Free Tampa by Alissa Nutting Page B

already sore heat between my legs.
Romeo and Juliet
provided an outlet to talk about sex in the classroom, and I often sat behind my desk and pressed the swollen nest of my genitals against the chair with a friction that nearly made me moan. Most of the kids, drunk on the freedom of speaking about the subject aloud with openness, were eager to discuss. Marissa, for example, was certainly a vocal ringleader. Her teeth stained in ombré shades of red from a fruit punch drink, whenever she thought of something to say she’d boost herself up in her chair, sitting on one leg, her arm waving with the desperation of a plane crash survivor hailing a rescue chopper.
    “I think, like, if they’d never … you know ….
done it
…” She paused, smiling with glee as the class erupted into giggles. Marissa was an instigator, pushy. If Jack ever became her target, I recognized her as the type who might relentlessly pursue.
    “Had sex, you mean,” I added. More giggles.
    “Right. I think if they’d never had sex, they wouldn’t have killed themselves and stuff. I saw this video about how sex can, like, release stuff from your brain and make you crazy.”
    “Interesting.” I surveyed the room; most students were now taking the conversation to its less-appropriate further conclusion in whispers to friends. “What do people think? Does sex make you crazy?”
    A variety of jocks eager to imply they had firsthand experience spoke up. “No doubt,” Danny’s low voice boomed from the back of the classroom. His meaty face had drawn upward into a not- so- subtle grin.
    “I dunno,” another football player said. I confess I didn’t trouble myself with learning their names or distinguishing one from another . Physically, they were far too developed to be appealing—their growth spurts were finished, their muscles already wrought into the structured mold of the finished male form. “I think
not
having sex is what makes you crazy.” Shrieks of faux disbelief sounded through the classroom; when the bell rang moments later, it seemed like an alarm set off by the high-pitched screams.
    Jack’s face was flushed when he walked by me toward the door, his eyes trained shyly down at his shoes. I stood and said his name very softly—so quietly that he easily could’ve failed to hear me, or could have pretended not to hear. But he turned. I beckoned him over as the class emptied, staring warmly into his eyes but not speaking until the door shut for the final time and we were alone.
    I continued to speak in hushed tones, enunciating, exaggerating each movement of my lips as I spoke. “You’re very quiet in class, Jack Patrick.” I gave him a wide smile to show it wasn’t a criticism.
    He scratched the back of his neck and grinned while his face blushed to a deeper red. Perhaps he continued looking at the ground because the heat in his cheeks embarrassed him. Reaching out, I placed my pointer finger upon the tiny cleft at the bottom of hischin and raised his head upright until he was looking directly at me. In heels I was taller than him; the top of his blondish hair was level with my mouth. “There,” I whispered, barely speaking, trying to simply exhale the words. “That’s better, isn’t it. So tell me, Jack, since you don’t speak up in class and leave me guessing at the thoughts inside that head of yours. What do you think makes someone crazier—having sex? Or not having it?”
    His eyes widened; it seemed to take a moment for his brain to confirm I’d really asked him that question. He laughed and lowered his head a little, shaking it nervously.
    “Ah-ah,” I cooed, this time using all my fingers to cup his chin in my hand and guide it back upward. His fuzzy cheeks had a downy softness. If I squeezed, I would be able to lift apart his top and bottom jaw, open his mouth and lower mine down to meet his. “Here,” I offered, “I’ll hold your head up so you don’t have to worry about eye contact.” Staring at him, Jack