Friday - Girls will be girls
Nov. 18th, 2005 10:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was listening to "Don't Stand So Close To Me," by The Police, and it brought to mind a memory from high school.
When I was 15, my high school Driver's Ed teacher was a man in his 30's that I will call Mr. Harris. We all liked him. He was very laid back and low key, with a sense of humor so dry that you practically felt thirsty every time he told a joke. I remember him as tall and lean, with a receding hairline and a big bushy mustache. In retrospect, he was not an unattractive man, though at 15 I only saw him as old.
Ricki was a girl in my class, a pretty blond-haired spitfire who hung with the popular crowd. She was tiny, no taller than 5 feet, with a fresh-faced cuteness that belied her sharp tongue and brash personality.
On the day I recalled, Ricki was wearing a particular sweatshirt with a top portion that looked like the waist of a pair of blue jeans, with the fly in the front and the back pockets on the back of her shoulders. She was sitting on the front row of the classroom.
Mr. Harris was passing out papers when he got to Ricki's desk.
"That's an interesting shirt you're wearing," he commented.
"Do you like it?" Ricki asked, tugging on the zipper under her throat to reveal a hint of under-aged cleavage. She grinned a wide-eyed, innocent grin and cocked her head to the side. "Wanna stick your hand down my pants, Mr. Harris?"
The class laughed. Hr. Harris gave a slight smile, rolled his eyes and shook his head at the audacity of the question. He didn't say anything.
Most notably, he didn't tell her no.
I can respect that; he wasn't the sort who believed in lying to children.
When I was 15, my high school Driver's Ed teacher was a man in his 30's that I will call Mr. Harris. We all liked him. He was very laid back and low key, with a sense of humor so dry that you practically felt thirsty every time he told a joke. I remember him as tall and lean, with a receding hairline and a big bushy mustache. In retrospect, he was not an unattractive man, though at 15 I only saw him as old.
Ricki was a girl in my class, a pretty blond-haired spitfire who hung with the popular crowd. She was tiny, no taller than 5 feet, with a fresh-faced cuteness that belied her sharp tongue and brash personality.
On the day I recalled, Ricki was wearing a particular sweatshirt with a top portion that looked like the waist of a pair of blue jeans, with the fly in the front and the back pockets on the back of her shoulders. She was sitting on the front row of the classroom.
Mr. Harris was passing out papers when he got to Ricki's desk.
"That's an interesting shirt you're wearing," he commented.
"Do you like it?" Ricki asked, tugging on the zipper under her throat to reveal a hint of under-aged cleavage. She grinned a wide-eyed, innocent grin and cocked her head to the side. "Wanna stick your hand down my pants, Mr. Harris?"
The class laughed. Hr. Harris gave a slight smile, rolled his eyes and shook his head at the audacity of the question. He didn't say anything.
Most notably, he didn't tell her no.
I can respect that; he wasn't the sort who believed in lying to children.
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Date: 2005-11-18 10:30 pm (UTC)I had a pervy music teacher in grade 12 who liked to give me and my grrl-friend "massages" while we played the piano. Yecch!
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