The Breast Years of Our Lives
By Wil Forbis
June 1, 2002
Those of you who follow the "news" in an effort to stay "educated" about this beast we call "current events" probably noticed an interested tidbit pass under your nose recently. Echoing the Mary Kay Letourneau case of several years ago, a female high school science teacher was arrested after she took her 15 year old student lover into a hotel in Las Vegas. Said teacher is now facing the possibility of life imprisonment for her crimes.
Like the Letourneau case, this recent arrest has caused an endless series of snooty remarks and giggles from late night comedians - a pantheon of individuals who make a living targetting the misfortune of others with their arrows of wit. Such mockery affirms my belief that gender bias is still alive and well in this country. Indeed, the gist of these comedians’ jokes is that, while young women are so delicate that they must be protected predatory instructors, boys would not suffer from similar sexual entanglements. In fact, comedians like Politically Incorrect's Bill Maher snidely argue boys would be better off from such activities. Well, I am here to say that this is not so. I am here to say that a sexual liaison between female teacher and male student is one of the most damaging relationships that can occur. I am here to say that this sort of debauchery can damage a teenager to a degree that all his future relationships will be routed in turmoil and grief.
I know this because I had a sexual relationship with my high school history instructor.
How did it happen, you ask? How did this calamity befall me? Let me take you back, my friends, to a bygone era: the eighties. It was there I grew into not so perfect teen hood, nestled between the twin towers of Voodoo Economics and the Breakfast Club. It was there I feasted upon such cultural nuggets as Quiet Riot and Miami Vice. In that decade I drank forth from the elixer of... you get the picture.
Ms. Busterfield was her name, a Ms. Chesty Busterfield. She was solidly built woman, with smooth tanned legs, powerful twin barrels and long curls of platinum blonde hair that she kept in a tight bun atop her head. She had a delicate beauty as well, but hidden beneath a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Perhaps she was afraid of her looks, afraid of the power it would give her over men, until that fateful day when... well, I'm getting ahead of myself.
My best chum in those days was a lad by the name of Slats McPuffin. He was sprightly, mischievous lad and I, being of weaker will, was often led by him into a variety of misadventures (Editor's note: a full documentation of these misadventures will be forthcoming in the exciting new book series for children, "The Misadventures of Wil Forbis and Slats McPuffin." Available at the Acid Logic Bookstore.) that resulted in our being detained after school. One particular day, an escapade involving several pounds of raw meat, a blowtorch and a horrible little girl whose screams. haunt me to this day resulted in Slats and I being called to Ms. Busterfield's class. I arrived 5 minutes after 3:00 o’clock, being slightly late as a timid show of defiance. When I entered the classroom, I saw only Ms. Busterfield sitting at her desk, correcting homework while she nervously ran a pen in and out of her mouth - a mannerism that seemed to cause my youthful cohorts endless amusement, though the reasons were lost on me then (as they are now.)
"I'm here, Ms. Busterfield," I stated, entering the room. "No sign of Slats, huh?" I asked, eager for my brother in arms to help bolster me against whatever devious machinations Ms. Busterfield had planned.
"William!" Ms. Busterfield said, practically jumping out of her chair. Then she composed herself. "Actually, your little friend was here," she stated. "But I sent him home. He seemed to be punished enough for this year and I thought he'd best run along."
"Punished enough!" I yelped. "Look Ms. Busterfield, the whole thing today with Rebecca Gimlet and the ambulance - that was all Slat's idea. If anyone deserves extra punishment, it's him!" I was determined not to fold under pressure.
"Oh, William you silly boy," Ms. Busterfield said with a sigh, "I don't think Slats really needs this particular brand of punishment." She paused, looked down at the floor, then continued speaking, her eyes unable to meet mine. "I've tried to fight these feelings, tried to see our relationship as nothing more than that of teacher and protégée, but I can resist these yearnings no longer." With that she reached up a released and single pin from her hair, causing the golden locks to come tumbling down in an avalanche of billowy softness.
Now, before I continue, I would like to say that those of you snickering and guffawing have not gone unnoticed. I am trying to make a serious point here, that male students molested by their teachers suffer just as mightily as girls... yet you persist on making sounds as if you were in the Peanut Gallery of a Vaudeville show. I shall not continue till you have settled yourself and are behaving properly!
Anyway, where was I? Yes, Ms. Busterfield had released her hair and stood before me, rubbing her hand up and down my arm. The she spoke.
"I have one question for you William, and it's a very important one. Did you remember to... bring... your... pencil?"
Darn it, I knew I'd forgotten something! "Gee, I don't think so Ms. Busterfield." I replied.
"Well, then my dear boy, I suppose will have to carry out this punishment with only what we came into this world with, and with which we will leave." With that Ms. Busterfield removed her shirt and leaned in close to me, so that I face to chest with her vast cleavage. "Do you know what I have in here William?" Ms. Busterfield asked.
"A pencil?" I replied. It was possible. I'd seen several classmates pitch quarters down her shirt.
"Why don't you come closer.... and find out!" Ms. Busterfield replied, grabbing my head and forcing me into her bosom. I screeched and made squeaking noises, but they were lost against the billows of her flesh.
OK - Gosh darn it! Do you really think I didn't hear that laugh? Here I am, opening up to you people, sharing my darkest secrets and you can't keep your yap shut. Look. I've given up on having you take my tale of woe seriously, but can you at least pretend to? Can you make some vague stab at human decency?
What followed can not be retold at a web site such at this, one that rarely make forays into even PG-13 material, but I will say that everything you might expect happened. Worlds opened up for me. New sensations were felt with an all-encompassing intensity. Our bodies mingled together in ways that never seemed possible. The things we did processed a dark sensuality that I have not been able to even talk of with my many, many, many, many, many, many, many lovers since.
You might be asking me, "Where is the suffering you spoke of? Where is the grief you claimed to have experienced? This story sounds more like every schoolboy's fantasy committed to paper with almost disturbing detail." You might be asking me that, but instead, there you are, laughing your balls off. Your care not for my pain, only your own callous mirth.
Well, despite your indifference, I will answer. Yes, the experience with Ms. Busterfield was fantastic, as were the many repetitions until she left me for a younger man, a swaggering 12 year old just out of elementary school. The suffering began when I started to have normal sexual encounters with women my own age. They were... well, they were boring. Ms. Busterfield was ever so familiar with the carnal depths, but regular girls could barely felate their way out of a paper bag! Their idea of a hand job was knitting a ‘get well’ sweater for Grandma! Getting them to put down their Sweet Valley High books and read the Kama Sutra was like getting a pit bull to give up the leg of a small child he is so jealously guarding.
And it's like that every time. One so physically gifted as myself is granted many lovers, indeed, many, many, many, many, many, many, many lovers... but each time is a disappointment. I'll never achieve the pure physical sensations I felt with Ms. Busterfield. Never again will I travel to new worlds of sexual delight.
Now do you feel my pain? Can you at last put away your laughter and guffaws and chuckles, and whatever name that particular type of laugh is where tears start streaming down your face and you make that weird hiccupping noise that you're making, yes, you there - in the blue sweater... you're making it. Stop that, Goddamn you! Now do you peons see why I suffer so? How I have been just as violated as the boyish male concubines of Mary Kay Letourneau and all those other women who have so violated their trust. Do I not have just cause to be angry?
Well, come on, I've at least got cause for a lawsuit, don't I?
What do you think? Leave your comments on the Guestbook!
Wil Forbis is a well known international playboy who lives a fast paced life attending chic parties, performing feats of derring-do and making love to the world's most beautiful women. Together with his partner, Scrotum-Boy, he is making the world safe for democracy. Email - firstname.lastname@example.org
Visit Wil's web log, The Wil Forbis Blog, and receive complete enlightenment.