by Isabelle Lazar
(01/26/05)

On the eve of my 34th birthday, I made a vow to myself to put to rest those demons that had been plaguing me since childhood. Well, okay, so I promised my shrink I'd do that, but somewhere inside of me I knew she was right. The self-loathing of teenage years, the sexual confusion, the crush I'd had on the varsity volleyball coach, ugh. They were all no longer a part of the person I had become and the "new me" vowed to clear away all the remnants.

Six hours later, figuring there is no better time than the present, I was on a plane back to Chi-town where I'd grown up. Having not survived the red-eye from SF as well as expected, I slept until noon, then dressed and headed out to my old high school. The times I had spent there were torture on my memory banks, and I was anxious to start "replacing the bad memories with the good ones," as Dr. Blume would say.

As a kid, I remembered walking down the main drag of the school, past the gym at 2:15 every day. And every day at 2:15, Coach Morley walked out of that gymnasium and strutted her slick butch self down towards me. Every day. And on each of those days, no matter what I was doing, even if I eventually had to double back through the Drivers' Ed entrance to finish my work, every day, rain or shine, I would drop everything, grab some books (for esthetics) and dash down three flights of stairs, push past the throngs of exiting students to emerge winded into the mouth of the hallway at precisely 2:15. There I'd will myself to slow down, saunter even, pretending to be just another weary upperclassman, all just to catch a tiny little glimpse of her.

In our daily ritual, she'd exit the gymnasium, round the corner and make her way steadily towards me. On most days, we'd see each other a good 50 paces away. We'd look up, find our target, then look away again. Up again, watch for a bit, then away. We practiced this ritual all the way down the corridor until, finally within breathing distance, we'd throw one last, lingering, wistful look at one another -- exactly at the moment we passed each other -- and move on, neither of us looking back.

I never even knew her name until the yearbook came out that year. Locking myself in the bathroom of my house, I devoured the pages one by one until I found her photo and name. She was in the Sports Teams section on page 83: "Varsity Volleyball. Upper row, end: Coach Maureen 'Mo' Morley."

"I'm in love with Mo Morley," I realized that day; then I shut the Sentinel and put it away for the next 17 years.

Homophobia ran high in the Reagan 80's, and it would follow me like a shadow until I could stand it no longer, making me run hard and fast both toward and away from myself. Eventually it landed me in San Francisco where I found others of my persuasion. Still I never forgot Coach Morley. Her incarnation, her strut, the slow saunter past me every day of my senior year would replay itself over and over in my waking and slumbering dreams. And now here I was again, time-warped back into the very place that had tortured me; not really knowing what I was doing here, or even if she still coached brats.

Two hours after lunch, I linger outside the gymnasium in anticipation, nodding pleasantly to confused underclassmen as they hurry past. At 2:15 the bell rings signaling the end of sessions.

I hang back holding my breath and expecting disappointment. After all, people change. They change their minds, their jobs, even their sex. So why should I expect to find her here after all these years? But then, to my disbelieving eyes, as if on cue, Coach Morley rounds the corner. A little grayer around the edges but still solid. Damn she looks good. I zigzag through the crowd of students to cross directly in front of her and stop. She looks annoyed until her eyes meet mine. I don't move, just stand there looking at her, unable to stop grinning. Now she's amused. Does she like what she sees, I wonder?

"Coach Morley. You're still here."

"Excuse me?"

"I say, you're still here." She squints trying to place me. "Jodie Keegan. You don't remember me do you?" She hesitates and finally I don't hold back. "I had the worst crush on you when I was a student here."

"Excuse me?" Her Midwestern, tight-lipped upbringing (not to mention her job as an educator) wouldn't permit any other response, this I know. So I continue, figuring I have the upper hand.

"'Cept I didn't know it -- or, rather, wouldn't admit it, then. I was such a femme at the time." Now she sizes me up like a lover, planting her feet firmly into the ground and crossing her arms.

"And when was that?"

"'87," I shrug, and she frowns, disbelieving. Seventeen years is a long time to carry a torch. Is she flattered?

"And now you're married," she says matter-of-factly, looking down at my ring finger.

"Yes." I'm not shy about this anymore. Ten years in SF -- nothing fazes me. "My wife of seven years is back at home." Her eyes go wide as she squeezes her jaw.

"But, say, I didn't come here to cause trouble," I say and look her up and down lasciviously...'cause now, now that I'm married and 'safe,' now I can. "I just came to see some old friends and, uh, put some ol' demons to bed, as it were."

"Was I a demon?" she asks quietly amused. The throngs of students have subsided.

"In a manner of speaking." I let my eyes slide over her broad chest, her tough Midwestern arms and tight jeans. Her legs look like thick stumps in her black Levi's and I can't help but picture them naked with a strap-on bobbing jauntily in between as she heads towards me on the bed. I sigh with regret and shake my head.

"You are fine. Just as fine as I remember. Time has been kind to you. Must be doin' someone, er, something right." Then I look her hard in the eyes...and release her.

"You take care, now." I sidestep around, keeping her eyes on mine, and back away smiling, my gate turning into a skip as I turn and head towards the door.

"Say Jodie," I hear her call and my heart begins to race. "Would you like to go for coffee or something?" I chuckle to myself then turn slowly to eye her from under my lashes.

"You're gonna make a philanderer out of me yet," I whisper. She looks away towards the wall of windows pensively. Is that a blush I see? God Oh Mighty I've made this gorgeous dyke blush on account of lil' ol' me. I have to pinch myself. I walk back the 20 paces it takes to be at eye level with her again and whisper.

"S'when is your next free period?" I feel like an adolescent high school boy getting hot over a cute new girl in homeroom. 'Cept she's the boi and I'm the grrrl, or at least it was that way in HS. Don't know when the tables turned. Guess t'was when I finally grew balls.

"In fifty-five minutes."

"I'll be waiting out front. I'm drivin' a black Jeep..."

Fifty-seven minutes later we're tearin' down 294 towards O'Hare International. There are closer coffee shops but, uh, none with a bed attached. We don't speak. There is nothing to say. This woman and I couldn't be further apart on the spectrum of life. She's a high school athletics coach. Straight and narrow...well at least narrow, cut and dry. No surprises here, except where they count, and those are expected, even welcomed. Me? I am, as yet, without definition....

We enter the O'Hare Hilton and I stop by the desk to pick up my key, the reservation having been made during 6th period PE.

The elevator ride to the 11th floor is torture. Weary travelers shuffle in and out with their luggage, thankfully too preoccupied to notice that neither of us is even carrying a billfold.

Finally we arrive and squeeze through the crowd to exit. The doors close on the mayhem and we are left alone with our purpose. I find the door, slide in my credit card key and enter the non-smoking, king suite.

She stands just outside the door eyeing me. She'd been following all along so I didn't think to look. Now she stands immobile, waiting for...what?

"Have you changed your mind?" I ask. "It would be ok, you know." The hell it would, but I gotta offer.

She looks away, her eyes trailing down the hallway and I forget to breathe while waiting for her reply. In a moment she turns and looks at me as if possessed, a cockeyed grin teasing the corners of her luscious mouth. That's right, honey. What the fuck? We only go around once in this hellhole we call 'life.' The superintendent ain't here and I'm no longer jailbait. I nod my silent understanding and step aside for her to enter.

She makes a show of looking around the room. I lean against the wall idolizing her. When she doesn't hear me behind her she pivots on her heels and stares me down.

I place my keys gingerly on the bureau and in one clean move yank my shirt over my head. A risky maneuver to be sure but I did manage to gain some self-esteem in Cali, enough to know that what I have to offer is not chopped liver. At thirty-four my breasts are still rock hard and high, I have a six-pack stomach, thanks to 24-Hour Fitness, and a small, tight ass. And something else that she can't readily see. I know how to use my tongue and hands, now. Well.

The chilly Chicago air brings my nipples to attention. She looks directly at them and grins.

"Like what you see?" I ask. The grin fades noticeably.

"I don't remember you this cocky," she says, all military-like.

"Correction. You don't remember me at all," I counter, and undo my buttonflies. Then I stare directly at her crotch, trying to figure out exactly what I'm up against.

"Don't worry, Tiger, I've got what you need," she says and strokes a bulge on the inside of her right thigh that hadn't been there before. I nod in appreciation.

"Well then. Let's not keep it waiting," I say and dispense with the rest of my clothes.

In two steps she is on top of me, spins me around and flattens me against the wall. She places both feet between my legs and spreads them to shoulder width, providing her with maximum exposure. But instead of touching me she curls her formidable forearm around my waist and bends me over.

"What the--"

"Don't move," she growls in my ear. With her fingertips she traces from my shoulders down my arms to my hands and fingers, placing her substantial weight on me. And just when I think she's going to take me from behind, she twines her fingers in mine and pulls my arms around behind me.

"Open. Says me," she says, placing both my hands around my butt cheeks. Then she steps aside to watch.

"You must be kidding," I say, and try to stand. Crack! Her big butch arm comes down hard on my exposed flesh. "Yeow!"

"No wonder you never tried out for V-Ball. You should know better than to talk back to your coach."

I teeter on the brink of total humiliation, trying in vain to cover my privates.

"I'm waiting," comes her guttural command.

What the hell, it's better than getting smacked again. I curl my fingers around my ass and pull...

Hey, I asked for this, didn't I? At the moment I don't remember anything except the slight ache in my lower back (I'm getting too old for this shit), and the unmistakable feel of blood hitting my clit like the rhythmic sounds of salsa. If I stand this way any longer, I won't need her at all.

"You're wrong," she whispers. "I remember you quite well, lil' miss I-was-a cheerleader-fine-young-Thang." I grunt out of embarrassment more profound than my position. No self-respecting dyke would ever admit to having been a cheerleader. Ever.

"What can I say? I was looking for validation at a time when I felt pretty crappy." I hear her roll down her zipper and walk over. And in a moment I feel the unmistakable dull pressure of the head of her cock pushing against me.

"And did you get it?" She sinks it.

"Woof," is all I can muster. She pulls me back burying the shaft to the knob and finding her own rhythm.

"Did'ya?" She chants in between strokes, "Huh? Tell me. Tell me, did'ya? Did you get that validation?" Thank God for the wall, is all I can think.

"Yea, I got it, ugh, or, ugh, rather I'm, ugh, getting it."

"You are at that. Don't you forget it."

"If I knew you were like, ugh, this back then I would have, ugh, come, ugh, out...sooner."

"Oh, yeah?" she says straining a bit. "That would have made the school paper. Newsflash: Pom-pom and Varsity Coach were caught naked in the showers today. Full story page two."

"Nooo-ah-ah." I shake my head. "That's where you've got it wrong."

"Oh, how's that?" She asks her pace quickening. I can hear her starting to moan. I take advantage of the upper hand and push her off me. Then I turn and give her a good shove that hurls her across the room and onto the bed. A second later I'm on top of her, straddling her cock as her face registers complete shock.

"If we'd'a done it back then, it would'a made the front page," I say, stroking off on her member.

"Fuck you," she flips me on my back in a very impressive wrestling maneuver. We grapple like two Sumos in heat. The sheer size of her is imposing but I'm no slouch. She wrestles with brute force but I earned my black belt seven years ago. Using my Chi I shake her loose and lock her arm around her back, the smell of musk and sweat intoxicating me.

"You first," I say and work my free hand between her legs. She jerks and tries to shake me off but I have her off balance in a strategic hold.

"No!" she bucks as my fingers burrow their way deep inside her.

"No what?" I growl in her ear. "Must be a real mindfuck, eh? The femmy cheerleader in the miniskirt is now the Daddy."

"You? A Daddy?" She begins to laugh hard enough that tears run down her face. This totally fucking breaks my concentration.

"What the fuck is so funny?" I counter. In one smooth motion she somehow flips me off her and gets back on top of me in 0.3 seconds, my knees up, my heels at my ass and my hands there, too. I look like Nadia-fucking-Comaneci doing an upside-down backbend. Worst of all, her menacing little tool is back between my legs and teasing the inside of my ass.

"The day you become Daddy is the day I become Head Cheerleading Coach. And when do ya think that'll be?" she says probing my asshole with her big, fat cock.

"Oh, I don't know. Judging by your sissy-ass way of fucking, could be any minute now." That did it. I knew it would.

She flips me over with lightning speed and lays 10 searing strokes of her hard hand across my ass. I wail in pain and humiliation.

"What's the matter little girl? More than you bargained for?" She continues to pummel my ass with the severe strength of her big butchly arm. I struggle in vain against the pain, the heat rising all the way to my earlobes. With her strokes controlled and meticulous, she insures every inch of my backside is covered in the red marks left by her gargantuan hand.

"Had enough?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes Sir!"

"Yes WHAT?"

"Yes, Coach!"

"Thatagirl," she says and releases me. I slide to the floor in a heap. She reaches down and takes a hold of my hand then pulls my limp body along with it raising me to my knees. I follow blindly, my vision coming together on a concentrated view of her cock. I look to her for guidance. She raises her eyebrows and nods her head grinning sarcastically.

"You know what to do. Don't you?" I stare back at her with a blank expression. She can't mean it. "Don't you?" she says more forcefully. My eyes drop back to her cock in disbelief as my head shakes an involuntary 'no.' She puts her hand on the back of my neck and pulls me forward. "I knew you did," she nearly purrs. I close my eyes and open my mouth to her, closing it over the head of her shaft.

Magically, I am transported back, this time to the unseemly memory of the back seat of Bobby McCutchen's car. We had gone to see tough Sigourney Weaver in "Aliens" at the Twin Drive-In, but Bobby had a few scary surprises of his own. I swore an oath that night never to allow myself to get into such a vulnerable position again. The words of that teenager now rang through my adult head as if I were saying them out loud, telling me what I had always known; that I was never really confused about what I wanted, just too afraid to face it. I knew for sure I was gay back at that drive-in. Bobby must have suspected something when first I bit him, then threw up all over him. He never asked me out again. Hmmm? I start to grin, then laugh. This stirs Coach Morley sober and she lifts her head to look at me.

"You find this funny, do you?" she says.

"As a matter of fact, I do. You just solved an age-old riddle for me."

"Oh, yeah? Just laying here getting head? Well, I'm happy to oblige. Now care to share your new found knowledge with the rest of the class?"

"Absolutely. It's simple really. What's the difference between straight cock and butch cock?" She raises her eyebrows.

"I give up. What?"

"Oh, about fifteen years of therapy," I chortle, unable to keep a straight face. She looks at me like I'm whacked. I try to clarify but with little success.

"It's amazing, Coach. Some of the lessons you learn in high school, you don't even know you know until you do. You know?"

"Are you feeling well, Jodie?" she says reaching out to feel my forehead. "I think this cock has gone to your head."

"You don't know the half of it," I say, then resume cocksucking in earnest.

Her eyes go wide then roll back into her head. She begins to moan like a child with a fever, her orgasm building. As she watches me through slanted eyes, I work her tool with vigor.

"Damn, damn, damn...oh!" She moans and bucks and moans and comes, finally, gasping and screaming and grabbing for me. I hold her tightly as her spasms subside.

Then quietly I offer, "Oh, c'mon. You can't be done yet." I start making my way down her body again.

"No, no! That's, that's good. That's enough now," she pants, pulling at my hair and face. "C'mon. Come up now. Let me...let me fuck you right, now."

"No, no, let me," I say as I release her from her strap-on and slip it on. "After all, one good deed deserves another."

Dr. Blume would be so proud.

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