Huh? I look at the music on my music stand. It's just black notes on a white page. They're both old dead guys. I don't get it. What is she so worked up about?

But Miss Harper, my music teacher, doesn't seem angry at me. I think she's just being dramatic. I do not understand teachers. She reaches out and –

touches me. My heart stops. Her palm is firmly against my chest. She's totally violating my body space.

No, she's totally conquering my body space. This is the most alive I've ever felt. I can see her red nail polish. She explains earnestly, "You have to play Tchaikovsky with your heart."

My heart is pounding. I can't talk – I can barely nod yes. I feel like jelly.

Then she takes her hand away and places it back on her lap, looks at the music, and says in a normal voice, as if the world didn't just change which direction it was turning in, "Try it from the start. Try to feel the music."

I look back at ordinary black notes on a white piece of paper. My cock is throbbing with pleasure and I just got the world's quickest boner. I hope she can't see it. Or doesn't notice it, she's supposed to be paying attention to Tchaikovsky.

So am I. I try to play with more feeling, but it's hard to concentrate – I keep thinking about her hand on my chest, over my heart; I can still feel how warm her hand was.

Of course I knew Miss Harper was a female. When I watched her teach us high school orchestra, I appreciated her body parts. But she's my teacher, so I never paid any attention to her in that way. Now the lizard part of my brain is lighting up like she's the only female in the world.

She's new at our high school – she graduated from college last year. So I'm too young for her, obviously. And too immature, obviously. But her hand on my chest was the most exciting thing I ever experienced.

She nods. "That's better."

I get a burst of happiness – I really want to please the now most important female in my world.

"Try again from the start. Try to find that feeling."

So I start again from the start, trying to understand what she meant and play the way she wants me too, with feeling. Then after a few minutes, she stands up, stands next to me but a little behind me, and –

touches me again. He hand is on my shoulder. Again violating my body space. Again making my lizard brain come alive.

I completely fall apart and stop playing. She asks, "Did you practice this part?"

My boner is back. Her hand is warm; the pressure is light. I'm afraid to turn around and look at her – I'm afraid of what she'll see in my face, it won't be thoughts of Tchaikovsky. What did she ask me?

She takes her hand off my shoulder and points to a place just before where I fell apart. "Start there. Take it a little slower." And she sits back down in her chair next to me, looking at the music.

I side-glance at her typical teacher shoes, panty hose, and skirt down over her knees. Her calves are really sexy. She is now the sexiest woman in the world. All because of two touches that meant nothing to her.

I did practice. Now I wish I had practiced more. I thought this after-school session was required. Everyone else in the orchestra somehow knew it was optional, so I'm the only student here, her first-chair violin. I would have skipped out too, and then no one would have been here. Now I feel guilty for that.

And apparently I need the help. What the hell is the difference between Tchaikovsky and Bach? I try to play with more feeling.

"Stop for a minute."

I stop.

"Try holding your bow with your thumb just a closer to the end."

I move it closer, but apparently my thumb still isn't in the right place, because she stands up, walks behind me, reaches OVER ME (!), and repositions my hand. Her breast is grazing my back. The skin of her hand is on my hand. I'm so aroused; I'm going to have sore balls for days.

I try playing with my thumb in that new position. It feels awkward. I don't like it, but I am NOT moving it – she wants it there, and I'll happily do whatever she wants. All because of three touches.

And then we're done. "I'm going to offer after-school rehearsal again tomorrow. I hope more people come." She adds, "It was exciting how much you improved with just a little direction."

I try to say thanks, but I can only nod. I start packing up my violin. I hope, for her sake, that more people come.

But I'm desperately hoping that tomorrow it's just me again.

That night I have my strongest orgasm ever.


Wednesday

I watch Miss Harper in orchestra. I watch her breasts. I watch her legs. I watch as she smiles and winces and tries to encourage people to play better. I watch her concentrate as she directs the orchestra. I study her hips and ass and how she moves them.

She's become everything to me. I could watch her drink water and fall in love with her neck. I could watch her read a book and admire the way she moves her eyes. Even her ears are sexy.

And she never touches anyone in orchestra. She has to be a toucher. But not in front of everyone, not in class.

"Stop playing."

I stop. Again, I'm the only one who came to the after-school lesson, so I get all of her attention.

"Let me see your hand."

I hold out my hand where she can see it. I can't breathe.

And she touches me again. She takes my hand in hers, and I get an immediate boner. She touches one of my fingers. It's her skin on mine.

Apparently she feels like she can invade my body space whenever she wants, without asking, and I won't mind. She can, she certainly can – invade away, Miss Harper, my body is open for invasion.

"This callus." She touches my callus. I have to take a breath. "It's not supposed to be here." I suddenly feel guilty for having that callus.

She touches another callus. "This one's typical for playing the violin." She holds out her hand. "See my callus?" She looks up at me uncertainly, then back at her hand. Her finger traces a gentle circle around her callus.

Her callus is in the same place as my good callus. Her hand is elegant and sexy, but I can see some tiny wrinkles I wouldn't see on a high school hand.

I want to touch her callus, but that's pretty much impossible for me to do. "Nice callus," I offer.

She makes a quick little smile at my compliment and I feel wonderful. Then she goes back to being serious. "So there must be something a little odd about the way you move your fingers over the strings. Try again from the start."

She watches me play, then shouts excitedly, "I see it!" I stop. She points to a transition from D to F# on the page, then says, "Play it very slowly."

Then she leans across me. Her shoulder length platinum blond air is in my face, and I'm smelling strawberry. When I get to those two notes, she pushes on my fingers (sending me to heaven), guiding them into a slightly different position. "Like that," she says, then sits back in her chair. "Play it again."

The different positioning feels awkward and unnatural, because it's new, but I can already tell it's a little smoother. And she was right about the position of my thumb yesterday. I'm in awe of how much she knows about playing the violin.

And I play some more while she listens. And I can actually feel now how Tchaikovsky needs more emotion. So my playing is better.

And then we're done. She casually touches my knee, like she owns my body space, like she assumes without thinking that she can touch whatever she wants. "You did very well today. It's a lot better. You could always play the notes, but now you're capturing the feeling."

Am I supposed to be masturbating to my teacher? I don't think there's any rules against it, but that's probably too gross to put in our student code book. And I can't really be asking females for permission to use them in my masturbation fantasies, that's beyond awkward. Plus they'll all say no, and then where will I be?

But she's my teacher. I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be using her for that. But my cock just plays floppy fish until I start thinking about Miss Harper. Then it's really happy and makes me really happy too.


Thursday

My last class goes late, and I walk into after-school practice five minutes late. I'm overjoyed to see that no one else is here.

Then I see the discouraged look on Miss Harper's face – she thought no one was coming, not even me. She deserves better. Students can be such jerks. Then she sees me and puts on the cheery teacher face she always has in orchestra.

I suddenly realize – Miss Harper tries to look cheery even when she's not. In orchestra, when we aren't trying as hard as we should, or just basically goofing off, she just smiles and tries to encourage us. Now I can see she's hiding her discouraged feelings from us.

For the first time in my life I feel like I'm understanding a female. They were always just these dangerous creatures with breasts, behaving in erratic and unpredictable ways.

I put my hand on her shoulder as I pass by, to try to help her feel better, and I say, "Thanks for doing this for me."

I touched her. I didn't mean to do that, I just felt so bad for her. I wasn't thinking; it was like I might touch my mom to try to cheer her up.

Except Miss Harper isn't my mom. She's staring at my hand. She isn't smiling. I pull my hand away from her shoulder, trying to pretend like my hand doesn't exist, trying to pretend like that didn't happen.

What I did looked harmless, but she knows it wasn't. BUT SHE DOESN'T SAY ANYTHING! She just thinks, in her determined way. I sit down, and she says, "Thanks for coming. Let's work on Brahms today."

It's black notes on a white piece of paper. I don't know if I'm supposed to play Brahms like he's Bach or Tchaikovsky. I don't actually understand what she means by Bach, so I try to play with feeling, just like yesterday.

"Stop for a second."

I stop. She points to the page. "Play this again." I play it again. To me, it feels sad.

"Stop." She looks at me. Her hand reaches out to touch my arm, then she stops. Now my body space somehow has a psychic force field? How do I get rid of that?

She explains, "Tchaikovsky Sad is like being at a funeral. Brahms Sad is like your b-" She stops. Pain flashes across her face. "Girlfriend breaking up with you."

I wouldn't have noticed her pain before, because she's putting that cheery smile on her face. But she's remembering something painful. So she understands Brahms Sad. Meanwhile, I'm clueless.

She looks down at her hand, which is still hanging midair, and she quickly puts it back in her lap alongside her other hand. I expect her to be embarrassed, but she's her usual determined self, focusing on the music and teaching me. She asks worriedly, "Does that make sense?"

Not much. And I realize the obvious – she's female, and she's older than me, and she has some way of thinking about music that I don't understand.

But I desperately want to learn it. To please her.

I also want to learn to play better – I like music; I realize we both do. I ask, "The difference between Tchaikovsky and Brahms, is it like paint chips, when my mother asks my opinion about twenty different shades of off-white?"

She laughs. I made her laugh! Amazing! I am a God.

"The difference is subtle but important. Here, let me show you."

My breath stops, and I think she's going to touch my hand again. But she stands up and goes to her office, while I further memorize how she walks. She comes back with her violin and puts Tchaikovsky back on the music stand. Then she plays.

She's really good. I'm in awe of her, and I feel like I'm listening to an angel play the violin. But I also try to pay attention and feel like I'm at a funeral. It sounds sad, but I knew that.

Then she goes to the Brahms part I was playing wrong. And she plays that. And it's different. Now she's Aphrodite, heartbroken over a lost lover.

When she's done, she looks at me. She says hopefully, "Could you hear how those two were a little different?"

I want to explain about her looking like an angel and then like Aphrodite, but that would just be embarrassing. "Yeah, I think so."

I get a smile from her. And then she goes back to her earnest teaching face. "Try Brahms again, from the start."

I start playing. I try to imagine my girlfriend has dropped me. And after about 12 measures, I stop. I wasn't getting it – even I can tell it wasn't there. I say to her, "I don't know if I can put it into my playing. But don't give up on me." I would die for her; disappointing her is so painful.

She just nods. She knew I wasn't getting it. I explain, "I never had a girlfriend."

"You will." We both realize how awkwardly off-topic that is. Then she says, "Maybe Brahms could be a baby deer that lost its mother."

"That sounds too sad." No offense, but. It is.

She smiles. "Welcome to the world of Brahms."

Oh. She's serious about being sad. So I try again. I play more than last time, then stop. "I was starting to feel it, but I need to do a lot better. I know that." My desire to please her makes my chest ache.

"A day at a time. Slow improvement is all we violinists are ever given."

I'm surprised she thinks of me as a real violinist, but it makes me really proud too. "Let me practice it tonight. I promise, I'll get it." Somehow. I hope.

She looks at the clock. "We should probably stop here."

"Thanks for helping me."

"Your welcome. You have a lot of potential." She returns to her office. I pack up, bursting with happiness and confidence.

But she didn't touch me. That's so disappointing. But I touched her.

What does that mean? I really do not understand females. What am I supposed to do? Look up on the internet what it means when your female teacher stops touching you inappropriately?

Argh, she has to have a boyfriend, she's so nice and attractive. I am TOTALLY CRUSHED. I finally look her up on Facebook. She doesn't admit to any boyfriend. That's a partial relief.

I look through old pictures and piece it together – she had a boyfriend, and they broke up when she moved here to take this job. Unless she quickly found a boyfriend here, she's all alone.

Maybe that's the pain she's hiding. I imagine that when I practice Brahms.

I could feel her bra strap under her blouse when I put my hand on her shoulder. My cock is having the best week of its life.


Friday

I don't touch her as I come in, because I want her to touch me. Plus I don't think I could. But she doesn't touch me as I play.

But I do a good job on Brahms, and she's all smiles about my playing. So I'm happy.

As I'm leaving, I want to touch her, but I know I shouldn't. Then I do anyway – I give her a light punch to her shoulder, a totally guy thing except more delicate. And I say, "Have a great weekend."

Honestly, I did everything I could to make that look completely innocent.

She looks at my hand as I give her that light punch, then she keeps looking at her shoulder. So she totally noticed. I knew I shouldn't touch her. But she's just thinking in her determined way. Then she looks at me, all serious, and says, "You too."

That went well! I walk out feeling like I could conquer the world. Even Brahms.


Monday

I decided over the weekend that, except for my nightly masturbating, we just have a Platonic Relationship. She's the teacher, I'm the student. She's graduated from college and had a boyfriend and no doubt had sex with him; I'm in high school and never went on a date or kissed a girl. I have a totally inappropriate, immature crush on her, but she's just teaching me violin.

And she's stopped touching me. And I've decided to stop touching her. Platonic.

But when I'm walking by her to sit down, her bra strap is showing, and before I realize it my hand is on her shoulder as Platonically as I can fake, and I say in an ordinary way, "Who are we doing today?"

That was stupid! Maybe I've been spending too much time showing her my emotions in the music, and now it's leaking out by itself. But she acts like she didn't notice my hand.

I violate her body space and she doesn't say anything? That doesn't seem Platonic. I'm confused.

Finally she says, "I thought we'd do Bach. I'll give you a rest from all that emoting." She gives me her cheery smile that hides her pain.

I have no idea what I'm supposed to do about her pain, which is pretty much how it always is with me and females. So I start playing Bach, with as much feeling as I can, hoping that's right.

It isn't – she stops me pretty quickly. "You're playing Bach like he was Tchaikovsky. Bach is more mathematical."

What does that mean? No feeling? Going back to the way I used to play? I try to play with no emotion. She sits and listens.

There's a tricky fingering I don't know how to handle. I flub it a little bit, then I stop. I pick up my music, lean over to her, touching my shoulder against hers, and I point to where I have my question. She doesn't move away, she just looks at the music and answers my question. She doesn't even look at our shoulders.

Does she not even notice? I'm a high school student and she lets me touch her?

Then I get to a part that seems – to me, I'm just the student, what do I know? – like it's sad. Even though it's Bach. So I'm trying to play it without emotion, but it doesn't feel right. This is another first for me – there's some emotion I want in the music, even if I can't put it in my playing.

I again take the music and place it in front of her. "Is this supposed to be sad? Even though it's Bach?" The thing is, the back of my hand is sitting on her thigh, underneath the music I'm holding. I'm actually surprised at first how her thigh isn't a lot of muscle, but of course it's my thigh that has muscle, though not a lot – I am after all, a violin player. But I'm still a guy. She's a woman. Body fat and all.

Feeling her thigh makes my cock feel like Christmas and the Fourth of July. It is, once again, boner time.

"I don't know," she says in her so-determined way. She studies the music some more, then shakes her head and says, "Let me try playing it."

She goes to her office and gets her violin; then she comes back and plays that section of Bach. She says  – I think she's talking to me, but she isn't looking at me, so maybe she's talking to herself – "That was mathematical." She plays it again. It's better, and I tell her that when she's done.

"Yeah, but I don't know how to explain the difference. I just . . . played it differently, you know?" She looks to me for approval.

"Let me try again. I want to see what happens." Now it's like we're working together to solve this music puzzle.

And I play it again. I can't capture what she did, but I get my own version of Mathematical Sad. And I kind of like it, to be honest. I offer an apology, "Sorry, that wasn't what you did. But it was better than before, right?"

"I liked it. And you should always be yourself." I am now officially bursting with pride.

We work some more, then it's time to finish up. I quickly put my hand on her arm, then take it away and ask which composer we're doing tomorrow. She says, "Shoenberg."

"Never heard of him," I add, "or her." I'm showing off that I know a great composer doesn't have to be male.

"That was a musical joke. Sorry. Who do you want to do?"

"Black Sabbath." She laughs. That's twice I've made her laugh, even if I am only a high school student. I love this part of being a male.

I lightly stroke the back of her neck as I walk by her. I don't know why I did that. I think maybe she's teaching me to show my feelings?

She doesn't even react. I have NO IDEA what's happening. Why does she let me touch her? All she has to do is flinch away and I'll stop, but she doesn't. It makes me feel like I own her body, even though I know I don't.

Our innocent touching is playing some serious games on my head.

But I'm not stopping – I love it.


Tuesday

I come in the next day and she's in her office. "Just a minute," she calls out to me. She sounds happy and excited. "I'll be right there."

I sit and take out my violin. Was she in her office to avoid me touching her shoulder? Probably. I have to stop touching her.

She comes out with the hugest grin on her face, carrying her phone and a speaker. She sits down, plays with her phone a little, and out comes Paranoid, by Black Sabbath, played on a violin!

It totally blows me away. I mean, the violinist has drums and a guitar for accompaniment. But he's the soloist, and he's doing heavy metal with a violin. And he rocks it, he does. Or she. I had no idea that was possible.

When it's done, she still has that same grin. She's really proud of herself. I tell her, "That was awesome. Totally awesome."

"I know, right?"

"I want to give you a hug for that." I have no idea where that come from. I've become reckless. Fortunately, it's just a saying about how grateful I am. But she drops her eyes and shrugs. I lean over give her a friendly hug, and "That was amazing. Thank you so much."

She smiles at me. "It gets even better." She grabs some music that was next to her, waves it in the air, and shouts, "Ta da!" I have no idea what's happening until she puts it on my music stand. It's the violin solo to Paranoid. She pushes another button, the drum starts, and I fill in the violin solo, karaoke style.

I make mistakes on the first play-through. But it's the feeling that counts, she taught me that. There's not many mistakes the second time, and I sound like Black Sabbath played on a violin. When I'm done, she smiles at me and says, "Perfect."

I'm not sure. Perfection wasn't my goal. "Was I being myself?" Her face goes really serious, and she thinks. Then she just says, "Play it again."

So I do, but I try to forget Black Sabbath, and I try to forget that amazing violin player, and I try to find a sweet spot between who I am and what the music is. It's really clunky, because I really don't know what I'm trying to do emotionally. Plus I make as many playing mistakes as the first time through. But I could feel something great emerging.

I'm dying to hear what she thinks of me. She says earnestly, "It's exciting how you could find something different in that song."

"I can do better. I'm still just working out how I want to play that." Promise the sky and then deliver is apparently is my new motto. How does she make me do that?

She pats my knee and says, "I know you can." Then she realizes what she did and quickly takes her hand back.

Once more through the music, and I'm starting to get what I want. Playing with emotions is a world I want to explore. I ask Miss Harper, "Can I hear how you would play it?"

She just shakes her head no, still real serious. "I can't play it. I tried. I come out sounding like Bach." She flashes me big horror eyes, then gives me a real grin. "Or Brahms or Tchaikovsky. So you're on your own in interpreting this. But you're doing great."

But when I play it through one more time, she points out the places where I'm not getting the emotion I want, and she suggests how to fix it. So she understands what I'm trying to do, just from listening to my music. That's amazing. She's amazing.

She's really a good teacher, and I'm grateful. I'm flooded with a mixture of good feelings for her.


Wednesday

I walk in. She's still in her office – avoiding my entry touch? – so I sit down and take out my violin. There's already music on the stand. Something by Gorecki.

I never heard of him. Or her. She shouts from her office: "I'll be there in a minute. You can start playing." So I start playing Gorecki.

I don't understand it. It seems too repetitive. And slow – it's Bach on downers. Imagine someone very slowly telling you that one plus one is two, then they keep repeating that in every possible way.

She eventually comes out, walking towards me, this amazing collection of hips and breasts and skin and femaleness surrounding this amazing inner spirit of talent and seriousness and vulnerability. I'm thinkng about where I can touch her, but she looks unhappy. I wish I could make her happy, but I'm not sure how to even start. So I'm afraid to touch her when she sits down.

She doesn't say anything, she's kind of lost in thought, so I say, "Do you like Gorecki?" I don't know why she wanted me to play this unless she somehow likes it. But that's hard for me to imagine.

She looks at me. "He's my favorite."

Oh. Stupid me. This music must somehow be great. Now I desperately want to understand Gorecki and why she likes this music. So I start playing again, trying to play the music as well as I can.

But I'm not getting it, it still just seems boring. I can play the notes of course, they're easy, but I don't know what I'm supposed to be getting out of this. Forgot-to-do-my-math-homework Sad? So I'm just playing notes on a page. And I know that's wrong, but I don't know what's right.

I look to her for help, but she still seems lost in her own wistful thoughts. I stop playing and ask, "Is this supposed to be sad or happy?"

I'm interrupting some thought of hers, but she looks up at me, her eyes red, like she was crying before. "Hmmm, you can't think of Gorecki that way."

She puts her finger to her cheek and thinks. She looks so earnest. "Gorecki is more like . . . well, imagine this. Someday . . . someday you'll fall in love. With a wonderful woman who loves you. Imagine that."

I try. But all I can imagine is Miss Harper. Who's right in front of me.

"And you'll . . . you'll lie her down on the bed. And you'll see how beautiful she is."

She is.

"And you'll want to . . . you know."

I'm in agony just thinking about it. She's looking at me like I might not understand what she's talking about, so I go for a laugh and point to myself. "Teenage boy. Me understand."

She smiles quickly, but she's being really serious. "So, what would you do first?"

"Panic?" She laughs. Since she was crying, this laughter means a lot, even though I was also being serious. I try again: "Act all confident and stuff?"

She touches my knee. "Yes, but what would you actually do?"

"Take off her clothes?"

"Right. Think of her as a very beautiful, very valuable present. Some days you want to open the present quickly, tearing into the wrapping paper and ripping it off."

She looks down and blushes. Now she can't look me in the eye. "But some days you want to open the present slowly, and carefully, and delicately."

Oh. My. God.

She shakes her head, I think trying to return to this reality. I know what she was thinking – about being unwrapped slowly, carefully, and delicately. This is the nuclear bomb of chatsex and yet still somehow a violin lesson. "Try it again."

Gorecki. These are not just black notes on a white sheet of paper. They're supposed to be a portal, and I'm supposed to take the listener someplace. But I have no idea where, or how. I try playing it. I'm feeling my way blindly.

"Your playing Gorecki like he's, I don't know, Bach. Or Mozart."

I look at her, totally baffled and frustrated.

She explains, "Bach and Mozart were trying to be clever. Gorecki has power. Imagine being in complete control of her. And yourself."

The images are flying through my mind, overwhelming me with excitement and desire. I'm supposed to somehow play my violin?

I think so. She was Obi-Wan Kenobe whispering in my ear and telling me to trust the force. I start over. I let my desire overwhelm me and take me over, yet I hold control, like I can do anything – even go slow though I want to unwrap Miss Harper so much I'm almost chewing my tongue off.

And then . . . that power and control and desire, they're all in the music I'm playing. I understand what it's like to be a real musician. To fuse the most powerful feelings I've ever had with music.

I wait for her to compliment me, then I worry I'm doing something wrong, and I look over at her during a pause. She has her eyes closed, and she looks dreamy, and kind of happy, and kind of like she's a delicate, beautiful, valuable woman.

I've transported her to where she wants to be.

And I'm the strong, powerful man who's making her feel that way. Me. I play about four more measures of this nirvana then she jolts out of her reverie. "No!" is all she says. Then she points to the music. "Right here."

I have no idea what she's talking about.

"It changes. There's a new level, and a deeper level. It's like taking off her clothes is one level. That's where you start. But when you're done with that, you're still opening her, but in a deeper way. You're opening her up emotionally. Taking away her worry and her defenses."

She looks at me and all I can see is her vulnerability. She asks, "Does that make sense?"

I try to talk, and when that doesn't happen, I nod yes. I'm getting the lesson of a lifetime. She continues, "Play the next section that way. Gorecki is giving you the power to take over your listener."

I start to play again. I'm experiencing this confusing mixture of reality and imagination: notes, and bras, and skin, the power and responsibility to make her happy with my music and my hands, a desire to own her and control this music. An imagined smile on her face as I slowly take off her clothes, and that real smile on her face as I play the music.

Then I have to stop.

Her face is still happy, then it frowns a little when she realizes I stopped. She opens her eyes, and her face fills with horror as she stares at the huge stain in the crotch of my pants. I can feel my semen soaking up my underwear, all wet and squishy.

I'm so embarassed. I play a few random notes, give my bow a big flourish like it's the ending, then I stop.

I sit there in total shame, watching the stain get larger. Neither one of us can move. I, immature high school male, just did the worst thing possible. Finally she blurts, "I have to go." She stands and abruptly starts walking back to her office.

"I'm sorry," I shout at her back.

She stops midflight and turns to me. "Don't be sorry. It was my fault. I'm the one who's sorry. I should never have let that happen."

"It was just a violin lesson, right?" I try to make her laugh, but it doesn't happen. Really, I'm trying to pretend like that never happened, but that doesn't work either. I'm as humiliated as a high school boy can be. Then I realize she's right – it was her fault too.

She holds out her arms to her side, wrists showing, like she's pleading. "I won't blame you if you report me."

Then she turns around and runs to her office, shutting her door.

I put away my violin. I'll have to walk home with my violin case in front of me. That's going to be totally awkward. Obviously, I'm not reporting her – I was a very willing participant here. I could have stopped her at any time, if there had been one second when I wanted to stop. But there wasn't. Not one.

I hear sobbing inside her office. That breaks my heart. I should ask if she's okay. But I'm the problem, and there is that closed door, closed to keep me out. And whatever's happening is way beyond my skills. Plus I still have that huge stain on my crotch.

I'm so worried about her, and following my violin case home seems like a petty problem. And I still feel helpless and inadequate and like a total dick to walk out of that room and leave her crying. I never realized how much power a female could have.


A Year Later

I'm in the middle of my solo, and I look up at the crowd. I play electric violin in a rock band, and I kick ass. I give the crowd a devilish smile, then I play a vicious arpeggio of notes leading up the drum re-entrance. They go wild.

Miss Harper changed my life. Technically, I'll never be a great violinist – my fingers just aren't world-class fast enough. But I can play emotions better than anyone. I transport people. So I have this great gig in a band, and I'm probably going somewhere in the music world.

I can't just pick out a girl from the crowd and expect her to have sex with me. It's doesn't quite work that way. But it's close. I can choose from the gaggle of girls waiting for me when I leave tonight. And if I pick a girl out of the crowd in front of me right now, and look at her in that way while I'm playing, she'll probably be in that gaggle.

So my life is pretty great. Thanks to Miss Harper. Her college level lesson on making love helped out too.

I never saw her again. The next day we had a sub. Then there were rumors, and more subs, then eventually we got a replacement. Her Facebook page went blank for a long time, then there were vague pictures and comments from California. I know why she left – it was what I did that day.

But really? I have no idea why she left. I still don't understand women. I pay attention to their feelings, and that gets me by. I even get called a sensitive guy. But understanding why they're feeling something? I've given up on that. I just enjoy them and try to make them happy and try to comfort them when they're sad.

I won't ever be normal sexually – Miss Harper warped me pretty bad. I'm now looking at a sea of young women my age with great bodies, but if I see a slightly older woman, I'll want her. I might make myself pick a younger girl my age just because I should. But I'll still want the older woman.

My fantasy – which I'm still afraid to ask anyone to do – is for me to play my violin while a woman takes off my clothes, touches me all over, and excites me. When I'm with an older woman, I sometimes ask her to play out a teacher role with me being the student. They play along of course, but they're just faking it. Miss Harper was the real thing.

I can have normal sex. I mean, I can lay down with a woman in bed . . . but I have to be the one to take her clothes off, and I also have to start with her top and bra, like I'm opening a present. Then I kiss her breasts and suck on her nipple. When I see that she's excited – and her defenses are down – I take off her pants or skirt and her panties. I follow the script, or else I'm impotent.

And I have to have background music during sex. Anything by Gorecki.

I get that there's a million different ways to have sex, and a million different roles. I hate being stuck in a small rut. But I am, and I can't get out. Miss Harper did that to me. I was young and impressionable. She was the teacher and . . . she taught me. Those were the most exciting moments of my life, and the best, and I would give anything to have more. But I paid a price.

I can go home by myself tonight and work my private fantasy, but today's my birthday and I want to celebrate. I start searching through the crowd. I even have a fetish for shoulder length blond hair. There's a few in the crowd. I study them one by one, till I get to one in back who's dressed, not like a screaming female at a wild and crazy bar, but more sedately. I start to get a boner on stage. She would be perfect.

She looks up at me. It's Miss Harper.

When she sees that I found her in the crowd, she smiles at me. Then she raises her hands in the air and claps for me. She approves of her student's playing. I'm filled with happiness and pride.

I'm legal age today. And she's not a teacher. Maybe she likes me; maybe I'm her fetish. But I don't try to understand women. She's here. Obviously for me. I point to her, mouthing "I want you." She nods yes with her serious, determined look. I mouth, "You're beautiful," and I earn a smile. That makes me feel happy and powerful.

And now I'm playing my violin just for her.