Luna ☾ has booped you!
Luna ☾: Hiiii
Chad: Hi, Moon Child!
Luna ☾: Haha
Luna ☾: I was actually born under a full moon
Chad: Oh yeah?
Luna ☾: Yeah
Luna ☾: Only 3% of people are born under a full moon
Chad: Well, sure, because it’s a 29.5-day cycle
Luna ☾: Um
Chad: 1/29.5 ≈ 3%
Luna ☾: Ok
Luna ☾: So what’s your sign?
Chad: Sometimes positive, sometimes negative
Chad: ±C
Luna ☾: WTF dude
Luna ☾ has dumped you.


Rachel shook her head as she handed my phone back to me. “Sounds like you two are at opposite ends of the spectrum.”

“I bet she has ‘born under a full moon’ saved as a macro.”

“As a what?”

“Uh, in her clipboard.”

We were in my empty classroom working on an upcoming unit, and I was thinking of ways to apply the four-color theorem to geopolitics. I’d scribbled a few ideas on my notepad. 

Germany ↔ Polish Corridor ↔ East Prussia
Pacific Ocean ↔ Panama ↔ Atlantic Ocean
Kaliningrad Oblast ↔ Lithuania ↔ Russia
Gaza Strip ↔ Israel ↔ West Bank

My phone buzzed with a notification. I don’t get a lot of notifications, so it’s usually kind of a big deal when one comes through.

“Hey Ms. K, you aren’t going to believe this, but I have a date tonight!”

“Whaaat?” Rachel ribbed me. “Who’s the lucky lady? Another astrology nutjob?”

“No. She’s calling herself Mel. We were chatting yesterday and she decided she wants to cut to the chase and meet up tonight.”

“Woohoo, big Friday night! You’d better hope that IEP meeting doesn’t go on forever.”

“Oh God, she wants to meet in Ballard. The parking there is a nightmare.”

“So just take the bus.”

“I figure she’s more likely to come back to my place if we can drive, not ride the D bus.”

“Good point.”

“Anyway,” I pivoted after tapping a reply to Mel, “should we try to work Israel and Palestine into this unit?”

“Oy. It can be tough getting fourteen-year-olds to think with nuance. Most of them have a rigid ‘good guys vs. bad guys’ mentality. For thousands of years, the Jews were getting bullied, but now…”

“It’s like a hockey team that always sucked but finally hit on a few prospects and flipped the script. The Blackhawks were awful in the 2000s, then they drafted Toews and Kane and won the Stanley Cup three times in six years.”

Rachel blinked slowly. “You did not just compare the Jewish experience to tanking in the NHL.”

“No…” I hesitated, “but if you think of U.S. missile technology as a number one draft pick…”

“I’m gonna stop you there,” she laughed. “This is a safe space. There are no bad ideas. We’re just spitballing. Throwing spaghetti at the wall and seeing what sticks. But let’s not write that one down, m’kay?”

—

The IEP meeting was mercifully short, giving me time to stop at home and change my shirt before driving up to Ballard, where I found a place to park without too much trouble. Thank heaven for small favors. Mel was cute, with librarian glasses and curly light brown hair. We had a couple of drinks and chatted for about an hour, then around 7 o’clock, the awkward moment arrived: would one of us suggest grabbing dinner while the other one tried to escape?

Mel went first. “Look, I’m meeting some friends for dinner in an hour…”

Ah, the classic I-made-other-plans-as-an-exit-strategy. I nodded, accepting my fate.

“...but I’d be willing to go back to your place and fool around until then,” she smirked.

I reached across the table and took her hand. “If you’re willing to embrace the patriarchy for a moment here, I’ll pay for everything and then escort you to my vehicle.”

“It’s a deal!”

I popped a Viagra while she was in the restroom freshening up. Hey, you know what they say. ABC: Always Be Carrying.

I helped her climb into my babe magnet, otherwise known as a 2005 Honda Element, then headed towards the Ballard Bridge. As we approached the span, the red lights started flashing and the bells started clanging.

“Ah nuts, the drawbridge is going up,” I sighed as I prepared to roll to a stop.

“Pull off here,” Mel commanded, frantically whacking her knuckles against the side window. “Now!”

I swerved onto a side street. “What’s up?”

“I saw two ships approaching. That bridge is gonna be up for fifteen minutes, at least.”

“What are you, on Harbor Patrol?”

“Just find a place to park,” she said mildly.

Now, the Honda Element has plenty of drawbacks—the front seatbelts are anchored to the rear suicide doors, for starters—but it’s an absolute dream when it comes to parallel parking.

“Chad, I think you might’ve just bumped the car behind us,” Mel observed, twisting in her seat and looking out the rear window.

“That’s why they call ‘em bumpers, doll. Now what’s your plan?”

Turns out, phase one of her plan was for us to fold up the rear seats and stretch out on the floor. Luckily, I had a picnic blanket in the back, which gave us a little padding. You might remember when the Element first came out, they made a big deal about how there was no carpeting, so you could just hose it out after taking your goats mountain biking on Bainbridge Island. Something like that. Only trouble was, the electrical circuits running under the floor would get shorted out. Womp-womp.

Anyway, on to phase two. We started making out, and she unbuttoned my shirt, running her fingernails along my skin. I began unbuttoning her dress, exposing a lacy bra.

“Nice tits,” I murmured as I nuzzled her neck.

“Thanks,” she smiled. “I grew ‘em myself.”

“I’ll say you did.”

“They’re E cups, if you’re wondering.”

I drew my head back. “Why would I be wondering a thing like that?”

“I read your profile, you little pervert,” she smiled as she unbuttoned my pants.

“I seem to recall that your profile says you have an oral fixation.”

“But hopefully not an oral asphyxiation,” she countered, unzipping my fly.

“That shouldn’t be an issue.”

—

Rachel tracked me down Monday morning before school began. We had a muttered conversation while I did hall monitor duty outside the cafeteria.

“So how’d it go on Friday with Mel?”

“Get this. She uses the nickname Mel in the app because she doesn’t want every creep to know her real name, but she hates being called Mel in person. She told me her full name at the end of our date.”

“Okay, so what’s her full name?”

“Damned if I know. I spent all weekend trying to remember. Melissa? Melinda? Melina? Melanie? Melody?”

“I see the problem.”

“When she told me, it was like this: Chad, my name is actually HISSSS. If you ever call me Mel, I will never fuck you again. G’night now!”

“Just static, huh?”

“Happens to me all the time. I remember the unimportant details and blank on what actually matters.”

“Well, if you have a second date, start out doing something cheap, like coffee. She’ll want to pay, and then you can sneak a peek at the name on her debit card.”

“Got it.”

I tried to keep a straight face while I waited for the penny to drop.

“Chad, you dog!” Rachel whisper-shouted as she punched me in the shoulder. “She said she’ll never fuck you again?”

—

S♡ has booped you!
S♡: So you teach high school?
Chad: Sure do!
S♡: That must put a crimp in your dating life sometimes
Chad: I’ll say
Chad: I can never perform cunnilingus for very long
S♡: What does being a teacher have to do with that?
Chad: I’ve been conditioned to eat my lunch in 22 minutes or less
S♡: OMFG
S♡ has dumped you.

“Your loss, Shart,” I shrugged as I closed 4N1K8R and checked the time. “That could’ve been the best five minutes of your life.”

Friday April 17
12:32 PM

Spring break had arrived, and today was an early dismissal day for students. The afternoon was scheduled for professional development, but you could skip it by claiming you had to catch an early flight out of SeaTac. Nobody cared enough to check. I locked the classroom door behind me and swung by Rachel’s room on my way to the parking lot.

“You outta here?” she asked, looking up from a stack of papers.

“Yep. I’m headed up to Queen Anne to meet Mel for coffee.”

“You shouldn’t keep calling her Mel,” Rachel laughed. “Every time you do, it strengthens that neural pathway. You’ll never be able to unlearn it.”

“Sorry. I’m headed up to Queen Anne to meet the mysterious Ms. M for coffee.”

“That’s more like it.”

“When are you and Jonathan leaving for Vancouver?”

“He’s picking me up in an hour or so. I’m gonna finish grading these papers so I don’t have to think about ‘em all weekend.”

“Nothing says ‘romantic getaway’ like grading essays about Romeo and Juliet on the balcony of your Airbnb.”

“O Romeo, Romeo!” Rachel emoted. “Wherefore art thou Romeo?” She shook her head in exasperation. “I swear, every kid thinks that means ‘Where are you, Romeo? Hiding in the bushes?’”

I tilted my head, suspecting that I had stumbled into what we in the ed biz call a teachable moment. “Wherefore doesn’t mean where?”

“No,” she clarified with a gleam in her eye. “It means why. Like, for what reason. Wherefore asks the question that therefore answers.”

A memory bubbled up from my European travels a decade earlier. “Oh, like hvorfor in Norwegian. Or maybe it’s Danish? One of those. It means why.”

“If you say so,” Rachel snorted. “Be sure to bring that up in math class when the kids get back from vacation. Now get the fuck outta here so I can focus!”

—

The coffee shop was in Upper Queen Anne, to be precise, perched on a precipice where the streets end abruptly and turn into staircases. I am not kidding. Good luck trying to drive from 11th Ave down to 13th Ave; you’d have to be Jason Friggin’ Bourne.

We both decided to try the cardamom latte, and, let’s see here, Amelie—shit, I never would have guessed that—paid with her debit card as predicted.

“For here or to go?” the barista inquired.

“Amelie,” I made a point of using her name, “Wanna sit, or walk around?”

“Let’s walk.” We both had our raincoats just in case.

She’d never really explored the neighborhood, so I showed her where West Howe Street turns into the Howe Street Stairs.

“That is bonkers,” she laughed. “Hey, what’s that long metal thing in the bushes?”

“It’s a slide,” I chuckled. “This is supposedly a playground. The slide follows the slope of the hillside all the way down. Wanna try it?”

“I’ll pass. It’s probably still wet from the rain this morning,” Amelie pointed out. “And if I’m going to get the seat of my pants wet…”

“Hmm?”

“...I’d rather do it at your place.”

Twenty minutes later, she had me pinned against the inside of my apartment door, kissing me roughly and dragging her fingernails down the front of my shirt. I tossed my keys on the kitchen counter, then grabbed her by the waist and squashed her up against me.

Her eyes lit up as she felt my bulge pressing into her. I’d snuck a Viagra while we were getting in the car.

“I’d like another crack at that thing,” she purred. “I didn’t get to suck it for very long before you fucked me last Friday.”

“Be my guest,” I smiled, beginning to unbuckle my belt until she swatted my hand away.

“That’s my job!” she laughed. “The job before the job…”

I leaned against the door while she serviced my cock, maintaining eye contact during the long licks, then bobbing her head frantically while I wove my fingers into her curly hair.

“Glawk! Glawk! Glawk!” she croaked as I slowly fucked her face, then I placed my hands under her jaw and gently lifted her up. A thick trail of spit flopped down from her lower lip to her chest. Luckily, she was wearing a scoop neck t-shirt.

“You know what other C word I should have put in my profile?” I growled as her eyes slowly uncrossed.

“Tell me,” she coaxed as she continued to beat my dick.

I ducked my head and licked the viscous spit string off her sternum, then whispered, “Cockbreath.”

She let out a little moan as I pressed our mouths together and our tongues thrashed around like they were dancing at Soundgarden’s first show at the Central Tavern.

Slightly dizzy, Amelie pulled away and began unbuttoning her jeans. “You’re gonna have cuntbreath in a minute, buster.”

Once she’d kicked off her shoes and pants, I positioned her sitting on the edge of the bed, then knelt in front of her as she lay back in repose. I gave her a solid five minutes—dab the clit, jab the slit, lather, rinse, repeat—before rising up and stripping off my clothes. She lurched up and smeared her mouth on mine, tasting her own sweet snatch on my beard.

I knelt over her. “You want me to fuck you with my big, thick cock?”

“Uh huh,” Amelie nodded quickly as she whipped off her t-shirt and bra. “I need your rock-hard cock inside of me.”

My cock is neither big nor thick, but it was fun to embellish the moment. Rock-hard, though? That was no exaggeration.

I banged her for a good fifteen minutes until I started to get winded, then I slowed down and climbed off her to take a breather. She reached for her bag which she’d dropped on the kitchen floor—score another one for the studio apartment—and flashed a winsome smile as she pulled out her Hitachi wand.

Now, some math teachers are staunchly anti-calculator, complaining that nobody knows how to do long division anymore. Other teachers let students use a calculator for everything, even 6 ÷ 2. In my opinion, there’s a happy medium: develop enough basic skills so you can do the easy work on your own, but don’t be afraid to utilize assistive technology when it can help you do a difficult job better and faster.

“Let’s do this,” I snickered as she revved up the vibrator and jammed it into her clit. I slid my right arm under her waist, clamped my mouth on her nipple, and plunged two fingers into her sticky cunt. Like Rachel said: A Left Hand Like God.

“Yes, right there!” she shouted as I curled my fingers upwards. “Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move… UGH!” she finally yelled as she climaxed. I kept my mouth and hands where they were as she writhed and shook and squirted. Fortunately, I have en-suite laundry, so washing my comforter cover is no big deal.

When she came back down, she glanced at my semi. “What happened there?”

“I got distracted,” I shrugged. “I’m sure we can get it up again.”

“Tell me what you need,” Amelie breathed in a sultry voice. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ll need you to pinch my tits,” I confessed.

“Yeah? That sounds like fun,” she purred as she scraped her nails across my chest, causing my partial boner to wag in response.

I slid my stiffening dick back inside her. “M-Maybe you could get some spit on your fingers…”

She arched one eyebrow and made a show of licking each thumb before rolling my nipples between her slick fingertips.

“But now,” I strained as I pistoned my cock in and out, “my titties have dick spit on them. That’s inappropriate.”

“Well here,” Amelie smirked, “let me clean them off.” I leaned forward and she craned her neck so she could lick my sensitive tits.

“You’re… getting… more… dick spit… on them…” I threw my head back and focused on the sensation of my cock sliding in and out of her satin pussy as she continued tonguing my nips. “I’m… gonna… c-c-c-...”

I slammed my hips against her repeatedly, firing my spuzz deep inside, then held still, fully engaged, as a few more lazy spurts dribbled out of my dick. I rolled off her, spent, and stared at the popcorn ceiling.

“Well,” Amelie giggled softly. “My husband is going to be pretty excited when I bring this home.”

“Yeah?” I asked warily, still in a bit of a daze.

“Yeah. My profile says I’m into ENM. You saw that, right?”

“Yeah, is that like EDM? I’m not really into electronic music, but I did go to a couple of raves in 1995.”

“You’re funny, Chad,” she laughed, patting my arm before rummaging around in her bag and retrieving a maxi pad. “Okay, I’d better get dressed before all your cum leaks out. You just relax, big guy; I’ll get a Lyft home.”

After Amelie left, I reached for my phone. I had to stretch nearly all the way off the bed to grab my pants by the front door. Rachel and I don’t usually text each other when we’re off duty, but I couldn’t wait ten days for this.

Hey Rach, two things…
1. Mel’s full name is Amelie
2. What does ENM stand for?