The weeks that followed Mrs Conway’s birthday party were a blur. Mandy hadn’t been slow at voicing her appraisal of me; the reviews were out and favourable. Soon it seemed that everyone wanted a piece of young Joey Potter.
This brought new challenges. As much as I enjoyed the attentions of the female half of the school, to the male side, I became a target as they were jealous of my newfound fame.
It was a few months later, that I was to realise that not only did I really have something different from the other boys at school, but just how far my reputation had spread. It was also where all the trouble began.
It was a bitterly cold, wet day in mid-February. The final whistle had just blown, ending a school football match which, at the risk of sounding big-headed, I had dominated. Everything had gone right for me; I scored four goals and basically controlled the game.
After the match, as we marched off the quagmire of a pitch in search of a hot shower, our PE teacher, Mr Edwards, called me over and told me that two scouts wanted to speak to me.
This wasn’t particularly unusual as scouts had been chasing me since I was nine years old, but my dad’s position hadn't changed. He wanted me to get a good education and then we could look at all my options.
Anyway, by the time we had finished talking and had watched both the scouts and my teacher scamper off towards the school car park, the light was fading, and I was on my own. It had crossed my mind to jump on my bike and go home to shower, but by the time I trudged off the muddy playing fields and into the warmth of the now-deserted changing room to collect my stuff, I decided to take advantage of the school’s much superior showers on my own.
I had been in the showers for about ten minutes, letting the hot water restore my body when I heard the creak of the changing room door. The possibility of a devious guest made me smile inside as I wondered who the eager spy could be. On the other hand, it was probably just the old caretaker; he often turned up with his mop and bucket after the school had closed.
It wasn’t until I left the shower cubicle with my green Wimbledon towel wrapped around my waist, that I was confronted by my French teacher, Mrs Harrison. She stood frozen between the door and the lockers on the far side of the changing room like a rabbit caught in the headlights, unsure whether to stay or go.
I guess I should have been surprised by her presence, but I wasn’t; confused maybe but not shaken at all. I had had enough propositions from girls over the last few months to recognise the signs and had a pretty good idea why she was here, and what she wanted, but I wasn’t going to make it easy for her. If she wanted what I guessed she wanted, she was going to have to ask like all the others.
Mrs Harrison is in her mid-thirties; the long dark auburn hair that she mostly wore up in a messy bun curtained her delicate pale complexion, broken only by a pair of round turtle-shell-rimmed glasses. Her husband was some ‘upper-class bigwig sponger,’ as my dad called him.
She always stood out from the other teachers somehow, the way she presented herself and the way she dressed. My curiosity would be pricked by her habit of randomly throwing a French phrase into conversation, catching us off guard and making me wonder what exactly it was that she had said. Even the eccentric black French cigarettes that she smoked, with their unfamiliar, almost exotic scent appeared otherworldly to us all somehow.
Most of all, our attention was grabbed by the tight trousers, skirts and dresses that she wore, cut to accentuate her impressive figure. I would guess that she was around 5’ 8”, about the same as my sister, but that’s where the similarities ended. To me, everything about Mrs Harrison screamed sex, from the subtle shudder from her bust to her remarkable, and much-talked-about backside.
The focus of debate centred around the puzzling issue of whether or not she wore knickers. Our attention was drawn to the subject of panty lines after overhearing a group of girls talking. And before long it seemed that the whole class were intrigued, as dozens of bulging teenage eyeballs fruitlessly searched for evidence.
She hadn’t said a word to me since I had left the showers, staring down at the rusty-red changing room tiles, her eyes only occasionally raising to look at me. It was painful to watch, and it was plainly obvious to me why she was here; why else would she be alone with a half-naked pupil, in the boys’ changing rooms, after school? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there was an innocent explanation. But I doubted it.
The thought crossed my mind to put her out of her misery, and just drop the towel and show her what she had come for, but something inside stopped me. Why should I make it easy for her; cruel, I know, but she was going to have to spell it out for me.
Eventually, she sighed and dejectedly looked up at me, her expression reminding me of a child who has been caught out doing something naughty.
“Is there something I can do for you?” I asked. It was a leading question I admit, and I almost regretted it. Her eyes narrowed as she looked across at me and straightened her back defiantly.
“You really are an arrogant so-and-so, aren’t you?” she hissed.
“I’ve been called worse,” I snapped back, receiving a wry smile from her in return; she paused briefly before stepping towards me.
“You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?”
“Ask what, Miss?” I replied, all the time my smile remaining in place. She must have wanted to slap my stupid face.
“Are you going to make me pay, Joseph?” she asked, referring to a rumour, untrue as it happens, that I charged girls a pound to look at my cock. She walked past me and sat down on the slatted wooden benches. “Is it true?”
“Is what true, Miss?”
“Is it true that you charge your little fan club?” She smirked and licked her lips; she was playing the long game, and I liked it.
“Charge them for what?” I pressed, while raising the stakes by placing my hand on the loose knot that held the towel around my waist. Daring her to say it. Daring her to ask. She leaned back against the whitewashed brick wall.
“To see your penis.” A faint, pink blush coloured her pale cheeks.
“Do you think I would stoop that low?”
“Well, do you? Because that’s what I’ve heard.” She reached into her large shoulder bag and pulled out her black purse. Snapping it open, she offered me a one-pound coin that she held in her palm of her open hand.
“And how much do you think one pound will get you?”
“I don’t know, Joseph, what does it get me?” Her face beamed at the thought of cornering me.
“And what will you do if I show you?” I said, watching as her attention was diverted while my growing arousal risked spoiling the game, “what’s in it for me?”
“You get a pound of course,” she grinned, sensing that we were reaching the endgame, “isn’t that the deal?”
“You want to know if the rumours are true, don’t you, Miss?” The question hung in the air between us, and for a moment I thought it was over, as she anxiously shuffled in her seat. I tried to read her mind. She must surely be aware that if she left now, she ran the risk of me running my mouth off and exposing herself to scandal, risking becoming the talk of the playground, the classrooms and, of course, the staff room.
Perhaps she had just planned to sneak a peek at me in the showers and leave without me knowing, or maybe she thought that I would just reveal myself like some sideshow freak, but now the game was over.
“I was just curious,” she conceded, bowing her head. I stepped forward and reached out my hand to touch her smooth pale skin, half expecting her to bat my hand away in exasperation, but she just looked worried and defeated. Part of me wanted to release her, tell her that all this would remain just between the two of us.
But then, unexpectedly, her fingers lightly brushed the towelling as I traced a line with my thumb over her painted mouth. Judging her reaction, I pressed further, smearing her cherry red lipstick across her cheek. The expression she gave was one I had grown to know well, a restless, eager, impatience.
“You can take it off if you want,” I said, and there was a moment’s pause before she finally crossed the line. I guessed that she was evaluating the possible consequences of her actions. Although I was sixteen years old, we both knew that if this went any further, she would be breaking the law.
