They say confession is good for the soul, but it doesn't do a thing for me. Maybe it soothes my soul somehow, prematurely damned to hell and writhing in flame and agony for eternity, but up here it doesn't do shit.
I slipped the knife into my jacket, absently grabbed an empty jar from the shelf, and headed out. It was still a long time until dawn. There were still people out. Hell, maybe Wendy was still at LB's. Couldn't hurt to drop by.
WOLF IN THE MEMORY
Stephen Gresham
Into the classroom walks our new music appreciation teacher and she winks at me. Of course, winks come in about as many shapes and sizes and models and horsepowers as new cars, so you have to know a little more about this particular wink: first of all, it was slow and deliberate, not a fast, flashy meaningless one that a mature woman can toss out at just anybody. No, this one had style and substance and yet was somehow delivered at full throttle. From that very first day of class, I knew that this woman had something special in mind for me; never did I see that distinct wink offered to anyone else, not even to Starkey Conway, our resident stud.
Her name was Miss Lavenia Wolf — "one '/' instead of two," she purred — and that one "f" was something Starkey later translated to mean "one fuck daily," but who of us listened to Starkey? Well, we did, but only because he was seventeen and still in the eighth grade and tall (I was the only guy as tall) and muscular in a street-fighting sort of way and, most important of all, experienced with women. Older women. Those sixteen and older, though how much older than that we were never able to determine. But I digress. Back to Wolf. She had black hair, the kind romance novels describe as the color of a raven's wings (I, for one, have never seen a raven in Alabama, but I can assume they're as black as a crow), and, of course, it was long and softly framed a pale, pouty face that reminded me of… well, a pudgy Natalie Wood, and in 1961, sweet Natalie was driving adolescent boys bonzo with every film — heck, I think I fell in love with Natalie back in that weird movie about Santa Claus, and she must have been about ten years old in that one, just a pup.
Wolf was certainly no pup. She had dark, hungry eyes. Smiling eyes. And the smile in those eyes was always connected to the right side of her mouth, her lips moving always in concert with the twinkle or glimmer in her eyes. Never one without the other. She had a cute nose, and her lips were almost too thin to be seductive, but you see, that's the point of this recollection. The woman wasn't simply sexy; no, hardly the right word. She was… okay, I'll get to what she was and how what she was led me to the most excruciating decision of my adolescent phase.
I wouldn't say she had a super figure. She wasn't a classic, not Playboy centerfold material, but she was nice. Very nice. Rather small breasts complemented by ample hips and the beginning of a potbelly — definitely not regulation Playboy centerfold stuff, and yet… maybe it was her legs that saved the day, I don't know. They were a touch muscular, especially in the calf, and the swell of her skirt that first afternoon testified to fulsome thighs, their promise delivered more than adequately when she perched upon a piano stool and talked about the coming nine weeks. I swear I can't recall much she said. Neither can my two best friends, Chick and Mance. They were there, too, on that warm September afternoon nearly thirty years ago. They, however, were not aware of how on that day Miss Wolf had proffered me a «gift» (henceforth in this narrative to be capitalized — «Gift» — affording it the proper respect), one for which I shall always be eternally grateful.
We had all dreaded the class until Miss Wolf positioned herself atop that stool, crossed her legs, smiled, and said, "I plan to have some fun with you fellas. So how about not forcing me to have to get after you and spoil the good times."
She propped a heavily powdered chin on her knuckles and cocked one eyebrow saucily — no, not quite Natalie, but dang close. You could tell right then that she could use her sexuality to discipline us anytime she needed to. We were flies in her web — yeah.
The next thing about that first meeting I recall is the way she strode before each of us derelicts (as if we were soldiers lined up for inspection) and asked us to sing the opening lines of "Sand in My Shoes." When she halted before me, she winked again. A hot shout of embarrassment burned in my throat, and she said, "What's your name?"
Three heartbeats later, I remembered. "Dyson, ma'am. Dyson Bonner."
She bit softly at her lower lip and said, "Let me hear the range of your voice."
Sounds innocent, huh? Well, when she said it the way she did (coupled with that wink and that bite), she might as well have said, "Drop your jeans and let me see what you have." My voice cracked on every syllable. Thank goodness everybody else had pretty much the same experience so that the laughter was passed around in equal portions.
Music appreciation was the last class of the day, and after that first day, Mance, Chick and I gathered in Chick's bedroom and took inventory. Obviously they had not been affected as powerfully by the demeanor of Miss Wolf as I had. Chick, whose father was a Baptist minister, sat as usual on his bed thumbing through the lingerie section of the Montgomery Ward catalog, ogling at women clad only in bras or girdles or slips or some combination thereof. Though Chick was normally reserved and soft-spoken, when he had that catalog in his lap his eyes glazed and he would stare at those women the way a dog on a chain stares at freedom. He would whistle and snort and howl and suck disgustingly on his tongue and thrust it rapidly between his lips — then he would turn the page.
Mance, who possessed more philological curiosity than Chick, would often sit at Chick's desk attacking the dictionary, asking me how to spell such words as «cunnilingus» and "fellatio." In 1961, such words were (to Mance at least) frustratingly suppressed from inclusion in most dictionaries, but when he did succeed in finding a dirty word, Mance would read the definition loudly and with much passion, followed by a throaty, infectious, boyish laugh.
On that particular day, he was reading a sex manual he had spirited away from his older sister.
"Listen to this," he exclaimed, rocking in the chair as if on the verge of an orgasm. Thereupon he read aloud the directions to the female sex partner, who, during intercourse, was coached to whisper, "Oh, honey, you're really giving it to me tonight."
We all laughed. What else can you do when you're so horny you don't know the time of day? At that point I tried to elevate the proceedings ever so slightly, remarking upon our music appreciation class and sharing my assessment of the new teacher.
"Miss Wolf is very… erotic," I said. The word just slipped out.
Chick frowned. Mance's mouth fell open, and he reached for the dictionary.
"Howja spell that?" he queried.
"E-R-O…" I stopped. Tiny bubbles of spittle had formed in one corner of the questioner's lips, and the underwear voyeur looked no less dumbfounded. How could they possibly understand? Miss Wolf had ceremoniously presented me the Gift of the erotic. Or was it that she herself was the very eidolon of eroticism? Was the Gift mine for the taking — no strings attached — or would I somehow have to earn it? Was the Gift actually a "Grail," thus requiring me to advance upon some perilous quest or arduous pilgrimage? The mystery of it all gave me a headache, but my heart and hormonal areas were not the least bit confused.