Every morning, I walk the same route from my home to the college. I imagine myself being already a young man, but I look like an innocent little boy wearing short trousers and carrying a student rucksack.
Halfway from the home to the college, there was the Notre-Dame convent for young girls, the object of my daily anguish. I did not dare to walk on the same sidewalk, where these young girls dressed in black moved along, chattering, mincing about before the ringing of the bell that would bring them back inside.
There was a supervision, easy to bypass, from a distant nun. But I did not dare walk through this inviting crowd, and I stayed on my side of the street, expecting a glance, some mischievous laughter, a sort of invitation from the smarter of them all.
I would have wanted to take her hand, to bring her in the park behind the statue of the Sacred-Heart, touch her hands, her face, her nipples that sculpted her blouse, the loveliest of the three, who sustained the provocation of her pals to react to my dubious glances. And she did nothing, like every morning, nothing more than teasing my senses.
This morning like every morning before, I sat at my place on the first row, in the centre of the classroom. I raised the lid of my desk to put down my books, and I prepared myself, with docility, for another day of discoveries. I invest myself with passion on learning, as much as dreaming of the young girls of the Notre-Dame convent.
Mademoiselle Yvonne was our mistress. I eyed her greedily, as to better assimilate the science she transmitted to us. She was similar to my mother, another mother to furnish other moments of my days. A mother like every mother, attentive to all our gestures, imperative, defendant of the truth.
This morning, she wore a dress of a shiny crepe fabric that moulds her body. I noticed that for the first time, as to remember the desires over-exciting me, passing by the Notre-Dame convent. Was it really the first time, when she strolled about from her desk to the blackboard, showing all the curves of her croup? I noticed a crack easily visible that seemed to suck in the tight fabric of her dress.
Then she moved from the blackboard to the front of the classroom, brushing herself against my desk, and making long gestures as for better making understandable, the meaning of her teachings. Some times she leaned on my desk, to better target her eyes at certain pupils, the least docile who sat at the back of the classroom. And she stayed there for a while, speaking and hardly moving, sufficiently to move the crepe of her dress on the firm base of her flesh. I could almost hear the sound of the fabric that crunched against the harshness of her body, her sharp bosoms, her thin chest, her prominent hips, viciously molding the tissue over her sculpted body, on any of her movement.
I forgot the young girls of the Notre-Dame convent. I had under my nose, the place where her legs emerge, her buttocks when she turned over; she moved as if I was the centre of interest of the classroom, around my desk or resting on it. I smelt the essences of her body, a flavour of an indefinable odour, when her abdomen approached a few centimetres from my face.
I could have touched, slide my hands over the tight crepe fabric, it had been easy and I closed my eyes as if it was true. I seemed the only one to see these things, as if the others where not there, or that she was there only for me. I did not hear, nor did I see, the signs of similar discoveries among the other pupils, occupied at their work, absorbing these new knowledges or napping.
I wished she leans on me, explaining a passage of the curriculum, too difficult to assimilate. It occurred, I felt her hands on my fingers and the breath of her voice splashing my neck. I could not forget, strange currents showed up under my pants, and I felt more strongly the weight of my desk over my genital apparatus.
I had a certain fear, to show these manifestations to other pupils, who would not appreciate this attention of the mistress at me. I was already catalogued as the boy-pet of the classroom, but these moments seemed to me of another domain.
When going to bed that night, I had the feeling I achieved something, and for the first time in my childhood life, I prepared myself to sleep as if I was having an adventure.
I did not manage to sleep really, perhaps slightly. I covered my face with the bed cloths as to impregnate myself of a true darkness. I doze without any doubt, and all the noises of the house transformed themselves into strange epics that almost frightened me.
I felt a presence in the room. A certain gleam bored through the cloth that covered my face, somebody approached and the distress of the night did not allow me to think that, this could be somebody else then my mother.
I stopped moving, trying to erase myself, from this phantom of the night. My bed cloth was suddenly raised.
There she was, in front of me, Mademoiselle Yvonne, naked as I had never seen a naked woman before. She fixedly looked at me with an air of tenderness, than she slipped to my sides and curls herself up against my body. I could discreetly contemplate all the sensuality of her shapes the crepe of her dress let me only guess; all these other shapes I imagined, but my young age forbade me to experiment. I did not dare to move, not to disrupt what could have been only a chimera.
She took my hand and guided it on her body, she wanted me to discover freely.Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (Contes et légendes, août 1996, translated from French, 1998) © 1996 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
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