6:59 A.M.  The radio alarm jarred her angrily awake, as always. It was set to the hip hop station to force her to get up immediately and switch off the the fucking racket before leaping like a wounded gazelle from bed and dragging a brush through her auburn tangles, prepared to face another day educating the youth of America. As she reached for her noisy Zenith she came to an abrupt halt as bombastic horns and kettle drums blared through its tiny blown speakers, followed by the excited voice of the DJ.

"This is Marty McFly Swatter with the WHIP FM (whip-cracking sound effcts) morning zoo. I have an important announcement: Due to the heavy snowfall and blizzard conditions, our governor has declared a state-of-emergency for the area. All schools are closed until future notice...now back to Johnny Mathis sings gangsta rap followed by 24 continuous hours of Lil Wayne singing the Frozen soundtrack."

After dancing an impromptu Snow Day jig a la Riverdance, she dashed  to the window, becoming silly with glee as she took in the mounting snowdrifts. So unexpected. She knew her third-grade kids would be excited but nowhere close to her joy. But, she still had an important decision to make; should she stay indoors and binge-watch baby Yoda on 'the Mandolorian` or frolic outdoors? Her inner child won that debate and she quickly donned her parka and Sorel snow boots, the only two items her granny left her in her will. That is until her lawsuit against the estate is adjudicated. Blood is thicker than water, my ass!

Stepping outside, the teacher was temporarily blinded by the virginal-white glare of fresh snow. It was the whitest thing she had seen since a Trump rally in Iowa. By the time she took her second step, she was bombarded by snowballs from neighborhood snipers, aided by the fact it was a wet snow, perfect for crafting snowballs of mass destruction. Next door some enterprising PTA had already built a snowman. They even used a huge cucumber as Frosty's snowmanhood and were charging $20 per ride. Soccer moms were lined up around the block, their drool freezing before it hit the ground.

Standing on her porch atop Peekaboo Street, she watched celebrating brats on their cheap-ass plastic sleds. It has a treacherous, steep hill perfect for sledding, but now it was her turn to show these hooligans how it's done. Grabbing the dusty old-school sled from the garage, it's steel runners glistening and deadly she applied Pam to each runner liberally and trudged her way up the hill. Kids stepped aside to allow her passage like extras in a Sergio Leone spaghetti western. Squinting down the hill like Charles Bronson, she rubbed raw bacon on the steel for an additional layer of turbo-powered fun and then she was off as on-lookers gazed on like slack-jawed yokels. The story would be told like Tolkien tales for decades to come of how this quiet elementary school teacher went careening down the slope like Clark Griswald. Only her profane screams prevented this from becoming an even bigger part of local lore.

It began simply enough. She took a running start, dropped the sled and jumped on it face down. That impact had multiple effects: the sled creaked and catapulted down the ice, it knocked the wind out of her  at one end and  thunderous flatulence out the other end which seemed to propel her now gas-powered sled even faster. Midway down, there was an unplanned hazard. A defenseless bunny rabbit was frozen in its tracks at the sight of the rampaging sled-o-doom. Too late to swerve, the teacher closed her eyes and prayed for the best. Her best wasn't good enough as the razor-sharp runners severed all four of Peter Cottontail's legs simultaneously,  blood soaking into the snow like a scene from John Carpenter's The Thing. Still, the sledder felt lucky not to have crashed and she had four rabbit's feet to thank for it. The rabbit in question felt much less fortunate. At least, she finally had answered the age-old debate. It was rabbit season not duck season although had the bunny ducked the tale could have ended on a much cheerier note.

Our protagonist, an animal- lover wept openly and prayed for forgiveness from the rabbit's hundreds of offsprings.

Gazing further down the hill through frozen tears, she witnessed yet another potential disaster. Standing near a roaring bonfire was some hipster playing Jack Johnson on his acoustic guitar. Needing to vent her frustrations she leaped from her conveyance, grabbed his Gibson and smashed it like Pete Townsend or, even better, Quick Draw McGraw. Applause from a nearby house caught her ear. It was from a woman who looked vaguely familiar. Walking slowly to her new admirer, their eyes locked.

The applauding female broke into exposition. "I just came outside to make snow angels when that horrible man began caterwauling like something from the depths of Hades. But, thankfully you arrived to chase him away like Jesus eradicating money changers from the temple."

"Like who from where?"

"You're not much of a Bible scholar, are you?"

"But I am," the teacher corrected. "Ask me anything."

"Okay, tell me about Genesis," her new friend inquired.

"That's an easy one. Peter Gabriel was the original singer, but he quit and was replaced by Phil Collins although I'm not sure what this has to with the Bible."

This confusing religious conversation did help clear up the land of confusion over the mystery lady's identity. She was the wife of the Reverend Smithy (obscure reference of all-time). But the God-fearing woman wasn't done...of course, they never are...As much as I admire your work with Mel Torme Jr. Over there, I must admit I'm troubled by your mutilation of that poor bunny rabbit. They are all God's creatures, great and small, you know. Your actions were almost demonic. You're not the spawn of Satan are you?"

Extending her frigid hand in response..."Please allow me to introduce myself," she said with a self-aware giggle which got no reaction from the pious neighbor.  "Not a Stones fan, eh?" Never mind, some people call me the gangster of love, but my actual name is Phlegm Fatale."

"I think I'll stick with Gangster if you don't mind." Her face then contorted hideously as if a horrible thought suddenly dawned on her. "Oh goodness gracious, my wonderful husband has mentioned you in sermons dozens of times." Then whispering, "Are you truly a lesbian? I thought they were only urban legends to frighten young girls." Her question left her cheeks burning like the fires of Hell without Ozzy Osbourne music. Our hero merely nodded and asked

"And who might you be" 

"That's right, we've never been formally introduced. I'm Sinai Smithy. I've only lived here eight years, you harlot." She then used her fingers to form a cross aimed at Phlegm. 

"Oh, for Christ's sake, I'm a lesbian, not a fucking vampire!" No one is sure which word caused the preacher's wife to slip a nitroglycerin pill beneath her tongue; perhaps it was a combination of all. Still, the thought of seducing the wife of the preacher who once banished her from his church merely because she had "borrowed" money from the Easter offering plate did appeal to her on many levels.. She had no interest in romance with the religious housewife but as conquests go, this had massive fantasy potential, surpassing even the ones of Britney Spears in her younger years. 

Revving up seduction mode, the teacher inched closer. "Aren't you at least curious about intimacy with another woman? You can tell me. The Reverend Lovejoy will never know."

"It's Smithy! Curious or not, homosexuality is a sin!"

"So is murder but everyone does it, " the teacher replied skillfully.

"You never took any logic classes did you?"

"The only logic I need was gleaned from the wonderful Leonard Nimoy. Besides, read the eleven commandments. Nowhere does it say, 'Thou shall not perform or receive cunnilingus .'  Seriously, what do you have to lose?"

"My soul," Mrs. Smith replied sadly. 

"Actually, I had something more tangible in mind," teach clarified. "We can be patient. I won't rush you like a bat out of hell."

 "Meatloaf?"

"No thank you, I had Vienna sausages earlier. But enough talk about fine food, be honest, this conversation has you horny, doesn't it? Go on, my child, confession is good for the soul I hear."

Mrs, Smithy covered her ears and began chanting in tongues. "Oh, please don't use that vile word!"

"Confession?"

"No, 'horny. The devil has horns, you wicked temptress." 

"He has a pitchfork too like Eddie Albert on 'Green Acres' but not even Billy Graham ever accused that show of Devil worship." 

"Well, I suppose it would be nice to have a girlfriend to discuss secular topics with. Like, every few weeks I get terrible itching between my toes. Do you?"

"No. I've got 99 problems but an itch ain't one." Even the well-hung snowman could be heard booing. Unless he was saying "Bruce."

The teacher then took her victim of prey by the arm and escorted her up the hill. Mrs. Smithy felt as if she was walking the 'Green Mile' but with the compassionate Tom Hanks nowhere in sight for salvation. The winter storm continued to rage around the shivering women. Sitting on a curb was a huge, slobbering St. Bernard with a small brandy keg beneath its neck. Next to him was a sign stating five dollars a shot. "Would you like a drink, neighbor? My treat to warm you up and ease inhibitions."

"No thank you. Alcohol is the Devil's work. I don't partake and never will!"

"That's crazy talk, woman! This dog is a Saint. He won't steer you wrong. Besides you might need it for what I have in mind," she added with a sardonic smile and knowing wink.

"In that case, make it a double, barkeep," she informed the sanctified pooch. Both drank up, appreciating the heat the beverages supplied then internally, then continued their snowy walk, slipping and sliding even more than before. The devout woman's  legs were shaking uncontrollably as she entered the teacher's den of sin. She was expecting the fires of eternal damnation,  but instead found the house so cold she could see her breath.

"I apologize for the cold, but my furnace went out. It's so cold the thermostat doesn't show the temperature, it shows the wind chill factor. But, don't worry I have an electric blanket that will keep you as toasty as Hitler in a sulfur pit.That analogy did little to ease her visitor's trepidation. Phlegm then grabbed a hairdryer in each hand like Butch Cassidy to warm her red-headed, red-nosed newbie. When the blueness left her skin she made a modest request. "Now undress, please."

"Okay, but don't look," the nervous wife instructed.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Sinia. May God strike you dead if I do."

"Huh?"

 But the seductress wasn't listening. She was far too busy adjusting the wall mirror for a better view of her shy, disrobing conquest. Instead of a frumpy housewife in granny panties, she was wearing the tiniest pink thong ever seen outside a Taiwan sweat shop. She also surprisingly had the legs of Tina Turner and the chest of porn diva, Julia Ann. And after letting down her flowing red locks she took on the air of a sexy librarian from XXX cinema. Perfect for roleplay with a Dewey Decimal fetishist. Taking the nervous woman's hand, they slid beneath the four quilts her mother left in her will as the now naked teacher wrapped the novice in her arms, playing footsie with numb, ice-cold feet followed by the best part of lesbianism: soft, tender, lingering kisses. Never rushed, as sensual as a John Coltrane sax solo.

Outside, the winter wind was howling and the sound of limbs breaking due to the weight of ice buildup made it sound like a war zone or East St. Louis. But, the women were comfortable in each other's arms, body heat protecting them from the brutal elements. Through the icy window, large snowflakes continued to fall, reinforcing the coziness. As did the sound of happy children laughing and playing in the  Winter weather. Oh to be young again. The cold never bothers them anyway. Even in cold and flu season.

With each loving kiss and fluttering tongue the cheating wife, her heart pounding, would whisper excitedly, "Oh, Phlegm." It was quite possibly the worst pillow talk in the history of pillows. The predatory lesbian slipped her hand between her bedmate's legs, disregarding the futile protestations and was rewarded with ample leakage coating her talented fingers. "If she keeps flowing like this it will be me building an ark," the aggressor thought to herself. 

When her middle finger penetrated the slippery, juicy Holy Land, Sinai threw her head back, legs trembling and began singing 'Bringing in the Sheaves' with gusto normally reserved for snake-handling churches in the hills of Kentucky. The teacher wanted to ask what a "sheave" is but didn't want to ruin the mood with semantics. After hypnotic eye contact, Ms. Fatale began slowly devouring the stiff, elongated nipple like she was sucking a Frosty through a straw. Her cheeks caving in, saliva flowing before freezing in her willing disciple's cleavage.

But now to the main event; kissing lower until lips and tongue found her engorged pearl. Her stairway to Heaven without the bitchin' guitar solo. Lips tugging gently, the teacher/mentor moved lower. Since her fallen angel had no experience in giving, Ms. Fatale was determined to make this a most memorable experience since it was destined to be a one-time hookup and she didn't want to give lesbians a bad name. It was a lot of pressure, honestly. She deftly buried her face into her Garden of Eatin' and detected the subtle scent of frankincense and myrrh emanating from within.

"Oh, Sinai, your cunt tastes and smells like manna from Heaven...or at least Fabreze." Although the lez virgin pretended to be appalled at such lewd language, her body betrayed her. She became as wet as forty-days and nights of torrential rains. By the time the skilled tongue parted her pink, swollen petals, the teacher knew how Moses must have felt at the Red Sea. Her tongue slithered and probed like an unscrupulous Old Testament serpent. The only thing missing was an apple. She sensed a climax was close but still had one more trick left in her arsenal. Quickly hopping from the bed as her willing prey wept in disappointment, the teacher ran to her dresser and extracted her old friend, her eight-inch violet strappy. Putting it on quickly due to years of experience, she walked back to the bed, tapping the plastic toy on Sinai's face. 

"Strappy meet Smithy...Smithy Strappy."

After her eyes quit bulging, the prone housewife said with admiration, "It's so big!"

"Is the Reverend not this big?"  Five minutes later, Sinai was still laughing. "Well, is he or isn't he?"

Sinai became indignant. "I'm not truly sure why I came here, but I certainly wasn't expecting the Spanish Inquisition!"  

Time stopped as Phlegm fought with this shocking turn of events. Had this quiet housewife just made a Monty Python reference in perfect context? Something was very wrong with this picture. She suddenly realized perhaps the hunter was in real danger of becoming the hunted. This was unacceptable. To clear her head, the teacher rubbed the tip of the toy across her protégé's mouth. "Do you do this with the hubby?"

"Oh, yes. He calls it 'Blowing Gabriel's horn.' Sometimes he enjoys it so much he will flick his lighter and request an encore. He also requests 'Freebird'"

"Of course he does...the swine," the teacher thought, realizing she felt jealousy suddenly. Also totally unacceptable. To get past these troubling feelings, Phlegm instructed  Mrs. Smithy to get on her hands and knees while she knelt behind her. It was finally time to Mount Sinai. With plastic stuffed well inside her well-lubricated Tunnel of Love, Phlegm began fucking her in earnest, (no, not the Ernest who saved Christmas) bodies slapping in perfect harmony. Viewing the uplifted butt, the teacher had a revelation. Her thumb applied firm pressure to the vulnerable, tight rosebud and pushed, causing the recipient to look back fearfully and say,  "That's an exit, not an entrance. I heard that on the View."

Not wanting to ruin this picture-perfect romantic afternoon, Phlegm eased her thumb away then proceeded to spank both hips with unexpected results. "Oh yes, Spank my ass. I've been such a bad, bad sinner. Punish me!" Well, if she insists. Open-hand swats fell rapidly as moans and whimpers reached a raucous crescendo dislodging icicles from the eaves. Grasping her glowing red cheeks firmly,  the teacher began fucking her new acquaintance like Sailor Moon cosplay at a Toyota sales meeting. One last violent thrust and both women achieved nirvana... and it smelled nothing like teen spirit.

 The Reverend's wife, still shaking as she tried to uncurl her toes turned to look at her muse/mentor who was busy patting herself on the back, "My goodness gracious, that was more fun than Vacation Bible School. Thank you, Phlegm ." 

"I have to be honest, love. My name isn't really Phlegm. My name is Michelle. Phlegm was from my punk rock phase"

"Whew! That's a relief. Thank you for your honesty. By the way, is it always that much fun?" the newly unearthed lesbian wannabe asked?

"That depends on how you feel about dog collars, ball gags, and cattle prods," Michelle replied.

"I'm sure all of those things will be nice."

"Nice? You might consider buying a thesaurus, lover." 

"I was scared at first when I had those fellings. I thought it might be the rapture." She then hugged appreciatively and kissed like a lez pro. She was going to be a fast learner. With pleading eyes she whispered, "This won't be a one-time thing, will it? Please say 'no.' I need someone I can cuddle with and watch Hitchcock movies." Miss Fatale immediately stood and dressed hurriedly. 

"Where are you going? Did I say something wrong?"

"Not at all, " the teacher answered with a smile and gentle, loving kiss.  "I have to find an open hardware store to get you a key made. Nothing could make this day better."

"While you're gone I'll shovel your sidewalk. I love shoveling snow."  

The glowing, happy teacher stood corrected.

"I'll even pray for your safety while you're away."

Michelle stood in the doorway surveying the lovely lady in her bed whose  kind words surged through her, providing warmth and inner peace. Such an alien feeling but both needed and appreciated.

Best snow day ever!