Weight Room Title Bar

Teacher's Pet
By Joe Z.

A thirty-something blonde walks by us at the beach. "Women with spare tires shouldn't wear bikinis," my girlfriend comments as we lounge on the sand on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

"She wasn't that fat," I comment, choosing to ignore the fact that tiny love handles have attached themselves to the formally rock-hard stomach of my girlfriend. She's already in a bad mood - no need to get her more upset.

The woman to whom my girlfriend was referring to sits on a towel right next to ours. Once she takes her sunglasses off, it hits me immediately. "I know her," I say to myself, "That's Miss Lindbergh, my 8th grade teacher." Immediately, I get excited - down below. Bathing suits are notorious for not hiding anything, so I choose to lie on my stomach. Miss Lindbergh was my first crush. In her early twenties, she was only about 8 years older than I back in grammar school - but obviously, that's a world apart to a 14-year old. She had the same strawberry-blonde hair then, the same luscious breasts, and, well, almost the same figure.

Of course it didn't hit me then, but my crush on Miss Lindbergh was the first evidence that I liked girls with a bit of meat on their bones. A beautiful women, not too skinny, but not fat either, she probably clocked in at about 140 pounds back then. By the end of the year, I was head over heels for her. When June came around, she entered class one day with a short shirt - one that barely covered her midsection when standing straight. When she wrote on the board, however, the shirt rode up to reveal a hint of flab on her back and sides. As a young adolescent, I had very little control over an oncoming erection (who am I kidding, I don't have any control now, either.) I was immediately excited to the point that I wasn't sure why. For the last month of school, I was infatuated with her and her slightly flabby body. I even goaded her into telling me that she had put on some weight during college that she hadn't been able to lose (hey, I was 14, but clever.)

Well, as I sit here on the beach, those memories flood back as I subtly glance at my 8th grade crush. My girlfriend was right - she does have a spare tire. She isn't obese, mind you, but she has put on some weight over the past 8 or 9 years. Her soft belly gently hangs over her swimsuit bottom as her love handles jut out. As she waves to a friend who is coming toward her, the back of her arms (where tricep muscles would be, if she had them) jiggle. She tries to get up, but those extra pounds (probably another 30 or 40) make it a chore. After talking to her friend for a minute, she heads for the ocean.

"I'm gonna take a dip," I tell my girlfriend. She couldn't care less - she's downing her second Guiness (yes, out of the can.) She has no idea that she should be switching to Bud Light - those Guinesses alone are responsible for her new gut.

As I slowly wade in the water toward Ms. Lindbergh, a new erection springs into action - jeez, thank God for the 4 feet high water. Nonchalantly, I "accidentally" splash a little water in her direction.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that," I lie.

"No problem, sweetie," she responds. Wow, off to a good start.

"Miss Lindbergh, is that you?"

"Yes, and who might you be?"

"Mike. Mike O'Conner. St. Mary's Class of '91."

"Yes . . . I remember you. Wow, you sure grew up into a fine looking young man."

"Thanks . . . you look great yourself."

"Thanks for the compliment, but we both know that isn't really true."

"Whatever could you mean - you look as terrific as you did the day I graduated."

"Oh stop - I mean, I'm flattered, but let's just say that swimsuit season isn't my favorite time of year."

"No way - you look amazing. You have a beautiful figure. (I'm telling the truth.)

"Now I'm blushing . . . It's just that women in their thirties with waistlines larger than their age don't hear that that often. I mean, come on. You could bounce a quarter off your washboard stomach - and it would sink in to mine and be lost forever!"

"Well, guys were made to be built differently from girls."

After a bit of smalltalk, I somehow get the courage to ask for a date with "Valerie" (I finally know her first name.) She notices my girlfriend and declines.

"Maybe some other time - that age difference won't mean so much in another ten years," she says.

"I guess you're right - dating is tough enough . . . the age difference would make things even tougher."

"Your girlfriend looks like she's heading back to the bar - that line's got to be at least 25 minutes long."

I had no idea what she was suggesting. Before I knew what hit me, her hand was creeping from my arm, to my chest, then to my stomach. I put my hand around her waist, and it did indeed sink in to her soft flesh. She felt my erection, and removed her bottom with her leg. About 100 feet from the nearest swimmer, I finally consummated my first love affair. Her flabby thighs shook as the low tide almost revealed our act to the world. My hands held on to her large ass; not an ounce of muscle challenged my firm grasp of both cheeks. It was over in about 20 minutes, just before my girlfriend returned to viewing distance from the bar with her drinks.

"You know that was a one-shot deal," she gasped - she was out of breath.

"I guess, but you promised me that date in 10 years."

"OK, but only if you keep that washboard stomach and those tight pecs," she playfully insisted.

"You don't go changing either," I instructed.

"What's the matter, another 40 pounds and you won't find my figure 'beautiful' anymore?"

Christ, I came 5 minutes ago and I'm getting another hard-on.

"Another 40 pounds and I might marry you," I thought to myself. On the way back to my towel (and my girlfriend) I stopped to pick up some fries and a burger. I know she can't resist fatty foods when she's had a few beers.

"Barkeep . . . two more Guinesses."