The Note (part 1)

A regrettable missive exposed and triggered a predator who groomed me for her gratification.

When discussing sexual abuse and predatory behavior, our societal narrative often defaults to a specific framework—one that rarely considers male victims, particularly when the perpetrators are women. This blind spot is not accidental; it is woven into our cultural understanding of masculinity, power, and victimhood.

As a teenage boy who experienced systematic grooming and sexual exploitation by several female teachers—authority figures entrusted with my education and well-being—I faced not only the primary trauma of the abuse itself but also the secondary trauma of a society unprepared to recognize what happened to me as abuse at all.

"You were lucky," some would say. "Most teenage boys would dream of that situation.” These responses reveal a profound misunderstanding of consent, power dynamics, and the lasting psychological impact of sexual exploitation. They illustrate how deeply we've internalized harmful myths about male sexuality—that men and boys always want sex, that women cannot victimize them, and that being "initiated" by an older woman is a rite of passage rather than a violation.

The truth is more complex and far more emotionally painful. When an adult in a position of authority manipulates a child's natural desire for approval and belonging into sexual exploitation, the damage does not discriminate based on gender. The confusion, shame, and distorted understanding of intimacy and relationships affect boys just as profoundly as they affect girls. Yet, male survivors often face unique barriers to recognition, support, and healing.

In writing this, I do not intend to diminish the experiences of female survivors, whose voices have rightly gained greater acknowledgment in recent years. Instead, I aim to expand our understanding of sexual victimization to include all who have suffered, regardless of gender. The teachers who groomed me, using their position to shape my emerging sexuality for their gratification, committed no less an abuse of power than male teachers who target female students.

By sharing my story, I hope to challenge the cultural blind spots that leave male victims isolated in their trauma, often unable to even name their experiences as abuse. I aim to create a space for men who have remained silent out of fear of being disbelieved, ridiculed, or dismissed. Most importantly, I hope to contribute to a more nuanced understanding of sexual exploitation—one that recognizes that vulnerability transcends gender and that healing begins with acknowledgment. Many male survivors experience the same long-term effects that trouble female victims, including trust issues, relationship difficulties, post-traumatic stress symptoms, and struggles with self-worth. The path forward requires us to confront uncomfortable truths about our perceptions of victimhood, masculinity, and power. It compels us to listen to survivors of all genders with equal compassion and seriousness. Only then can we truly address the full spectrum of sexual exploitation and build a society where all survivors feel empowered to speak out.

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September 1970

Recounting this experience, I've chosen to preserve the unfiltered perspective of my younger self, including language and attitudes that may seem crude or disrespectful by today's standards. Some moments, like writing a sexually explicit note about my teacher—an act born from my clumsy attempts to appear to be "one of the guys" rather than a genuine reflection of my sincere respect for women—illustrate how our self-perceived flaws can push us toward behaviors that contradict our true selves. While I don't endorse these perspectives now, I hope to shed light, in an authentic setting, on how female predators manipulate young boys’ minds, one calculated step at a time. Even though the exact words may have faded over the decades, the memory of that September day and the subsequent days remains vivid, crystallized in a way that time has never managed to erode.

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On that first day of my junior year—my first year in high school living alone—I walked into my second-period class. There she was, leaning provocatively, or so I thought, against her desk: someone new to the school and my new history teacher. Involved in many extracurricular activities, I knew of every teacher and staff member—she was definitely new, and I would have noticed her before. Assessing the view, I concluded she might be the most attractive woman in the entire school. She wasn't what some would call an elegant beauty—not the tall, willowy type with chiseled features—but still stunning. By then, I'd had more sexual encounters than other boys my age, even counting their boastful and comical lies, and I was no stranger to the female form. Before me, I had to admit, was the most perfect example I'd ever seen—at least clothed. I spotted my best friend Wayne seated in the front row and grabbed the desk beside him. He gave me that sophomoric male, oh-my-god look. I tore off a corner of notebook paper, quickly scribbling a more sophisticated reaction, but explicit observation about our new teacher. Leaning toward Wayne's desk, I passed him the note. He read it and responded with a laughing smile. What I didn’t realize was that new teacher had seen me pass the note. She walked toward Wayne and asked to see it. My heart stopped. Big trouble lay ahead if she read those words.

I wasn't exactly a model student; the wild me had been trying out “trouble” as my middle name for a few years now, so Wayne needed to do what I would undoubtedly do for him—come up with anything possible to keep her from getting that note. Desperate, I telepathically bludgeoned Wayne with the instruction to eat the note when I heard him cowardly blurt out, "Okay," and extend his hand to her with the note in it. After giving him a look that strongly suggested I'd later rearrange a few of his facial features, I glanced her way and noticed she seemed to be reading the note. She folded it up, and with no expression or show of emotion, she turned to me and asked my name. I managed to stutter, "Ke-Keith."

"Hmm… Keith? Well, Keith, would you stay after class?" Knowing I would face serious consequences, I decided to relax; what was the point of worrying further? With almost foolish confidence, I replied, "Sure, happy to,” meeting her gaze directly and confidently with a half-smile, almost a smirk on my face. She didn’t look away, and my keen powers of observation noted the slightest hint of a smile. But sure I was wrong, I quickly pushed that thought out of my mind—there’s no way this would end well, and it was my stupid fault.

As I settled in for class, the thought of my potential punishment consumed me. That note had been quite graphic. Suspension was likely in my near future, and I couldn't imagine being allowed to stay in this class any longer. No student would get away with expressing, much less inscribing, lewd comments about a teacher’s anatomy. Until now, my only interactions with females older than me, aside from my earlier sexual abuser, had been with the older sisters of a few very short-term girlfriends. None had been more than three or four years older than me, still teenagers. But this teacher was much older, an adult who held authority over me. I certainly wasn't thinking of her as a sexual partner; she was more likely the person who was about to justifiably deal me another setback, pushing me one step closer to social services and a foster home.

Time passed in fits and starts. Finally, after remaining silent throughout her class, a glance at my watch told me it would soon wrap up—and then there it was: the bell. I stayed seated and watched my classmates file past me into the hallway. As the last few strolled by, my earlier confidence slipped away, replaced by a sudden wave of anxiety. Still seated, I prepared for my fate as best I could.

She was writing something in a notebook, not looking up or in my direction. Eventually, she set her pen down and glanced my way. But instead of asking me to come to her desk, she crossed the room and closed the door. Her next move caught me off guard—she walked over, grabbed the desk where Wayne had been sitting, and slid it closer to me.

Then she sat down, smiled, and asked, "You live alone, don't you?"

That caught me off guard, but I regained my composure and replied in a still surprised tone, "Where did you hear that?"

"Mr. Potter mentioned it during our meetings last week regarding our lesson plans. Since I’m new, I asked teachers to look at my class rolls and share anything about specific students that might be useful. Seems you have quite a reputation, Keith. More than a few told me you're very intelligent, and Ms. Gaff, the cheerleading coach, said you’d dated at least half the squad, even a few of the older ones. Mr. Potter said that despite being in and out of trouble, you were much more mature than your classmates, and he added you now live alone."

She tilted her head slightly. "How is that possible? You're only 16, aren't you?" Sam Potter was the only one at school I'd told about living alone. Two weeks ago, while heading to the locker room to suit up for preseason football practice, I ran into him in the parking lot. He'd been my sociology teacher the year before—a great teacher who genuinely cared about his students. It felt good to talk to someone, and I felt safe sharing my circumstances with him. Reluctant to share details and trying to absorb that she knew a lot about me, I answered in a measured and curt voice, “Yes, I'm living alone. My parents moved to New Jersey. I didn't want to go, so here I am.” I'd asked Sam to keep that information private, but looking at her, I could easily imagine how she might have loosened him up. I wanted to ask her not to tell anyone else—that fact could get me shipped off to social services and a foster home—but I was on shaky ground and in no position to expect favors.

"You do seem more mature than your friends," she said. "You didn't flinch when I asked you to stay after class. You looked me directly in the eye and answered with a lot of confidence."

I'd heard the part about maturity before from older girls and adults. When you're the only adult in your home, learning to read the room to avoid being beaten, taking care of your younger siblings, managing all the household duties, and lying awake night after night, sorting through confused remorse from sexual abuse... you grow up fast. The tragedy is that I hadn’t truly grown up. I wasn’t ready for adult experiences, no matter how mature I thought I might be.

Her eyes brightened before I could process what was happening—why I wasn't being reprimanded and sent to the office for disciplinary action. She noticeably lowered her voice, almost whispering, "Do you really think so?" Now, I was more confused, not understanding what she meant. All I could manage was an incredulous, "What?"

"You know, what you wrote. Do you think so? You're not in trouble. I'm actually very flattered." The fog began to clear as I regained my composure and voice. I heard myself say something born of my 16-year-old adolescence that forced open a Pandora's Box, releasing demons that would negatively impact my life for years to come—something my inexperienced younger self couldn't foresee—"My god, yes, you're gorgeous."

She blushed, then reached over and rested her hand on my thigh. Leaning in, she said, "That's so sweet. Men never say things like that to me. I've always been self-conscious about my appearance." And there it was—that vulnerable, self-doubting look suggesting emotional wounds. My instinct to comfort and fix her immediately overwhelmed my better judgment. "I don't believe that," I hurriedly said. "You're beautiful. Any man would recognize how attractive you are. Tell me, what do you see when you look in the mirror?" I had asked that same question of other girls wrestling with body image issues, even physically dragging some of them to a full-length mirror so I could point out to them, feature by feature, if necessary, that they needn't worry about their looks.

Her response, however, caught me completely off guard. The vulnerability vanished as she replied in a suddenly firm, confident, almost sultry voice, "Dressed or naked?"

My expression must have revealed my surprise because she quickly backpedaled. "Oh god, I didn't mean to… I was just kidding, trying to help you relax. Halfway through class, I realized I'd probably terrified you. I'm sorry, forget the note. Like I said, it didn't upset me at all."

"I thought I was done," I admitted after regaining my composure. "The note was stupid—I never should have written it. I'm sorry, but I'm relieved you're not upset. That's the last thing I'd want, Ms. Caster.”

"Karen," she corrected. "My name's Karen, and please, call me that when we're not in class or around other students." I often sought out adults who could discuss world affairs and intellectual topics that my peers neither understood nor cared about. The high school faculty, many of whom recognized my intelligence and maturity, had become my personal salon, allowing me to engage with educated, like-minded individuals about my interests. However, with her, I sensed that something entirely different was unfolding. Teachers often allowed me to use their first names, but she was the first to offer this privilege without being prompted.

Trying to ignore the nagging pull in the far reaches of my mind, I managed, “Okay, Karen, it's nice to meet you, and thank you for giving me a pass on the note." Something about this felt painfully familiar. Once again, an attractive, significantly older woman, in a sexual context (the note), was noticing me, this time the fact that I live alone.

The note—yes, I wrote it—but I recall the instant regret that followed, that sinking feeling when I recognized I had betrayed myself. Not because I feared getting caught, but because those words weren't me. I had been playing a part, trying to convince Wayne I could be just another guy who reduced women to bodies and crude jokes. These performances, often centered on this and other topics, for my peers were exhausting. No doubt, I was different, but being different can attract cruelty. I just wanted to be a regular kid. In reality, I cherished the women in my life, listened to them, and considered them equal, complete individuals. Anyone who knew me would have been shocked by that note—it was the impersonation of someone I thought I should be, not who I was.

Trying to brush these thoughts aside, I spoke again, addressing her as ‘Karen,’ as she’d asked. “The fact I live alone is not well known here at school, and that fact could land me in social services and, ultimately, a foster home. I’d be grateful if you kept that information to yourself, Karen.” When her name rolled off my tongue, I was sure I saw a subtle change in her expression, one I thought I recognized but couldn’t label.

“Oh, God, I’d never want to get you into trouble; I won’t tell a soul, I promise. Now, for scaring you half to death, let me make it up to you. I’m guessing you don’t get many home-cooked meals. Have dinner with me and my husband tonight; we’ll get to know each other better. I’m sensing you’re very interesting, with a story to tell, and if you want someone to talk to…”. The truth was, between my classmates' moms and older sisters—I was a pretty good cook myself—I didn’t lack great meals. Still, I didn’t mind taking her up on the conversation. A red flag had gone up earlier, but she seemed pretty nice, and some adult conversation would be welcome. Anyway, her husband will be there.

“Okay, I’ll take you up on that. Any ideas what you’re serving? I’ll bring the wine.”

Tilting her head, her tell before she asks a question, she said, “Again, aren’t you 16? And what do you know about wines?”

“Well, my grandfather’s family is from France and Italy, and when my great-grandfather immigrated here, he brought with him scions from their vineyards in northern Italy and planted them where they settled in the North Carolina mountains. When I was visiting, I grabbed a few bottles from my grandfather’s cellar a month ago. I know it’s not legal for me to drink, but wine has been on the table at my grandparents’ since I was a little kid, and I was taught how to drink wine at a very early age. So, I enjoy a glass now and then.

“Wow! You’re full of surprises; I’m going to enjoy getting to know you better. Yes, you may contribute the wine, but I thought we’d grill a few steaks. That okay with you?”

“Absolutely. Write down your address and phone number for me, and I’ll see you at…”

“Let’s say 7.00.”

“Okay, it’s a date…I mean…uh, I’ll see you at 7.” She laughed, clearly amused by my awkward reference to ‘date,’ and I turned to leave.

Her place wasn’t hard to find; it was an apartment in the east end of the county, near where I’d played Legion ball the previous summer. It looked nice enough, and I found her unit and rang her doorbell. The door opened, and there she stood, her blouse completely open, with something in her hand that looked like makeup. Her open top caught my attention, first because she was making no attempt to cover up, and second, where was her husband? It wasn’t too cool to greet your half-dressed teacher with her husband standing there.

“Come in, sit anywhere. I’ll be right back.” She dashed down a hallway, disappearing through one of the doors. Instead of finding a seat, I looked around for the kitchen to put the wine away. Once I found it, I slipped the bottle into the fridge. It was a red, specifically a Pinot Nero (nero is the Italian word for noir), and as my grandfather had taught me, it’s probably the only red best served slightly chilled, but not cold. I checked my watch and decided to take it out in 20 minutes.

With the wine taken care of, I headed back to find a place to sit down, opting for a single chair by the sliding glass door that led to a small terrace. Still no husband; maybe he was running late from work.

Just as I was about to get comfortable, Karen appeared down the hall and entered the room. Looking more put together this time, she looked even better than I remembered from earlier that day. Weren’t we planning to grill something? She wore a clingy silk blouse, a tight short skirt, and four-inch black heels. She was dressed far better than I was in my old jeans and T-shirt.

“You should have said we’d be dressing up; you look great.” It's not necessarily how I’d phrase my compliment if her husband weren’t there. I had religiously watched Cary Grant movies and thought I knew how to compliment a woman, but where was he? “I’m looking forward to meeting your husband.”

Her next words weren’t necessary; I could have gotten the gist of them from her expression: “Well, about that… he’s interning as a doctor, and I simply forgot that he was on a 48-hour shift that started today at Emory.”

“I’ll go then, I’m not sure…”. This didn’t seem right; the red flags were practically flapping in the breeze.

“No! Don’t go. I promised you dinner, and that’s what we’re going to do. I’ve screwed up your day enough already. Please, won’t you stay? Randall, my husband, said you should stay, and you could help yourself to his Scotch.” She seemed to be reaching out to me now, and her voice was caring. What’s the harm, I figured. Besides, I had developed a taste for Scotch; a sometime bedmate regularly raided her father’s liquor cabinet, and I’d discovered I suffered no hangover from it. Perhaps Karen is a cool teacher who acknowledges that some of her students are more mature than others.

I decided to stay. Dinner with Karen proved to be more engaging than I had anticipated—her mind was as impressive as her looks. We glided from discussing whether the Allies should have apologized for war crimes in WWII to the topic of the US as an imperial power after the Korean War. We then suddenly found ourselves debating whether the pill had transformed America's sexual landscape. The topic clearly fascinated Karen, although not for the reasons I might have guessed.

It was 1970. The birth control pill had been available for a decade, but we were witnessing a significant evolution. The first generation had revealed its dangers—estrogen levels so high that they were putting women at risk. Ortho Pharmaceutical, where my father worked, had released a new formulation with FDA approval just that year: only 1.5 mg of estrogen, yet still 98% effective. When I mentioned this, Karen's expression changed. She confessed to experiencing leg swelling and even a blood clot after starting the pill. I asked about her prescription and dosage, and couldn't hide my shock when she told me.

"Your doctor is either hopelessly outdated or dangerously negligent," I said. "That pill could kill you. You've stopped taking it, right?" She studied me, clearly wondering about the source of my “diagnosis.”

"I had to stop. The damn thing made me gain fifteen pounds, too. I couldn't have that." Her head tilted slightly. "How do you know all this about birth control?"

"My father works for Ortho," I explained. "Five years now. The pharmaceutical reps get an entire medical library – everything from The Kinsey Report to Masters and Johnson's complete works. The same reference library you'd find in any major OB/GYN practice." I shrugged, downplaying it. "I’m a fast reader, so I've gone through all the medical research, product abstracts, clinical studies – everything." I hesitated, unsure whether to reveal the rest of it, how I'd been quietly "prescribing" the newer, safer 1.5mg pills to girls at school. Some had been taking the dangerous higher doses; others had mothers who refused to let them get protection. The cost was prohibitive—over a dollar per pill meant monthly prescriptions exceeding thirty dollars, a small fortune for teenagers in 1970 unless parents were footing the bill. My father's garage had turned into an unintentional warehouse. Dozens of sample cases, each containing one hundred Ortho "DialPaks”—their innovative packaging designed to ensure women took the right pill on the right day. He never inventoried them, occasionally tossing a few in his trunk for sales calls. I'd begun liberating a case here and there. One hundred DialPaks stretched surprisingly far when passed along to just a dozen or so grateful girls.

Karen's eyes widened slightly as she processed what I had just shared. “Most guys,” she said, “couldn't even handle a conversation about us getting our periods without squirming, let alone discuss estrogen dosages in birth control formulations. You know, you're not like most 16-year-olds," she said, studying me with newfound curiosity. "Most guys your age are still giggling at the word 'breast' in health class.” I shrugged, though I couldn't help feeling a little "grown-up" in a good way. It wasn't the first time I had heard something like this. Teachers often mistook my vocabulary and knowledge for that of someone much older. Girls at school would seek me out with questions they were too embarrassed to ask anyone else, treating me like some combination of confidant and doctor. What started as dry conversations about their periods or contraception often evolved into deeper confidences—their insecurities, desires, and experiences. It wasn't surprising that many of these relationships eventually turned physical. Once you've discussed someone's most intimate bodily functions in matter-of-fact terms, the usual awkward barriers to sex seem almost trivial by comparison. They trusted me with their medical and emotional concerns; trusting me with their bodies felt like a natural progression. "It's just information," I said, downplaying it. "I happened to have access to books that most people don't see until medical school. The human body isn't mysterious or embarrassing—it's just biology."

What I didn't say was how this knowledge had placed me in an awkward middle ground. Adults would forget my age when I spoke about topics like reproductive health with clinical precision, only to remember and become uncomfortable suddenly. Meanwhile, my male peers found my knowledge intimidating, rarely viewing me as just another guy. I tried to hide this side of myself, but trying to be what I thought my friends wanted me to be was exhausting. In some ways, this premature expertise had robbed me of normal adolescent fumbling. While other boys were still decoding the mysteries of female anatomy through whispered rumors and magazines hidden under their mattresses, I had textbook diagrams and clinical studies crowding my mind. Sometimes, I wondered if knowing too much too soon had caused me to miss something essential about growing up.

While my mind raced, Karen sat in silence, clearly processing something. The ball was in my court to keep the conversation going, but I was at a loss for something profound to say. "More wine?" I offered lamely. "About a glass and a half left—I'll split it with you."

She hesitated. "If I have more wine, I may do something I'll regret." Then she smiled. "But what the hell—yeah, let's finish the bottle." I briefly considered cutting her off, then dismissed the thought. She's an adult. She can make her own decisions. After a few more sips, Karen suggested moving to the living room. I made my way to the same chair as before, but she gestured toward the sofa where she was already settled. I perched as far away as possible, practically pressed against the armrest. Once comfortable, she turned to me. "Let's get back to this birth control pill thing. Are you sure I'm on the wrong one? And you know which one I should be taking?"

"Well, after hearing what your doctor prescribed and your problems..." I spoke with unexpected confidence, fueled perhaps by the wine or her attentiveness. "I might be more qualified than your doctor to help with this. I have a few DialPaks in my car—would you like some?" Was I really suggesting I knew better than her physician? Was I about to become her "dealer"? "Look, let me run out to the car. I'll grab you three—you'll be set for the next three months."

I retrieved them in less than five minutes. Returning to my distant position on the sofa, I said, "I'm sure you know how to take them and when to start the cycle."

She tilted her head slightly. "I thought I did, but apparently, I've been told a lot of wrong things. Why don't you explain it to me?”.

This was my chance to excuse myself—to suggest she talk to a doctor, thank her for dinner, and leave. Instead, I decided to stay, reasoning it was for her health. Her quack doctor could have told her anything.

"The cool thing about Ortho's DialPak is that you know exactly where you are, day-wise," I began, sounding like a hip Ortho commercial. "As you already know, there are 28 pills..."

"No," she interrupted, "my prescription was for 21 pills. Then I'd have to remember when I started and take one every day. Some days, I couldn't remember if I'd taken them, so I might have skipped or taken them twice. I hate keeping track."

I'd heard this countless times from girls I'd helped—this was familiar territory. "With the DialPak, there are 21 active, hormone-containing pills, then seven inactive ones which help maintain a regular cycle. Here, let me show you." I opened one packet and unconsciously slid closer to demonstrate. "See, there's even a day of the week by each pill slot. You rotate the dial and remove that day's pill. The danger with losing count, which is easy with the old packaging, is that skipping days might turn them into a fertility drug. And doubling up gives you an estrogen overdose, which could be dangerous." I paused. "Do you smoke?" Recent studies have suggested that smoking while on the pill could be a problem for some women.

"No, never—it's nasty, don't you think?"

I nodded. Cigarettes were perhaps my only vice-free zone. My mother had smoked two packs daily, trapping me in cars with the windows rolled up (fresh air caused pneumonia, according to her). Air conditioning was equally risky in her mind, so heat stroke and smoke inhalation just became more of the fun aspects of my childhood.

"I'm glad to hear you don't smoke," I replied, thinking about my mother. "I agree, it's a disgusting habit." I refocused. "Back to the pills. Are you still on the others?"

"No," she said. "I felt like I had to stop." She anticipated my next question. "And no, I did not tell my doctor."

"Actually, I was going to ask if your period started right after you stopped and whether it was normal." God, now I'm discussing my teacher's menstrual cycle with her.

Karen didn't seem bothered at all. "Yes, and it was a light one. It ended about a week ago. I'd been wondering just today what I was going to do next. And look, you showed up!"

I felt a little dizzy, and it wasn't the wine. This situation felt both familiar and foreign at the same time. I wanted to know what I should think or feel about it. I needed to pull myself together; I didn't want Karen to notice the trembling that used to happen when...

Her voice snapped me back. "So you're saying I need to start these pills tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest? Is that right?"

"Yes, that's exactly right, but..." I hesitated, struggling to find the words that needed to be said for her and her husband's sake.

"But what?" She pushed the ball firmly back into my court, and I decided to continue.

“This is very important—if you and your husband have sex tomorrow, you should take five of these pills no later than the next morning. I have no idea how you were taking those other pills, and stopping abruptly creates a transition period that might make you more likely to get pregnant.”

"And why would I take five at once?" Her voice and expression made it clear she'd never heard this before. I wasn't surprised. A few years earlier, an Ortho scientist had discovered that an excessive dose of estrogen, taken within 24 hours of intercourse, could function like a single-dose contraceptive for that specific encounter. Ortho had never published these findings, and it would be years before this became common "street" knowledge—essentially an early morning-after pill.

“Because taking a handful, five is sufficient, is like a one-dose contraceptive. Just save the Dialpak you took the five from; save it for the same thing again, as needed, and I’ll get you another one so you’ll have a full three-month supply. And if you’re wondering, you can’t just take five when you have sex instead of taking the pills as prescribed. That’s dangerous if you’re having sex every day, anyway.”

Before I knew it, she had moved closer to me, leaning against me as I spoke. When I finished, she looked at me with those wide eyes that seemed to take in everything.

"There's something about you," she said softly. "I feel like, in the very short time we've been talking, I could tell you anything. Has anyone else ever said that to you?" She gauged my expression and quickly added, "Of course they have; it's written all over your face." I noticed a smile at the corner of her lips.

"Remember when I said Ms. Gaff mentioned you'd gone through half the cheerleaders? I didn't give that much thought then, but I'm getting it now. You've got them on the pill, don't you? My god, that's the most clever thing I've ever heard of to get a woman into bed, the pill as party favors! You're their OB/GYN, aren't you, with a dash of confidant thrown in?"

Those remarks didn't seem inappropriate, even though they actually were, but rather insulting. I never intentionally tried to lure any girl into having sex with me. Yes, I'd had sex with more than a few girls at my school and some at other schools, but it was never the result of some clever scheme I devised to get someone into bed.

I spat angrily, "No, it's not like that. I'd never do that. You know, it's time to go, I'll find my way out."

But before I could fully rise off the sofa, she pulled me back down, her hands firmly grasping my arm and shoulder. "I'm so sorry," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I didn't realize—you think you're helping. And yes, you are helping. I'm just stupid, and I'm sure it's the wine talking." She didn't let go of my arm. Instead, her grip softened, and her thumb traced small circles against my sleeve.

"It's just that... I've heard things about you. Good things. That you listen. That you understand." Her eyes met mine, holding my gaze. "I shouldn't have put it like that. It was crude, but I'm curious about you and a little nervous, and sometimes, when I'm nervous, I say the wrong things."

I felt myself relax slightly, though I remained wary. "What exactly have you heard?”

"That you're safe. That you care." She smiled, a vulnerable expression of sadness and resignation crossing her face. "And right now, I could use someone who cares." She shifted, her knee brushing against mine.

"Could we start over? Pretend I didn't just make a complete fool of myself? Maybe enjoy the rest of our wine?"

The vulnerability in her voice seemed genuine, causing me to second-guess my reaction. Maybe I had misunderstood. "I don't need wine to talk with you," I said, maintaining some emotional distance.

"No," she agreed, "but it might help me be less nervous." She reached for her glass, drinking deeply. "Besides, I think we both need to unwind a little. Today's been... intense." As she handed me my glass, her fingers lingered against mine. "I don't usually let people see me like this. Messy. Uncertain. You should feel special." The sincerity in her apology, her unguarded vulnerability, and the gentle pressure of her fingertips against my arm began to dissolve my tension. I felt my wariness ebbing away, although some instinct still warned me from the far reaches of my memories. As I set my glass on the table and turned toward her, she leaned in to close the distance between us, her lips finding mine in a tentative kiss. Neither pulling away nor responding, I sensed her sharply draw a breath before she pulled back slightly, her eyes searching mine.

"Please, I need you... to take me to bed. Now."

With the careful deliberation of someone embarking on a fateful journey, I stood, looked down at her, and surprised myself by extending my hand to hers. I slowly helped her up and pulled her close, kissing her first tenderly and then more passionately. I may have briefly wondered what I was getting into. Still, the wounded child within me, desperate for any form of validation and connection, surrendered to both my ego and what I would only understand years later as her calculated exploitation of my vulnerabilities.

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