An overdue apology to a woman I once adored.

I recently wrote an apology letter to an ex-teacher of mine. I did something as a senior in high school some thirty years ago that was and is so against my character. I got in severe trouble for it, but what occurred clearly happened when I was not in my right mind. She knew this, while the police did not care.

I do not blame anyone for thinking anything bad of me at that time, as it gutted me and made me more suicidal than I already was. I was seventeen and an outsider. In many ways, I was alone, and I just snapped.

I am not excusing what I did, but the situation was outright bizarre and more complicated than many assume. The cops did not know our history, but neither of us told them. The fact is, we were involved a few years before.

A woman like this would make any guy happy, particularly if you were a shy geek like I once was. She was classy, sexy, funny, and mysterious. She also obviously was a heavy flirt, more so than initially any of us realized.

One cannot put into words a young teen being involved with a true older woman. Some would call her a "milf," although she never had any children. I found her more interesting because of this fact. I had a crush. We all had a crush on her.

The mere mention of her name gets the gossip going. The funny thing is that this time the gossip was true. She was involved with her students. I was just one of many. It did not start out as anything but a teacher trying to get the shy kid to talk more.

Believe me, I tried. It would have made life a lot easier with all the textbook bullying I had to put up with for about a decade. It was interesting seeing her snap at the jocks when they went anywhere near me. She would get severely angry and sometimes toss them out of class.

Sadly, when you are a kid who is like that, they will blame you when you do not say a word. It was curious that she was so protective. I had always wondered why. Was she just that nice and genuine, or was there more to it? I found out later on.

I chalked it up to a teacher actually being a teacher. She cared. By November of that year, she was becoming more hands-on and forceful than usual. This both excited me and made me very nervous.

Things were different back then, for sure. However, teachers with a proclivity for students are nothing new either. I was surprised she was interested in me. I often thought I was crazy and reading too much into things or that she was joking. I was mistaken.

One day after school, I was alone with her when I was to take a makeup test. She was wearing a skirt that there is no doubt she knew I liked. Women always know when guys like things. When they say they do not, I never believe them.

She was standing over me, watching as I wrote. I remember looking up, and she was smiling at me. That gorgeous smile is steering its way to my eyes. Then she went back to her desk. I finished the test and turned it in. She then started her flirting and would be teasing. She then asked if I found her attractive.

She knew I did, but I was unable to talk. The latter was unfortunately a normal response from the shy kid, often called "mute" by jocks and cheerleaders. I was almost able to say yes, but she then abruptly got up from her chair. Unfortunately, I became a little excited, and she was able to see it.

What happened next surprised me greatly. She said something I honestly cannot remember. The reason for this is that she grabbed my pants. Yes, she did. I can only imagine the look in my eyes alone by this action of hers. She then told me that she thought I was adorable and wished that I talked more.

Upon gulping, I was amazingly able to talk. I told her, "I can do it one-on-one, but for some reason at school it was as if a switch shut my voice off." She giggled a bit at this. I felt like an idiot. The giggle, however, was not as bad as I had assumed. She then said I was sexy. Still being able to talk, I remember saying, "Oh, really?" She replied, "Uh huh, what does that make you think of?"

Now, I knew all the rumors about her likely had merit somewhere. There were tons. I did not care, though, as I was both flattered and also in awe of her. She liked this and evidently liked me, or at least "it."

She then asked if I liked her skirt. I nodded yes, and she told me she knew that I talked but suspected my nerves were the reason why I was so quiet. I nodded yes again.

I remember her asking me why I was so sad in her class. She asked this often until things changed in our relationship. I barely got a few words out while looking at the floor, which I did when I was nervous or embarrassed.

I relayed that her class made me nervous because the jocks were all sitting where my desk was. This meant two different things, and I knew she knew what they were. For one, being shy and quiet made me an easy target when the jocks were bored or insecure, which was often. Two, she always sat on my desk to read Shakespeare to the class.

We are talking about a beautiful 40-year-old woman happily reading Shakespeare while her perfect legs were crossed and hanging off of my desk. I knew if she was about to read and were to sit down, it would be on my desk. We all knew.

The jealous girls on the other side of the room knew, and the jocks sitting in my vicinity knew. It was probably the only time in school that the jocks and I got along. We all wanted and adored her, and all the girls in class knew it. They hated her for it.

One girl who I was never a fan of because she was snobby and cruel would even give me a dirty look as if it were my fault. One time after class, this girl asked why she was always on my desk. She then asked if there was something she should know about before laughing hysterically and walking away.

My teacher walked in after this strange exchange.She asked if I was okay. I told her it was nothing new and the story of my life, and I began to walk to the door. Nope. She closed it before I got there. My head was down as usual. I looked up, and she was frowning.

For some strange reason, when a girl or woman cries or looks like she is crying, I immediately know how beautiful they are. It’s not something I like. It is something I have always thought about.

She asked if the girls were as bad to me as the guys. I told her often they are worse because I cannot have any of them and they rub it in my face. Women use words, while guys beat you up and mock you. It’s far worse when a girl makes fun of you. Anyone who has been there knows exactly what I am talking about.

My teacher said she would have to do something about that. I asked her not to as she looked at me. I told her that I took what they gave me and that I was not a rat. It was the code and how one got by. She knew this, but I know she only asked to see what I would say.

Then something shocking happened. She got up and grabbed my shoulders before kissing me. This was not a regular peck but a full-blown French kiss. I had never kissed anyone before in that way and was afraid I would look like a fool. She kept kissing me, and I kissed her back the best I could.

She pulled away and told me she knew that would be worth it. I looked at her, puzzled. Able to talk, I asked what she meant. She told me she knew that I would be a good kisser and that she wanted to do that since the first day of class.

I always know when someone is lying. Call it a gift. The first statement was true, while the first was false. I remember muttering—at least apparently, I am a good kisser. She heard me. She asked what I said. I told her it was nothing. She smirked and licked her lips.

Long story short, these are a few examples of the early days of what happened between us before it grew over time. It went on inside and outside of school for around a year until she was no longer my teacher.

It did happen the summer after school finished but ended when I became a sophomore, or so I thought. Here and there, the flirting and comments would start up again, or she would pinch or slap my butt if I was alone. If I were not alone, anyone would notice that sexy smile and stare of hers aimed my way.

I remember one time my best friend said, "What the hell was that all about?" I said it’s what she does; no big deal. What a lie! I liked lying to him because I never told a soul what went on between us. It was personal and just something for myself. I also protected her, just as she protected me.

As a guy who was involved with a much older, more attractive woman, the fact I never told anyone is rather amazing. I have only recently told this to a couple close friends, but none of them are from my city. Gossip. No thank you.

To my friends, who are all female, they did not seem surprised. After high school, I came into my own and never had problems finding women. Back then, though, I was a joke—that is, until she came into my life.

Granted, while I never told anyone what happened with us, I always got the feeling someone had to have known or seen something. If they did, they never told anyone. I would hear whispers sometimes when my teacher would walk past, giving me a smile.

The stares I would get from other students Unfortunately, they were bad as usual. For once, I did not care. I was used to being stared at and mocked. Only here did I act my butt off, and more than usual.

We had encounters my sophomore year, over the summer, and briefly my junior year. Then it stopped. I missed her but knew she was a busy woman. She was also the most secretive woman, but there were obvious reasons.

Being a shy geek, I figured, well, I at least had her for a bit. I did become jealous of others, but I let it go because, after all, I had been with her. I did not think about her a ton that year, as I had a crazy father at home who was always giving me hell, and I was being bullied more than usual.

I was also failing most of my classes because of my nerves, insomnia, and depression. I was beyond suicidal and wanted to die. Junior year ended, and somehow I was still in one piece. The latter would not be for long, sadly, as many things happened and they were not of the good variety.

My best friend abandoned me and left me for dead for no reason. That first summer without my best friend was brutal, and my dad was being more of a bully than usual. In addition, he was becoming more violent than the jocks ever were, which was usually the case.

I was a suicidal mess, and my only escape was music and film, which were my main hobbies and kept me alive. They were the only reason I made it that far, besides my sense of humor.

One day I went to the store to grab some baseball cards and a magazine. It was a particularly gross, humid day. I looked down the street and saw her. It was like one of those cheesy scenes in a film where the lead sees a girl he likes with a jerk, jock, or bully. Only for me, it was my teacher. Thankfully, she was alone.

She looked more beautiful and stylish than usual. She was happy and walking down the street with a bikini top and a beach towel around her waist. I doubt I moved much, as I was just staring. Unfortunately, seeing her that day during the hell that summer had already become, I was already on a destructive, lost path.

One day, for reasons I, to be honest, cannot say, I left her a voicemail. It was a compliment, as always, but an anonymous one. Looking back, it must’ve come off as creepy. It did. I could not get her out of my mind, and I was a manic mess. I left another and another and another.

This went on for about two months before the police showed up. My dad wanted to beat me up more than usual, and my mom looked beyond livid. I was dead. I figured prison, more beatings, and now likely rape. Great. Just great. Amazingly, this never happened.

My teacher had the police track the location of the calls despite the fact that I used *67 to hide my number. It only goes so far. They got me. They wanted me in jail. She did not want her name in the paper.

I found this curious and knew it was more about self-preservation than anything. Besides, with her past, can you blame her? I sure didn’t. Looking back and upon reflection, it was about self-preservation and saving a messed-up kid from more hell.

She did me a solid when she did not need to. She felt she had to, as I found out later. My senior year, I had another English teacher who was friends with her. She sat me down one day out of concern. She knew. I pretended I had no idea what she was talking about.

She mentioned how she knew my ex-English teacher and I were involved our freshman year. I remember giving her a strange look. I then put my head down and started shaking my head. She then told me she knew about the issue with the calls and the police.

I felt beyond embarrassed, disgusted, and sick to my stomach. I was already a suicidal mess from that summer—the guilt of scaring my ex-teacher and crush, and now this. Great. This teacher I was also able to talk to only in one-on-one settings.

She said she was worried about me. I told her that she was only worried about her colleague. I told her nobody needed to worry and that it was all my fault. I also said that it will likely haunt me till the day I die.

She asked me why it happened. I didn’t have an answer. I honestly did not know. At the time, the psychologist they made me go to (instead of going to jail) said it was an obsession. I agreed and said it was more than that, so let’s call it teenage lust. I never told him we used to be involved. We both chalked it up to a 17-year-old kid losing it.

This teacher was protective of me too, but thankfully not like her. She was older and protecting both my ex-teacher and, as she said, me. I did not buy that she was protecting me, but she often did. She said she knew everything that happened between me and my ex-teacher. I remember giving her a puzzling look.

She then told me something I already knew and suspected but did not know the full scope of. She told me my ex-teacher had a proclivity towards certain students and that this was an issue dating back to when she first started teaching.

The fact that this teacher felt the need to tell me this was mind-blowing. I told her I suspected as much as I had seen her with others besides myself. I remember thinking I was one of the lucky few—or dozens. I did not care. I knew she had issues, but she was a goddess to me.

I told my new teacher that, despite my appearing to have lost my mind that summer, she had nothing to worry about, and I had never told anyone about it. I knew my new teacher was a mere conduit between me and my former teacher.

I also never told either of them that I thought their hearts were in the right place. They were good people, and I was just a mess. a suicidal mess, but they both sadly knew that too. I wondered if my shrink had told them or if it was just that obvious. Sadly, it was the latter.

There were often bets between people at my school to see how long I could last before eventually killing myself, as a classmate did two years earlier. I was aware of those bets, but they were mostly in the past.

Of course, these teachers actually paid attention. Most do not, nor will they ever. Then again, from experience, most do not care in the first place. I know a lot about these people. When you’re shy, as I used to be, people forget you’re there. You see things and take notes.

Most people who were this way or had such experiences know that you do not say anything, but you remember. It is what it is, and you become used to the indifference much like all the kids that put you through hell everyday. I do not miss those days except for those with her.

I can only imagine what she thinks of me today. I try not to assume in life, as it leads to bad things. Nonetheless, with how things ended in my manic, suicidal haze that summer before senior year, it’s hard not to wonder if that's when she pops into my head. She has been there lately and had not been for several years.

Ever since I wrote that apology letter, she has been floating around in my head at times. I was not allowed to apologize by the authorities all those years ago. Later, I graduated, then had other things going on in my life, and I moved on.

She will always be classy, fascinating, and in a league all her own. I know with how people are today, they would see her as something else, but she has style. She was well protected by others and had issues as I did, albeit in different ways, but I did not care. I just liked her.

As you get older, these people and those memories take over. When you’re close to death, as some of us are, it dominates your mind at times. I cringe still after my screwup. Yes, I was only seventeen and a suicidal mess, but it’s still something that haunts me when it pops into my head.

I have done worse things to actual guilty people who had it coming, but she did not deserve any of that. I guess it haunts me because I always cared for her and she treated me well. In the end, all those years ago, she saved me from likely jail time, for which I told her I was thankful.

I know she buried it as she had others attempt to sue her and the school, and they settled because her issues were prevalent, but I always felt horrible about that one blunder.

Before I die, I would kill just to talk to her in person again, but I know that will never occur. I am left with the good memories, the embarrassing screwup, and the need to wonder. My mind is so overactive with whatever is in there that it's utter hell.

I am sure she is fine and living it up, but I cannot help thinking of her. I have been with a lot of women all these years later and tons of older women also, but none are even in a class like her.

She was unique. Outside of that one issue, she’s a catch. Of course, she seems to prefer to be alone. I wonder if that has changed. I hope she is happy, but I wonder sometimes.

I guess all I will ever have relating to her is memories and thoughts. Maybe that is for the best, despite how I am haunted by it all again.I finally was able to apologize, but all these years later it likely does not even matter, but in many ways at least the weight was somewhat lifted, although other things are open again.

Hopefully, my mind finds something else to dwell on soon. For this past month after sending the letter, she’s taken up permanent space. Without question, there are much worse things to think about; however, the longing feeling makes me feel like a teenager again.

It is funny how that can happen in life at the drop of a hat. I am not obsessing but merely longing for a conversation that will never come. It would be nice before I leave this world, but the game was played some time ago.