Original Love. J.J. Murray

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      Jesus, twenty-five-year-old memories are making me horny. I have to cool off, and Henry needs another chapter.

      I know, I’ll introduce Edie the Ice Queen into Ebony’s classroom. That will cool me off. Edie could probably solve global warming just by being.

      Chapter 3

      Since I already know how to write, while Professor Holt rambles on and on about syllabus this and course requirements that and due dates the other, I take a closer look at Johnny. I don’t grit on him out in the open, though. I sneak peeks by slowly taking off my coat while looking at him, gradually rolling my pen toward him then catching it—and his eye sometimes—and painstakingly repositioning my chair until I am almost facing him. It’s an art that I learned from watching the seventh grade hoochies in my classroom. They aren’t nearly as subtle about it as I am, but they are effective. I know the little boys are popping boners left and right in my classes because of them, a few of them even having to sit at their desks after the bell rings until their jenks get back to normal.

      Johnny is sort of a C-minus in a lot of little ways, but the overall package is definitely a solid B. He does not have a handsome face—nose too big and bent, eyebrows looking like hairy spiders, ears sprouting gray hairs, skinny lips, cheeks and chin unshaven and scarred, hair too long and uneven in front. Taken apart, he’s a scary man. Put it all together under those coal-dark eyes, and he’s a relatively handsome scary man. His knuckles are bigger than they should be, big circular walnut-looking things, and his nails are way too short, like he chews them maybe. At least they’re clean. His arms have more hair than arms should have. I’ll bet I could comb and style the hair there. His arms are huge, muscular, his shoulders round, his neck pretty thick, his chest…probably so hairy a bird could nest up in there. I won’t even imagine the hair on his back.

      Dag, he could be in the Mafia!

      But he doesn’t wear a bowling shirt and polyester pants like those Mafia guys do in the movies. He sports a light blue oxford shirt, clean white T-shirt underneath, a thin gold chain barely visible, faded blue jeans, and black Nike hiking boots. He dresses kind of Wal-Mart, like me.

      Then I see this pale blond girl standing in the doorway. She wears a tight light-pink T-shirt with the word “Angel” stenciled above her perky little breasts, the shirt leaving a gap where the whole world can see her pierced shiny white belly button. The girl has absolutely no hips, her legs are as skinny as broomsticks, and she’s standing with one pink shoe turned ninety degrees to the side, like she’s getting ready to do some ballet move.