Friday Mr. Pencil

She is a professional, but her outfits always push the limits. She loves attention and is very generous with sharing photos of herself with men. I hate it; I often wonder who else received these pictures and if they were actually intended for me. But it’s the videos she sends of herself—just being her, laughing, singing, or chatting with me—while I can see her lace bra peeking out from under her silky tank top beneath her blazer. Sometimes, she positions the camera so I catch a glimpse of her thigh tattoos, and even more often, I notice her lack of panties. Occasionally, there are videos of her walking along the sidewalk, already late for a meeting; she’s always late. Her heels click on the pavement, her sunglasses are stuck in her hair, and her eyes sparkle as she makes a final joke before heading into her council meeting. I know these are made just for me, and I see her—who she really is—and she’s stunning. I can’t help but wonder what the people in the meeting she’s headed to must think as that immense presence enters the room.

She finds it sexy that I always have a pencil in my hair. It’s actually for practicality, as part of my profession; you never know when you might need a good pencil. The other day, she was crying, and I sent her a picture of myself with my hair filled with pencils. She couldn’t help but laugh; I love the sound of her laugh, but more than anything, it’s how her big blue eyes shimmer when she’s happy. With tears still streaming down her cheeks, she smiled at me and asked, “Are those pencils for me, or was that just a natural progression?” Why does she have to be so captivating? Why do I live for that smile?

I wake up every morning, and I think about her. I go to meetings, and I talk about her. I spend my days trying not to message her or let her know how deeply into my thoughts she has become. At meetings, they tell me that she is another addiction and how unhealthy our situation is; I often leave and message her to say that we can only be friends. I say I love her and will always be there for her, but I can’t think of her as more. The problem is that I always think of her as more. Sometimes, she calls while I’m in a meeting, has a problem, or is just high and being silly and wants to chat. I always leave. Even though these meetings are my life hold, I need them. She doesn’t know she’s taking me from them, or sometimes I mention it, and she tells me to go back, that she can wait, but I don’t want her to wait. I am just happy she called.

The first time I saw her was on a random encounters app. I’d never used it before. I had just left a relationship and was feeling lonely. The app is supposed to be for one-time conversations, not for establishing relationships. She was on there because she couldn’t sleep. She found that in the middle of the night, she could have random conversations with men from anywhere in the world. Most of them were as lonely as she was, and they’d talk to her about anything until she fell asleep. That was a year and a half ago. I saw her big blue eyes, her nervous lip bite, and her calm and mischievous attitude, and I came while she watched. But then I wanted her to watch me again. I wanted her attention all the time. She said she liked our conversations, so they kept going. She gave me her contact information, and I kept watching her from afar, wishing she was closer.

When she messages me, my heart simultaneously jumps and drops. Is it good for me that she wants me in this moment? With the time difference, most of her day is gone by the time mine is just beginning. She regularly forgets this fact, which I find endearing. She has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and she has trouble keeping track of time. I get her attention when I get it. We’re so similar in so many ways; she uses sex to make herself feel better. She is gorgeous, intelligent and self-conscious, which is not a good combination. I have to listen to her stories of these creeps that take advantage of her, and I keep my thoughts to myself. The truth is, after I hear about the men she’s been with, I slip onto Tinder, pick a random girl, and I fuck her. I fuck her, and I picture her face, her body, and her decorated thighs wrapped around my head.

She’s an incredible mother; she adores her daughters deeply. It’s heartwarming to see how much she loves them, but life has been tough for her, and she has experienced the loss of a baby. She often wonders if that loss has made her a lesser mother and if her other children receive less love because a part of her died with her baby girl. I try to reassure her, but selfishly, I realize that if she didn’t have those children anchoring her to her life and husband, maybe she would choose to be with me. I daydream about what it would be like for her to be with my daughter and how we could be a family, but I know those thoughts are dangerous.

She messages me while I’m at work, and I can’t get her off my mind. I find myself sneaking out of my classroom to sing a song to her or leaving early so I can call her. She says I have no work ethic, but I love my job and am a great teacher. I just love her more.

We communicate through song. We send Snaps back and forth, singing lyrics that fit our conversations or express how we feel about each other. She sent me a video of herself naked, saying she wanted me to touch her and not be stern with her. A couple of days earlier, we had fought; I told her to stop meddling in my life as she was asking questions about other women I was seeing. This afternoon, I sent her a video singing "Crazy": “I'm going crazy, crazy, crazy just thinking about you lately. I’m going crazy, crazy, crazy just thinking about you, baby. I’m going crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy thinking about you lately. I'm going crazy, crazy when I can't touch you. Crazy, crazy when I can't hold you. Crazy, crazy when I can't see you again.”

She responded with a suggestive video singing "Super Freaky Girl," starting with a slow-motion shot of the camera gliding over her body. She was wearing her husband’s flannel shirt and nothing else. Then she began to rap, “I can lick it, I can ride it while you slippin' and slidin’. I can do all them little tricks and keep the dick up inside it. You can smack it, you can grip it…” She moved the camera down, giving me a view of her black thong as she sang, “You can go down and kiss it,” before returning to her perfect face, beaming with pride, “And every time he leaves me alone, he always tells me he misses it. He wants a F-R-E-A-K.”

I responded the only way I knew how: “You’re beautiful.” She replied, “Then why are you so mean to me?”

Sometimes, I can’t help but tell her that I would be gentle, caring, and firm at first in my approach, understanding her mental health and how much I love everything about her. I would ensure she felt comfortable and satisfied before I allowed myself to do everything I usually think about. She wouldn’t sleep the first night I could lay my hands on her because I would make love to her over and over again; I’d need to be inside her, hold her close, and inhale her scent. She once posted a picture in her story that said, “fuck me like you hate me.” She intended it as a joke, or maybe not, but it enraged me. I couldn’t help but describe exactly how I would make love to her, and there would be no hate, only love, because that’s what she deserves. Her response was underwhelming; I could tell my passion and lack of control surprised her. Sadly, she said, “I hope I get to experience your touch someday.”

I can't tell you how many times I've climbed into my truck and considered driving to her. I've memorized the exact route; I know it would take me the whole day plus 20 hours to get to hold her. I've looked up flights, too, but I can't afford the price. She could—she's offered to come to me, but my pride won't let her. I don't like to acknowledge that she is successful, and that money means different things to each of us.

When we first started talking, I told her that I wear a unicorn shirt on Fridays for my students, and they call me "Friday Mr. Pencil." She thought this was hilarious, started calling me "Friday Mr. Pencil," and pointed out that the unicorn on my shirt was actually a My Little Pony. I received a care package a few weeks later with a number of My Little Pony T-shirts for me to wear for my students. She does thoughtful things like that, not just for me but for everyone. She's very generous with her money, and if she sees something that makes her think of you, you will be receiving it in a perfectly wrapped package with a handwritten card that is wax sealed. Her parents messed her up, and she tries to buy people's love, but it's also nice; she doesn't realize how often her thoughtful efforts change someone's day.

I, more often than not, find myself falling asleep at night wishing I could talk to her, but I know she's already curled up in bed, tucked in next to her husband, sleeping soundly and not thinking about me. Do you know he lays out her pajamas every night? He brings her water, lays out her pills, and selects what she will sleep in. She obediently changes into the items left out for her, takes the pills, and climbs into bed with him every single night, and I can't help but want to punch this man I've never met.

He loves her. How could he not? It’s obvious to me that he does. But she comes to me when he hurts her, and their relationship has not been as solid lately.

Her self-confidence takes a big hit every time someone rejects her, not that they are actually rejecting her; they want all of her and can’t have her. They want her; they always want her. But she doesn’t see it that way.

So, she sees something more in every little comment or glance from her husband. She thinks he is insinuating that she is a bad mother, that she is lazy and doesn’t do enough, that her body isn’t good enough, or that she’s not the perfect wife. But she is perfect.

I tell her she deserves better, and what I really mean is that she deserves me. I would treat her better. She would never have another bad day or night if she were mine. I’d take good care of her. But in truth, she does not need a man to build her confidence; she needs to be alone and believe in herself.

When I am in a good state of mind, I tell her to quit the men and women and instead take a break and focus on loving herself. She always agrees, but a day later, I find out she went and found someone new to sleep with who filled her along with her insecurities.