Abe Lipschitz
Ah, eighteen. It was a good year for me. From the start of it, I was looking toward the setting sun of my senior year. I remember that first morning being eligible to vote like it was yesterday. Momsy woke me up like she usually did, gently putting her hand on my shoulder and offering me a nice hot cup of decaffeinated coffee. Telling me that she was proud to be the mother of the most handsomest boy in Virginia Beach. She’d been especially pleased that I was carrying a C+ average and had a perfect attendance record that semester! Weight Training, P.E., and Drama were a breeze per ush’, and if I worked hard enough the last few weeks? I could bring my grade up in Family & Consumer Sciences and come out with a B- overall!
The only problem was that while that particular class was the reason I decided to be in school everyday, my grade was about to be in jeopardy. In the second week of class, Mrs. Woods started the process of going back to being Ms. Denhart after 24 years of marriage. I immediately circled May 4 on my agenda the day she’d broken down in tears in front of us. Technically, it was already circled since that was my birthday, but now it was double-circled. This would be the day I’d finally shoot my shot. I’d be an adult. She’d be an adult (still). We’d both be adults.
Those next few months, I earned my black belt in the ancient Japanese art of patience. As the weeks went by, Mrs. Woods began to ever so subtly show her new found freedom. Replacing the Calgon body spray with fancy scents purchased at the Perfumania outlet store. Light blue denim from Target were traded for boot cut jeans in a variety of summery colors found exclusively at Old Navy. (I liked the persimmon ones the best.) And the hottest thing of all? She’d cleaned out their joint bank account to splurge on a brand new Honda CRV: the hybrid version. Her only child had started college two years ago and she had no pets – what did she need all that extra space for?
I wanted to find out.
I kissed Momsy on the cheek as I sat up and took that first delicious sip of Sanka, giving me the energy I needed to jump out of bed for the first day as a grown up. The shower took a little longer than usual, as I made sure to razor any unsightly pubes and waited a full 15 minutes for the conditioner to sit before I rinsed. I was no longer an immature boy who had time to cut corners on my cleanliness routine. I was a man.
When I’d gotten out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped around my waist, I called out to Momsy for my underwear. She came walking down the hall to bring them fresh out of the dryer, just like I like them! They were my Versace Medusa briefs. I’d spent $175 bucks on these just for this day. And the rest of my outfit? Snatched, with the fit just right. Drippin’. Dad even let me borrow the Rolex he’d bought off some guy selling them on a street in New York City.
The downside to the day is that I got even more unwanted attention from some of the other students than usual. Particularly Peyton Wilson and her irritating friends. She thought I’d gotten dressed up for her, (which of course I lied and said I did), but then got pissed off when I said I had other plans later that night. I really don’t understand why: it was my birthday, not hers. She might have been my girlfriend since junior year yesterday when I was younger and naive, but not anymore.
It seemed like an eternity until second period when I’d finally have the chance to greet my inamorata for the first time as the new me. When I finally strolled into the room, her eyes immediately locked onto mine. I drifted, nearly weightless, past my usual seat right in the front of class and up to the podium where she stood. I snuck a sniff of her at the end of my approach. Yep. Vera Wang’s Princess. I’d immediately recognized it as I’d smelled thirty samples of perfume at Perfumania to try and figure it out. And no, it wasn’t weird to the person behind the counter at Perfumania why I needed to smell so many perfumes. It was Peyton who was working at the time, and she thought I was trying to find a Momsy’s Day present.
Coyly, I slipped my teacher a piece of folded paper. “How do you do today, Mrs. Woods?” Like a proper gentleman would greet a lady. “Lovely blouse you’re wearing. Is that from Talbot’s?”
“No, Abe. It’s not a blouse. Not even close. It’s a T-shirt with our school’s logo on it,” she responded. “I’m surprised you’re not wearing yours since you’re playing in the district tennis playoffs tonight.”
“Oh, that stupid thing?” I feigned laughter, something I’d become really good at due to four years of drama class. “That’s kid stuff. I’m hoping to make other plans this evening. Maybe you’ll understand when you read that.” I pointed down to the note and delivered my sexiest smile.
Mrs. Woods raised her left eyebrow. I remember when she came in this Monday fresh after a wax, and my mind had drifted to other parts of her body that might have gotten the ol’ Brazilian special. It was a sign that she was preparing just as much as I was for this day.
“This isn’t your late essay on grocery store budgeting?”
Oops. I was so busy picking out my outfit last night that I forgot about that.
“Yes.”
She unfolds the note to find out that I lied. But hey, it doesn’t matter. We’ve obviously got a connection. She’ll give me a couple of extra days once she reads what’s there.
“Will you go out with me? Check yes or no,” she read aloud.
My cheeks turned a little rosy (which many find adorable) and for a moment I second-guessed myself. It seemed foolproof at the time. I figured she’d appreciate the direct approach. But there was a little hesitancy in her voice. It was to be expected, though. After all, our obvious mutual passion for one another was a gymnast tiptoeing softly on her beam. In fantasy, there are no risks. But in reality, it would be work to hide our love from the desiccated mob known as the PTA. It was the exact reason why she decided to upgrade to tinted windows in her new CRV.
“See me after class,” she finally commanded, folding the note back up and putting it into the back pocket of her jeans. I’d never been more jealous of a piece of paper in my entire life.
“Because the paper was touching her butt,” I clarified to Misereé as I shifted my weight a little more to my left leg, lifting my own rump cheek up slightly higher than the right one. While this story certainly was a juicy one, I had to pause as more important work was being done.
“How does this angle look?”
“As disgusting as the last seven angles,” she responded, extending her arms out as far as she possibly could before snapping another picture of my hiney in the same Versace briefs I’d worn a year ago to this day.
I made the decision to ignore her misguided comment. More of a complement to me, actually, because her definition of sexy is horrible. “Awesome. Now take a couple of steps back and move to the right about six inches or so. I want one that shows the small of my lower back and highlights my obliques,” I directed, redistributing my weight back to both legs and slightly leaning forward against the sink.
There’s a common misconception about my relationship with my roomies. I mean, you guys are already learning that SELMA and I are somewhat aligned. Although she’s a homicidal maniac, she’s pretty fucking cool. What Misereé lacks in cultural taste, the Sea Monstress makes up for tenfold. Great cook, too. There are flavors I don’t think I’ve tasted in any other pot roast compared to the one she makes. It’s almost like it’s a different type of meat or something.
But, me and Reé have our moments too. We wouldn’t be living together if we truly hated one another. After all, they’re the Black Metal Friends, not the Black Metal Foes! Am I right?
This was one of those moments that brought us closer together. Tushy selfies were really difficult to get right. It’s just one of those thirst traps that work much better when you’ve got a photographer who can take them properly. There was nothing really in it for either of us. Just a good pal helping out another good pal.
“There,” she said, as she took the requested pic and handed the phone to me to examine the work. “Do you really think this will work, though?”
“Hope so. But it’s the best approach. Just gotta take it slow. If I’m going to show Magen that I’m not just some piece of man meat,” I explained, turning the iPhone horizontally to slightly enhance the aspect ratio of my ass. “I can’t just hop in bed with her the first chance I get. That’s the mistake I made with Mrs. Woods.”
Misereé appeared a bit confused. “Wait, let’s go back to that for a second. You mean you actually hooked up with your teacher? That stupid note actually worked?”
I grinned back at her. “Let’s just say I was a little late to the tennis tournament.”
“Bull shit. You did not do it at school.”
“Nah, not then,” I clarified. “She gave me detention later because I spilled cake batter on the floor, then I put the mop handle between my legs and pretended like it was a bull. She wasn’t too thrilled about that.”
Reé shook her head. “Surprised that she didn’t want to jump on you right then and there.”
“With my hip action? Me too,” I agreed, ignoring her sarcasm. “Speaking of, let’s get one more. Side view this time, and I’ll flex my hammy to really show my definition.”
I handed the phone back to her, and she reluctantly accepted. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. She better fucking ask you to move in.”
“She will! Just be patient, geez. Like I said, taking it slow. The smooch on the cheek was the perfect close after I walked her back to her hotel. And with these pics? We’ll be sharing a toothbrush in no time. Probably panties, too.”
Misereé doubled over and gagged, nearly puking in the garbage can next to her. “That’s an image that’ll haunt me forever.”
“You’re welcome.”
She shuddered and regained her composure, going back into paparazzi mode. “Look, you’ve got my interest now, and I’m still not sure I believe the story,” Misereé admitted, “but how did you pull off sleeping with your teacher? And since when were you a tennis player?”
I shrugged, which was a prime opportunity to get a bonus pic of my shoulders that she probably fucking missed. “There wasn’t any sleeping involved in the situation, if you know what I mean. Oh, and I’ve been playing tennis since I was about nine. Momsy thought it was a good extracurricular for me because they taught lessons at the country club. She’s always dreamed of me marrying rich. Which is exactly what she ended up doing when she would drop me off at the courts and sneak into their bar.”
“Ohhmygod. That makes SO MUCH SENSE why you are the way you are now,” Reé exclaimed, actually breaking from her doom and gloom to revisit her former Hollister girl verbiage.
“I’m not sure what you mean by that. Anyway, Lawanda used to be kind of a bitch for a while and threatened to have me shipped off to boarding school six months after the wedding, but she’s pretty mid now that I’m not living there anymore. And she didn’t make Momsy sign a prenup, so that’s cool,” I explained.
“I don’t care about tennis and your stepmother right now. Finish the damn story.”
“Right right, sorry, back to Mrs. Woods,” I redirected, putting my left hand on my left cheek for another seductive shot. “After the mop incident, she did her best to avoid any sort of eye contact with me. So I did what any normal guy would do in that situation: I crawled back to my girlfriend and pretended like nothing ever happened.”
Reé shook her head and handed the phone back to me. “What an ass.”
“Thanks! Precisely what Magen’s gonna say when she opens the text,” I replied, uploading the photos and hitting the send button. “But a week after graduation, Christine and I ended up running into one another again.”
I blew my fingertips and waved them off as I said the next line. “She told me to call her Christine when I greeted her with a ‘hi, Mrs. Woods.’ So it was pretty obvious that she dug me all along. It just wasn’t the right time. Anyway, we got real cozy on the couch for about twenty minutes or so and just talked. She told me about all of the new activities she’d been doing as a single woman, and I told her about my plans to come out here to Hollywood. She asked me about what wrestling was like, and I asked her about her journey to finish up her Master’s degree. We left behind the old student/teacher relationship, and love’s gravity started to pull us closer together on that sofa.”
I’d had Misereé hooked by then, her lips wet and ready to hear the juicy details of our affair. This was the friend I wished she would be all the time – the ex-gossip queen who would eventually be passed over for the head cheerleader role. The snub that would cause her to start buying all of her clothes from Killstar. We probably would have really been besties if we’d both went to the same high school. Heck, she probably would have been a better girlfriend than Peyton.
“And after that?” I shrugged. “We ended up in bed. And to think, the ink wasn’t even dry yet on the divorce decree. A real wild woman, she was. It was one of the best days of my life.”
She let the silence dwindle for a second. I thought she was in awe, but I was wrong.
“Wait. Something’s not adding up,” Misereé stated. “You ran into one another, and then you immediately ended up taking her back to your mom’s house? Or did she take you back to her house?”
“Neither,” I answered.
“Then how did you end up on a couch?”
“Well, I was at work, silly. She’d came into Rooms to Go that day to test out furniture, once again spending Dr. Woods’ money she’d siphoned out of the joint account on things for herself. So hot,” I swooned, my heart fluttering again at the thought of such sweet revenge.
“OH FUCK YOU,” Misereé yelled, pushing me as hard as she could against the wall. “You didn’t have sex with your former teacher!”
“I never said I did.”
“YES YOU DID, you said you slept with her!” she objected, her face knotted up like she was eating a raw lemon.
“No. I specifically said that there was no sleeping involved. What I said was that we got in bed together, which we did.”
“You know what the fuck I meant,” Misereé snapped back, showing no signs of cooling down. “You were stringing me along this whole time, while I was HELPING YOU take PHOTOS of your ASS.”
I was really enjoying this, I can’t lie. Like I said, I love my roommates, but part of that love means getting under their skin whenever possible. So, I did what any normal guy would do in this situation: I said something to irritate her more.
“Gosh, why does it always have to be about sex with you, anyway? Are you a pervert or something? Am I living with a pervert? Some kind of sex freak, huh?”
After Misereé slapped me in the face, I went to get an ice pack out of the freezer. It wasn’t the slap that hurt, but the fact that she’d “accidentally” poked me right in the eye with one of her long ass fingernails. I panicked a little bit, because there was no way in hell that an eyepatch would be a good look for me. Not really a good look for any wrestler, if we’re being honest. Especially ones that don’t have to coerce people into a stretch limo to make love to them.
That actually might have helped with Mrs. Woods, though. Definitely worked with Peyton at prom.
But yeah, I didn’t get to live out the one thing that everyone’s fantasized about when the same ol’ same ol’ starts getting stale between the sheets. I’m not sure that most men were picturing a woman who looked like Barefoot Contessa in that fantasy, but still. When I look back on it now (as a much older and wiser man of 19), I still look back on it fondly. But it also causes me to have a deep inner reflection about the entire situation, and I’m talking real big-brained stuff that scientists think about. If I had gotten to explore the moist underneath of Mrs. Woods’ hip hugging denim with my tongue and/or penis, would I have enjoyed that more than the thrill of the chase itself?
And that makes me relate it to similar situations. Magen Nackedy. Linda, the assistant manager at Whole Foods on Santa Monica. That one lady I caught staring at me shirtless at the tennis courts yesterday. And who can forget Lindsay? What if she were to eventually succumb to my lionlike libido? I mean, she’s pretty much the same thing as a teacher. Wielding infinite power over a bunch of people who have the same maturity level as high school students. Would the experience of putting lip tattoos over every square inch of her body…twice over…ultimately leave me unfulfilled?
It’s at this point I realize that I’m thinking like an insane person and realize that all of those situations would be freaking awesome. WAY better than the build up.
But what about wrestling? I’d earned myself a title shot, but it wouldn’t be until over a month from now. I’m enjoying my time leading up to it, but if I could pull out a big win over Mort, will it be as fun as a champion as it is to pursue said championship?
I’m finding it hard to believe that it will be, especially since I get to take on Tony Gamble in the Ball Arena. Why hasn’t anyone else thought of having a wrestling event in an arena full of balls? God, I love Lindsay and her endless curv…I mean creativity. The last time I was waist deep in balls, the only title I got was “Banned” from all Chuck E. Cheese’s nationwide. Now I get to do it with no repercussions.
My guess is that Tony’s not as turnt as me for this. Probably because he’s still under the height restriction to actually climb into a ball pit. Get it, because he’s little! Just kidding, Tone. Get it, because you are the height of a kid! But seriously, it will be an honor to step foot in the ring against a real PRIME legend. Get it, because if there was another foot to your height I would have to find something else to make fun of you about!
We’ve had fun here, but in all honesty, I am excited to compete with the guy who is a walking reminder for all of us to smile more. We’re pretty similar in that vein. If only he were able to have a shot at the title that’s been renamed after him, we’d pretty much be twins!
But he doesn’t.
I do.
He came up a little short in that department.