19 April 2008
Mrs Geller
Fond memories of my school music teacher.
Most people have a number of childhood memories that stay with them well in to adulthood — getting your first bicycle for christmas, a particular bully that made your life hell, or perhaps a family member passing. Memories of childhood are, at best, fleeting, and generally quite vague, so we hold on to those particularly clear ones with all our mental might.
I’ve been cherishing the memory of Miss Geller’s breasts since I was thirteen — not because it was a particularly defining moment in my childhood, nor because it was a particularly joyous moment (although it was). Merely because, well, she had great boobs.
I’ve had bad luck with my favourite teachers in the past. One turned out to be a sex offender, and one recently got cancer, but nothing can take away from my memory of Miss Geller.
She taught my Music class; not one I particularly excelled at, nor a subject I enjoyed very much, but one I looked forward to nonetheless. At that age, I was beginning to find myself interested in the female form, and had been paying a friend my 50 pence lunch money most days in return for a grope of her boobs. So when Miss Geller walked into the classroom on Thursday afternoons, it was unbearable. She’d saunter into the room, confident but modest, and she often wore blouses that weren’t quite opaque — I frequently found myself staring at her chest, trying to make out the outline of her bra, with the memory of what breasts felt like fresh in my mind.
There was one day in her class where I found myself moved to tears for reasons I don’t recall. When she spotted me sobbing, she made a beeline for my table. You see, she wasn’t just an object of my lustful desire; she was a genuinely affable woman, and an excellent teacher on top of that, and outside of my lust, she was one of my favourite teachers. But when I looked up from my desk, my face moist with my tears, I found myself looking right down her top. Nothing in the world could have made me look away at that moment. For a couple of seconds, nothing else in the world existed except Miss Geller’s chest.
I have no doubt it was an awkward few seconds for her. She must have been aware that, for two or three seconds, I was doing nothing but stare down her top. When I eventually came to my senses and looked up at her, and she asked what was wrong, I replied “nothing, nothing at all”, and I was telling the truth. Whatever had made me tearful before was completely forgotten. My memory may be making things up, but I’m pretty sure she blushed.
And that’s one of my most immediately memorable childhood memories. It might be kind of seedy, and I’d apologise for leering down her top if I ever had the chance, but at thirteen years old, having just gone through puberty, it was heavenly.
I borrowed 50 pence from two friends that day, and went straight to my bedroom as soon as I got home.