Tampa Read Online Free PDF

he finally managed to say.
    “Before we pray?” I’d licked my lips and twirled a long stretch of blond hair around two of my fingers.
    He’d kept glancing back at the closed door, perhaps hoping someone else would enter. “I’ll pray at home.” He’d nodded solemnly . “For both of us.”
    “You’re such a good boy, Steven.” I began appealing to his sense of propriety. “I love that about you. You’re different, you know. From the others.” I’d stepped out of my high heels, placing my bare feet onto the tile so that the top of his head was level with my eyes. When I followed his eyes to the ground I realized that he was looking at my painted toenails. “So do I get a good-bye hug for staying late so you could make up your quiz?” Pretending that my request for permission had been granted, I’d leaned into his body before he’d answered, pressing myself hard against the length of him. Next I’d placed my hand over the back of his head, holding him close, then ran my lips against the hot skin of his neck when I pulled away. I didn’t look back at him, didn’t confirm or deny that anything had happened; I just walked back to the desk to pick up the papers, and when I turned around again he’d left.
    I knew he’d never let me be alone with him again. I’d immediately pushed a student desk up against the door, sat down and began to finger myself while my tongue ran a slow clockwork pattern around his faint taste on my top and bottom lip—he had anearthy scent: a little grass, a bit of unsweetened tea, some salt. After I came I cried in mourning; I’d fallen for the wrong boy, an inaccessible one, and my time at that school was drawing to a close. For the three remaining weeks, he sat near the back of the class with friends and never raised his hand. Only once did he look at me as he was leaving, a glance of pained confusion that I encouraged by not giving him a smile.
    On my last day, the froggish male mentor teacher I’d worked with had all the students sign a card for me. He’d included a bullshit note on ruled paper that tried too hard to play it cool and included his cell phone number, which I made a point of keeping in my purse until my next bowel movement. This happened to be at a midprice Chinese chain restaurant where Ford had insisted we meet for a celebratory dinner. “Excuse me for a moment,” I’d said, “while I go use the powder room.” Before grabbing any toilet paper, I made an initial swipe with the note, making sure the side bearing the teacher’s handwriting was facing upward. Then I looked again at the card. While most students had left mild phrases of encouragement peppered with misspellings, Steven had written only his signature. I stood, feeling my underwear drop to my ankles, and tore down the card to his name, ripping it out in isolation, then stared at the tab of paper sitting on my finger like a square of acid. I let my head hit the side of the bathroom stall as I shoved his name as far up inside me as I could. This alone gave me the strength to walk back out to the table and greet Ford, who was drinking yet another blue cocktail overflowing with flora garnish.
    “Honey,” he’d called from a distance, seeing me headed back toward him. “They call this drink a Tall Blue Balls!” I’d given him an appreciative smile, as if to say,
How appropriate; you are foul to
me and I just wallpapered my cervix with the name of a teenage boy
.
    Jack had already passed the test of not having any outward affinity to Christianity, so I began assigning personal essays and in-class writings designed to give me more personal details about him.
    “For today’s journal,” I announced, “I want you to take ten minutes and write about the celebrity you find most attractive. Harness the power of description—pretend I’ve never seen him or her before.”
    Most of the male responses revolved around a reality star’s ample buttocks, but Jack was noncommittal.
I don’t really have