6. Mia
SIX
Mia
I am feeling petty as hell, but that’s not why I don’t answer the door.
I don’t answer the door for a few reasons. One, I am butt-ass naked. Two, I have my laptop open next to me on the bed, showing porn on mute. Three, I have two fingers stuffed in my vagina. Four, my other hand is holding a vibrator to my clit. Five, this is all happening on top of my covers, in full view of the door.
The movement that Elias hears is me trying, as quickly and as silently as possible, to finagle my laptop, body, and vibrator under the covers. All while praying to all the deities in the universe that he does not fucking barge through that door.
And all the deities must hear me, or pity my dry spell, at the very least, because Elias walks away, his heavy footsteps fading as they move down the hallway. I let out the breath I’d been holding. What a day for Elias to learn manners.
Listen, I’m very pissed at the two of them, Leo and Elias. I’m sick and tired of over twenty years of Leo-and-Elias versus me. I’m sick of being dismissed. By my family, by random dudes at the bar.
I’m also desperately horny. Two years is a long time, too.
So I searched around my favorite porn site for a slender, dark-haired man absolutely destroying a tiny blonde woman. And I found it and was very much enjoying it until Elias knocked on my door. For the first time in five years.
Sighing, I pad over to my door and lock it. I get back into bed and lay on the covers, staring up at the ceiling.
What am I going to do? I have several problems I need taking care of. My vagina is one of them. But before I can help her out, I need to know what to do . And I’m no longer going to get that from Elias.
Let me think about this logically. Let me approach this like I would any lesson or instruction. In order to get better at something, I’d ideally need some teaching first, but then I need opportunities to practice. Since I’m not going to get any instruction, maybe I should just skip right to the practice. And maybe I could just get some guided practice from another friend. Mondays are always tough, but Tuesday is a weekday, so I’d be following the advice that Elias gave me about going out when everyone has work the next day. I just need to do it. I need to put myself out there. I roll over and grab my phone to text my friend Andrea.
what are you doing Tuesday night?
it’s a school night.
Translation: I’m going to bed at nine thirty, maybe nine p.m.
want to go out and hunt for men with me? We can go early, like at happy hour, when they all get out of work. We’ll be home by bedtime
does this mean I have to go into the city on a school night
you live literally one stop away from downtown. But I’m thinking of staying in bk for more of the hot dirty hipster trust fund vibes instead of midtown finance bro vibes.
Sold.
Yessss , my vagina thanks me.
Next, I search for previous posts on a NYC specific forum about where to find single men, and I surprisingly find several. I scroll through the options, deciding to head to this craft beer bar in Greenpoint. I send Andrea the address, telling her seven o’clock.
What do I wear??
Andrea types for a while.
classy sexy brooklyn
wtf does that mean
not trashy spandex. Knits. Silks. tasteful crop tops. tight but not too tight.
I think about it. I think I have those things.
hair? makeup?
natural-ish. Classy. Hot.
you keep using the same adjectives but I have no idea what you mean
Andrea, the dear friend that she is, sends me some ideas from Instagram. I can do this.
thank you kissessss
Then I turn off the lights, climb under the covers this time, then finish what I started earlier.
I manage to avoid Elias all day on Monday, but school on Tuesday is really fucking annoying.
I’m all ready to launch my Olympics unit, since the summer Olympics just happened this past August. My unit plan is great . It’s going to integrate multiple subjects—reading, writing, math, science, social studies, even fucking P.E. (because I’m still going to help Elias with my class because they are still my class, and I love them dearly, and they haven’t wronged me). My kids will be learning about the history, different sports, statistics, countries, and cultural significance of the Olympics, and the unit will culminate in a mini-Olympics event where they can apply what they’ve learned.
Scratch that. My kids should be learning all those things, but they may not, because of the news Lina comes in to tell me.
I have a prep first period today, and Lina comes in rolling a pushcart loaded with books. Thick workbooks. And they all look exactly the same. No .
“Don’t you dare,” I tell her.
She throws three heavy textbooks on my desk, then starts counting out thirty-one student workbooks.
“Get that out of here,” I try again.
She sighs, pushing all the strands that have fallen out of her topknot away from her face. “Principal Thomas wants everyone in the school to teach this reading and writing curriculum?—”
“No,” I whisper.
“—to fidelity.”
“Stop.”
“It’s entirely scripted,” she forces out, her eyes squeezed shut.
“Lina,” I warn.
“—and it’s called Words of Wonder,” she squeaks.
I’m struck speechless. Lina and I look at one another, and I wonder which of us is going to burst into tears first.
We manage to keep it together.
“I thought PS 2 figured out a long time ago that the one-size-fits-all scripted test prep curriculum was actually a detriment to student learning,” I growl.
“We sure did,” she says.
“And I thought our test scores actually started going up, once we started teaching in a transdisciplinary, culturally responsive, project-based way,” I hiss.
“Don’t you take that tone with me, Mia,” she whisper-shouts back. “I fucking agree with you. This is the wrong thing for our school.”
“So then why are we doing this?” I whisper-yell back.
“Because she’s the fucking principal of this school, she calls the shots, and there’s not one fucking thing you or I can do about it,” she whisper-screams hysterically.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I poke at the thick teacher’s guide and open to a random page. “Good morning, class!” I read verbatim from one of the lessons. “Today, we are going to learn how to find the main idea! Can anyone tell me what the main idea is?” I say in a robotic voice. “Students should answer that the main idea gives the general gist of a passage. Correct, bracket, student name, close bracket! The main idea gives the general gist?—”
In the time it’s taken me to read that, Lina has pulled all of her hair out of her topknot, and now stands in front of me with a rat’s nest halo. “Stop, Mia,” she pleads. “I can’t handle it.”
“What should we do about this?”
She takes a moment to collect herself, smoothing her curls back into a bun. I watch her reset herself, now entering Damage Control mode. “I think that we should skim over this curriculum this week. Then, you should go to the conference, and go to any and all panels that could describe how and why scripted curriculum is bad for kids. Get all the resources, the slide decks, or handouts you can. Then, we’ll present to Principal Thomas. We tell her why this is a bad idea, and that we learned so from the most accomplished minds in our field.”
I breathe, trying to match her calm. “I… actually think that’s not a bad idea. But what do I do about this week?”
She thinks. “Do whatever you were originally going to do. I’ll tell Thomas today that teachers need time to read and digest the new curriculum, so we’ll kick it off in two weeks.”
I sigh. “Okay. This is good. This is a good plan.”
“It’s trash, but we have to work with what we have,” she replies.
I want to make her feel better. “Do you want to see my unit outline for this Olympics unit I’m starting this week?”
She stands. “Normally, you know I’d love to, but I don’t have the time. I have to distribute the rest of these and spread the word.” She walks to my door. “Thanks again, Mia. I really appreciate you.”
I wave weakly and she walks out.
I end up leaving school around five, which gives me an hour to get ready at home. I decide to bust out the big guns and go all out.
I decide to wear a soft knit tank top that’s a bit cropped, low cut, and skin tight to show off the girls, and go full Brooklyn by foregoing a bra. My tits look huge. They won’t quit. I pull on silk pants that make my ass look amazing, and I pair this with a block heel hidden underneath to make my legs look extra long.
I also decide to go ham on my hair and makeup. I’m determined to get immaculate beach waves, so I spend most of my time wrestling a curling iron, and I’m pretty pleased with the outcome. I go with a dark and smokey eye, trying like hell to make the blue pop, and decide on a pink gloss for my lips.
I finish with ten minutes left to spare, so I take a second to look at myself in the mirror. I grin. I look fucking good . Do you ever have one of those moments where you look so good that you get a little turned on? Maybe in anticipation of what could happen to you later? Or who could be looking at you later? That’s me right now. Except I’m more than a little turned on, and I use that energy to propel me forward.
I throw my essentials into a small bag. I clomp out of my room and into the living room.
Directly into Elias.
Neither of us says anything, and time slows yet again, dripping like thick, syrupy honey.
He takes a small step back to get a better look. He starts at the top, green eyes tracing my hair and makeup. They linger for a second longer on my mouth, staring at it with such an intensity that I can almost feel them pressing against my lips. They move down, and I feel his eyes caress my collarbones, the flare of my hips. Finally, they zero in on my tits, and he may as well have his hands on them. He inadvertently licks his lips, and that small motion makes my breasts heavy, nipples tightening. He notices, his nostrils flaring. His hand twitches at his side. His eyes, dark, now almost devoid of green, finally lift up to meet mine.
Somewhere in the back of my head, I add a newly observed Elias emotion to my list. Hunger.
I also note that I may be wet.
He steps towards me. “Where are you going, Mia?” he asks me, in a tone that no longer sounds like the boy I’ve known my entire life. I’ve heard this voice before, but it’s never been directed at me. It’s ravenous, deadly, dangerous , and it’s…almost too much. He lifts a hand to roll a strand of my hair back and forth between his thumb and pointer fingers, and he may as well be doing that to my clit. It takes all my will to not let a moan escape my mouth from the force of his gaze and that one point of contact alone.
“Elias?” I finally say, or ask, or maybe beg, not recognizing my own voice, hoarse with need.
His eyes flick down to my mouth again. I look at his, realizing that I’ve never noticed how full it is, how soft and strong his lips look, how they would look really hot sucking on my?—
He blinks, and it’s like someone sucks all the tension from the room—a big phwwtt . He takes a large step back. I notice he’s wearing gray sweatpants, and I have the presence of mind to glance down to see the outline of his semi-hard dick before he adjusts himself. How could you forget how big it was?! my vagina screams at me.
He clears his throat. A switch has been flipped. His eyes are clear now, and he looks more like the Elias I know. “Where are you going?” he asks again, in a normal voice now, looking me directly in the eyes and nowhere below.
I shake my head, clearing it of that moment. “I’m going out to hunt men.”
He glares. “I thought you were terrible at it.”
“I am, but since I’m no longer going to get any support from you, then I’m just taking the plunge and putting myself out there.”
“I don’t like the idea of you ‘putting yourself out there’ all by yourself,” he says.
“You should’ve thought about that before you told Leo you wouldn’t help me anymore,” I fire back.
He rubs his face. “I wanted to apologize for that. Mia, I want to help you, but I just…can’t.” He looks at me, indecision and regret behind his eyes. “Leo is my best friend. He’s my other half. I can’t… you’re basically my little sister. It’s… weird,” he finishes lamely.
“It’s weird ? That’s all you got? Listen, Elias, you know as well as I do that I’m a fucking adult woman who’s almost thirty, and that Leo has no say in what I do with my life. But if you don’t want to get involved, then fine. I’m not surprised, actually, considering the two of you have been dropping me for the last twenty-something years.” I step around him and make my way towards the front door. “Maybe I’ll be back tonight, but hopefully not. Don’t wait up for me.”
I’m stopped by the feeling of fingers slipping into the top of my waistband, between the strip of my g-string and my skin, preventing me from walking away.
“Wait,” he murmurs. His hand is hot, but the hairs on my arms and on the back of my neck rise as if I’m cold. I shiver.
“Let go of me, Elias,” I say behind me, not willing to see the look on his face. His hand lingers for a moment, then slides a quarter inch to the left, his knuckles dragging hot on my skin. He slips his hand out, slowly, finally, and I walk to our front door without looking back.