Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his  computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.)  To keep from going back to work, he's  published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including,  Revealing Moments, a collection of  twenty-four flash stories, available at 
http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. 

He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net.  Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife and  can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com. 

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Teacher's Pet (July 20, 2010. Issue 19.)

I never knew my high school algebra teacher smoked until I kissed her.

Miss Harlow and I were lovers: she, nearing forty, fearing the onset of middle age, and I, just sixteen, too young and stupid to fear much of anything.

Some would consider our relationship abusive, and perhaps it was on some level. I remember it more as a happy transition to the adult world, offering me a secret superiority over my peers. I had been singled out from the herd of adolescents.

It started when she asked me to help her after school. I carried books and folders to her car and she gave me a ride to the Y where I hung out until my parents got off work. This routine continued until one day, while dropping me off at the Y, she kissed me and I kissed her back. I can still taste the stale tobacco on her breath. Disgusting and exciting.

She brought me to her home. She did things to me I had only seen in porn films and she taught me things that would have taken me most of a decade to have learned. Although it's been more than thirty years, and a fair amount of women have shared my bed, I still associate the intimate scent of a woman with her.

Even then, I knew she wasn't particularly attractive--skinny, more angular than curvaceous. But it didn't matter. She wanted me, my body, my youth, and I wanted her experience and knowledge.

We never spoke of love. In fact, she encouraged me to ask out Cindy Lazlow, a perky brunette who sat next to me in Algebra.

Once Cindy and I began dating, she transformed back into Miss Harlow.

Soon, another student--Allen Grimes--stayed to help out. He seemed gangly, insecure, a lifetime younger than I, despite our similar age. I watched, as he grew in confidence almost daily.

Was she a sexual predator?

Yes, indeed.

And I'll be forever thankful.