The Best Kind of Solace

The Best Kind of Solace by Nicole Larson It was the most embarrassing time of my life. You see, I had sent this series of pictures to my then boyfriend Paul, who was away from school, visiting his family in California. If you know eighteen year old boys, then you can probably guess what kinds of pictures he wanted me to send him. And if you know eighteen year old girls who are terrified of losing their boyfriends and being lonely and outcast, you probably know that I was just stupid enough to do it. Three weeks after Paul got back, I caught him talking with Caitlyn Myers in the hallway, and I overreacted. We got in a huge argument, and in the heat of the moment I said I never wanted to see him again as long as I lived. So in retaliation, he sent the five pictures that were happily hiding in his cel phone to everyone he knew at our school. They, in turn, of course, sent the pictures to everyone they knew, and so on and so on. The next day, I got to school, and my naked ass is all over the place. Me, in my bathroom, snapping pics with my phone of myself in various states of undress. The worst part is this look on my face. This trusting, insecure look I’m giving him that says, “I really want you to see these, but please don’t break my trust by showing them to anyone else.” That stupid, unforgiveable look that was more embarrassing than the rest of my naked body. The week after that, I was so mortified I could barely hold my head up. Walking around school, knowing that everyone had seen me naked, not just the students, but probably some of the teachers. The only consolation I could take was that I didn’t look bad in any of the pictures. Whenever I saw Paul, he was huddled around his locker with his stupid buddies, my ex-friends, and whenever they saw me, they’d giggle and one of them would pose like one of the poses in one of the pictures. Hands in the air, butt jutting outward. The boys called me a slut, the girls called me loose. I would have moved to a different school, but there was no way I could tell my parents about what I’d done, and anyway doing so would be admitting Ataşehir Escort defeat. Better to hold my head up high and keep what little of my dignity remained, than to slink away like a spanked puppy. That didn’t mean I didn’t break down from time to time. I spent more time crying during the two weeks after Paul sent the pics out than I had since I was an infant, I guess. Since I was kind of a drama geek, my favorite hiding place was the girls’ dressing room by the school auditorium. It was a comfortable space, with a lot of good memories attached to it. The wall was papered with flyers for all of the plays and musicals that had been performed here. A coat rack stood by the door, and a whole rainbow of feather boas and sparkly sashes hung from it. A long mirror, surrounded by light bulbs, was set into the wall, and a makeup counter sat in front of that. There was a ratty green couch in the corner, and the stories of who had had sex on that couch could fill an encyclopedia. Most of them were ridiculous, but all of them were unproveable. If everyone who said they had sex on that couch actually had, this school would be full of a lot of pregnant girls. A lot. Like I said, usually it was empty in here, unless there was a show going on. So I usually used this for my crying space in the days after the event with the pictures. I didn’t want anyone to see me crying, because that would be admitting that they had power over me, and I was not the kind of person who liked someone having power over me. So there I was, sitting on the sex couch, crying into my hands. Really letting it out. So much emotion poured out of me, I was almost shaking with it. When the door opened. I jumped out of my skin and started wiping my face, sniffling and running my hand under my nose. When I blinked the tears out of my eyes, I saw who it was. Ms. Jameson, the drama coach. She was young, for a teacher. Twenty-something. Just out of college on her first teaching job. Short, dark red hair (obviously colored), cut to her chin. She was taller than me, and she was wearing Ataşehir Escort Bayan a white blouse with a light grey skirt, and heels. She startled too when she saw me, obviously expecting there to be no one in here. “Hey,” she said when she saw it was me. “Hey,” I said, still drying my eyes. “I just came in to get…” she awkwardly picked a script off the makeup counter, and folded it in her hands, “…this.” She was as close as I had to a mentor. She was a friend, and a role model. Every production we’d done since she got hired on at the school, three years ago now, she had overseen. She was the director, and most often producer. She knew acting and theater inside and out. She was also immediately likeable. Funny and friendly and easy to talk to, yet professional. “Okay,” I sniffled. She rolled the script into a tube, and seemed to be looking for a way to break the tension. “I heard what happened,” she said, finally. “Are you okay?” “No,” I said, “I don’t think I am.” She dropped the script on the counter, and sat down next to me on the couch, putting her arm around me and hugging me. At the contact, I started crying again. She comforted me and shushed me while I wept and blubbered in front of her. She put her hand on my head and smoothed my hair, and rocked me back and forth and listened to me complain about Paul and how stupid I’d been and how humiliated I was. I don’t know how long we sat there, me crying into her shoulder, her comforting me. When it seemed I’d run out of steam, she pulled away from me and offered me a tissue from the dispenser on the counter. “You know,” she said, “the same thing happened to me when I was in high school.” “What?” I tried to do the math, wondering if they had camera phones when she was in high school. “Not the picture thing,” she said, sitting back down on the couch next to me, “something else.” “What?” She hesitated, as if deciding how much she wanted to tell me. After a while, she sighed and said, “Well, I’m gay,” she said. I was astonished. I knew people at the school who were gay, being Escort Ataşehir a drama geek, I knew precisely who was gay in our little clique, but I never knew that any of the teachers were. The thought had never occurred to me, that a teacher could be gay. Especially Ms. Jameson. She was so…. Well, I had never suspected it. Of course, I didn’t have any kind of problem with it, but it was kind of shocking to know about it. And, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about girls in that way. Nothing I had ever acted on, but it was there. An image formed in my mind, completely by itself, of me and Ms. Jameson kissing. I looked down at her breasts, and wondered what it might be like to touch them. “Some of the girls at my school found out, and…” she paused, and I noticed she was getting misty with remembrance. “They were not nice,” she finished. It was my turn to offer her a tissue, and she blew her nose and wiped her eyes with it. Now it was my turn to comfort her. I put my arm around her. “Obviously, I don’t want anyone at this school to know about this,” she said, sniffling. After a pause, she added, “Not that I’m ashamed or anything, it’s just a can of worms I’m not interested in opening.” “I get it,” I said, crossing my heart. “I won’t tell.” “So all I can tell you is that this will pass. You will get over this. I’m very proud of how you’re handling this. I wish I’d handled my situation with the grace and style you are handling yours with.” “How did they find out?” I asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.” She paused, probably wondering how much farther she should go into it. “It’s a long story.” “I’m not going anywhere,” I said. She chose her words carefully, but eventually talked. “Well, I was friends with this girl named Sandy. We were on the softball team together. When you’re on a sports team, you spend a lot of time together. Sandy and I were fast friends, and we always sat next to each other on the bus, riding to and from games and such. Well, one thing led to another, and we were riding back on the bus one night from a really late game, and we thought everyone else was sleeping, and we kissed.” Although I was engrossed in her story, it was making me a little horny. I pictured her at my age, kissing this Sandy girl. A first, tender, experimental kiss between two curious girls. Her eyes were far away. There was a hint of a smile on her face as she remembered the kiss.