Night Class (18+)

two.

I hurled myself into the first washroom I came across.

The stall door slammed noisily behind me, and I curled up on top of the toilet seat, my head between my legs. I couldn't stop my breath from coming out in shallow, panicked gasps.

It felt like my body was on fire.

My phone buzzed in my backpack: a bunch of text messages from Jess and Rachel, wondering where I was now that lunch was over and whining about how my coffee was getting cold.

Little did they know I've already had my caffeine fix for the day. In fact, I was wearing it.

I muted my text messages and threw my phone into the bottom of my bookbag. Hopefully, they would get the hint and leave me alone until school was over and I could go home.

I refused to go to my last class. Worst case scenario, Mr. Woods might come looking for me. It was better to be marked absent and make up some lame excuse to my mother later than face him again that soon. Or at all, period.

After a couple of minutes, my hysteria eventually died down to a tolerable panic and I began to optimistically sort through my options. I could switch schools. Or drop his class, maybe the deadline for switching courses hasn't passed yet. Or I'll dye my hair and change my name so he won't recognize me in the halls. Maybe get extensive plastic surgery.

Sure, sure. This is fine. I'm totally not in denial. Everything is going to be okay.

The door to the bathroom slammed open and I almost jumped out of my skin. Who goes to take a piss right after lunch, during the last period? Couldn't they hold it? I grumbled antagonistically in my head.

I went to rub the mascara off my cheeks with toilet paper when a horrible realization struck me.

This wasn't the regular, shitty one-ply toilet paper that was usually stocked in student stalls. It was the cushy four-ply kind.

Now that I think about it, this washroom was strangely nice for my small-town, falling-apart-at-the-seams high school.

I didn't... did I?

... I was in the staff washroom.

I heard the click of someone locking the door outside my stall.

Feeling like I was going to throw up, I peeked out from the crack in the stall doors, and there I saw Mr. Woods: still drenched in coffee, still looking pissed, and beginning to unbutton his shirt.

Dear Universe, what the fuck did I do to ever deserve this?

I pulled my legs to my chest so he wouldn't see my shoes underneath the stall and covered my mouth with my hands. Everything is fine, I reassured myself. As long as Mr. Woods didn't know I was here, I could just wait until he leaves.

In part alarm and fascination, I watched as he stood in front of the mirror and finished unfastening the front of his shirt. Oh God, he was perfectly toned. His muscles rippled every time he moved.

He carefully wiped down his body with paper towels and my eyes travelled in sync with his hands as he went to work on himself. I watched as he slowly ran the wet paper towel across his chest, and I couldn't help but wish that was me, dragging my finger across every part of him, watching how he'd react...

He painstakingly made his way down to his lower stomach, where his v-line cut across his abdomen in broad strokes, and my eyes widened as he began to unbutton his pants.

My cellphone rang out loudly, the chorus of Pittbull's International Love echoing across the bathroom stalls. I cursed Rachel and Jess for their bad timing and habit of calling me when I didn't respond immediately.