Skin Flick
"Yes, he is."
Seth crumpled the note and dropped it into his lap just as Mr. Kostroma turned from the whiteboard. Seth watched the teacher's lips pronouncing the word "glasnost" and he wondered if it were true. Could the mouth that poured European history into the ears of one-hundred-and-forty-three high school juniors be the same mouth that tickled the labia of Dorothy LeMay in the late 80s?
It wasn't so difficult to believe Mr. K had been in a skin flick; he was the first, second, and third name on all the girls' lists of Top 5 Teachers I would Let Molest Me After School, not just because his soft curls and boyish smirk reminded them of Orlando Bloom. He moved as if some long, invisible finger had just scratched the spot between his shoulder blades, and his voice rolled in a low moan like the wet sea, even over something so dusty as Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
He could be in porn right now. That would be easy to swallow, but if Mr. K had a place in the daisy chain in Taboo II, as Jeremy insisted, then that meant that he was ancient, at least forty. Seth watched his teacher pacing the front of the classroom as he read from some book about post-cold-war relations between the US and the USSR. Mr. K was maybe twenty four... twenty eight at the outside... the far outside.
Seth tore a tiny square of paper from his spiral notebook and penned his scathing response, "NO FUCKING WAY!!!" He folded it into a crisp triangle, waited until Mr. K turned to underline something on the whiteboard, and shot the note across two rows hitting Jeremy in the side of the face.
---------------
"It's him."
Jeremy held the remote between his legs, stroking the shuttle control with his thumb to roll the DVD playback one frame at a time. "You can't tell on VHS because the resolution sucks, but digital doesn't lie, my friend."
Seth leaned forward as if the plasma screen were beckoning him off the couch. Even with the Freddy Mercury mustache, there was no mistaking the hard line of Mr. Kostroma's jaw. His long fingers moved across naked flesh in the same deft spider dance they made when he was looking for the right page in a book. His eyes, the color of old oak, opened wide like church doors as Crystal Down filled her mouth with his cock, and his own tongue laid languid circles around Dorothy's clit.
Seth couldn't deny it, but he couldn't believe it either. "It just can't be. He'd have to be fourteen."
"Traci Lords lied her way into porn when she was sixteen. I'm sure she wasn't the only one."
"Maybe." Seth slid off the cuoch and crawled over to the screen to watch Mr. K's eyes roll back in slow motion. "But... he looks a lot older than fourteen."
"Well, yeah! He couldn't do porn if he looked underage."
Seth shook his head slowly. He looked twenty four... twenty eight at the outside.
--------------
Mr. K's house was well back from the road, which was fine with Seth. No one would see him if they drove past. He had parked at the AMF lanes and slipped behind the Dairy Queen, cut through the cemetery next to the Baptist church, and crunched through the small stand of woods before he got to Mr. K's back yard.
He wasn't sure what he was doing there. The last time he had peeked into anyone's windows was two years ago when Jeremy pointed out that one corner of the blinds in Stephanie Howell's bathroom had caught on the window casing, leaving a beckoning bright lens straight into her evening grooming. She was a senior, a "real woman", so they fumbled their way through the shrubs and took turns peering into the autumn gold glow of the tiles, hoping she would get off the telephone and strip for a shower. They did finally get to see her take her clothes off, but their lust died when she pulled a bloated tampon from between her legs.
Jeremy nearly blew chunks -- later he went on about how he could never have sex because it was just wrong to stick his pecker into something that bled like that -- but Seth lingered at the window. He watched her wrap the red carcass in tissue before tossing it in the waste can. He wondered if it hurt, and he was curious how someone could handle her own blood so casually.
Seth gave up on peeping after he and Jenna started going out. She would let him watch her do anything, and he could ask her questions instead of hiding silently in the dark.
He thought he had given up on peeping.
"This isn't peeping," he muttered to himself. The grass made swishing noises as he crept around the side of the house. He slowly raised his eyes above the level of the window ledge trying to see into the room without Mr. K catching sight of him on the other side of the glass. The light was on and a shadow moved on the far wall, but he couldn't see its owner.
"What am I doing here?" he whispered.
Did he hope to see Mr. K go down on the sagging folds of Ms. LeMay right there in the bedroom? Or maybe there would be a collection of porn posters on the wall, fading relics from his rebellious teen years. Even if he saw something like that, it wouldn't prove anything.
So, what would?
