! Can you please send them your short!

    Reply to this comment

    Comment by Marni Grossman
    2009-09-07 11:00:27
    There’s nothing as sexy as someone with both power and intellect. Hence the “hot-for-teacher” phenomenon. I’ve been there.

    Reply to this comment

    Comment by Ducky
    2009-09-07 19:16:16
    Concurred. But you only get a few teachers like Mr. Dillon. He really was an exceptional one, his hotness aside.

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