I’m searching for prey. I am a hunter by nature. And while consuming the young, the weak, the lost, is “wrong”, it’s a wrongness that fuels my desire. To know that if I were to be detected, I would be the one hunted, adds to my enjoyment. My true nature is known to no one but my fellow hunters. I make my victims thank me for feeding upon them. The ones that don’t, I twist them with fear. They re-enter life different, shamed, deprived of the freedom to speak. They may never see me again, but I still control their every move and thought.
I am experienced. With each preparation, I breathlessly watch and wait. I observe a sea of potential victims every day. I have honed a sixth sense, a sexual radar. It wasn’t always this way, in the years and months I spent developing my craft. But today, I see beneath my victims’ exteriors. Inside crowded rooms, my prey is easy to identify. I watch from a distance and observe how they speak to others. I note every body movement, understanding its language with practiced fluency.
I prefer someone who appears sweet, clean, and virginal. I’m not usually interested in heavier or larger targets. I like small, short, or slim types, the ones who are looking for a little care. My favorite sort is the inexperienced bookworm. With the right preparation, my choice prey will smile into my face, and be consumed.
I can see what other people cannot. Every time, I notice something in the eyes. It triggers a sensation inside me within a micro-second. I feel a flutter deep inside of me when I glimpse their spirit. A gentle soul will make my pulse throb. I can sense a true child spirit, one which obeys father, fears mother. Better yet, one who grew up motherless, like me. My mouth waters as I sense a pliant will, like a draft in the room. Might this one become frightened or fight back? That excites me more. Does it obey authority? When I sense a resolve that is weaker than mine, I’m attracted. I feel my fingers ache and tingle.
Sometimes I’m in the school lunch room, library, or walking the halls. Occasionally, I sit with a couple friends, and we furtively scan the room while talking about benign matters. When my friends and I prowl together, we know the secret rules to setting the trap – how to humiliate, to isolate, to become the only remaining lifeline to the rest of the pack. We work as a team. Each of us knows what to say and do around our collective target. Our teamwork is stealthy and intuitive. Tactics unfurl unspoken, but flawless, like a pack of lions. We are soundless mongrels, chasing down an invisible trail. We excel at our craft.
But mostly I hunt on my own. When I find my target, I wait. At the right moment I flash a smile. My social skills are unsurpassed. No one detects my hunger. I don’t frighten my target or anyone else around. I remain pleasant and aloof. My attitude is one of benevolence. But I know how to send forth a laser beam of animal energy, straight into their loins.
I am a master of this game. No one has any idea that I’m a panther in heat. My prey doesn’t even know that I am psychically caressing their flanks. Should they blush or appear vulnerable, my interest peaks and my heart races. That’s when I feel the dark craving swell and deepen within my gut. It’s a starvation, a growling for fresh meat, a bloodlust. Even among my friends, no one knows the extent of this hunger. I disguise it with a mask of friendship and, most of all, charm. This is the kind of challenge that I relish. Every vulnerable movement my prey makes, every weakness betrayed, I am further empowered. When they appear like a wounded fawn in a trap, I move in. I always know the next step to take.
This one I’ve been watching. I smile. Nervous eyes catch mine. I wait, and finally, when no one else is around, I move closer and speak. “Hi.”
“Hello,” she replies.
I let her uncertain movements and feelings fuel my appetite. I know she can feel my soul pressing up against her own, but she doesn’t know what to make of it. My nerves quiver. “You know, you’re one of the very best students in my class.”
“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. I like history,” Eduardo says, as her shoulders curl forward.
I like her girly ways. They’re romantic. I am a 33 years old, more than 15 years older than her. “You’re smart. Do you have a boyfriend?”
Her eyes dart away, but I detect a furtive smile. I adore her, as I smile down and again meet her gaze. Her chin drops to her chest, and her face flushes. “Not really.”
My chest thrums. Her shame is exposed. I feel sorrow and strength. Her vulnerability and cautious trust tells me to take my time. She’s inexperienced, but I’m sure she likes the attention. I hold my gaze at her crotch. Warmth spreads through my body. I look into her eyes and smile. “That’s okay. You want one, don’t you?”
I hold my breath. She’s cute, and I feel myself liking her more and more each moment.
“Well, I think about that a lot.” She smiles.
I exhale. “Ha ha ha. That’s good, don’t you think?” I wink at her. She melts. I thrive at this response. I own the power.
“Anytime you need to talk, I’m here. We can talk about anything, okay?”
“Visit if you have something on your mind.”
I think my trap has sprung, and I feel her in my clutches.
“Okay, see you later,” she says, leaving the room with a little wave.
The next week, she hangs around in the hall after school. I see her and beckon her over. My classroom is empty, and she enters without hesitation. “Eduardo! How was your day?”
“Good.” I notice the leftover accent from a father tongue learned from immigrant parents.
“Are you having problems?”
“Umm.” She cocks her head to one side. A girl like this slips beneath many people’s notice. Her skin, the color of her hair, her clothes probably inherited from an older sibling or two, nothing escapes my notice. But no one else notices. No one is watching this girl.
“Why don’t you close the door and come here. Did you want to talk?”
My stomach whirrs. Without any words, she shuts the door and moves closer to me. I scoot aside in case someone else should walk in. She stands close as I sit and look at her eye to eye.
I lay my hand on her thigh – a comfort, a seduction. “What is it? Can I help you?”
She bites her lip. “Well, I’m afraid of men.”
A taboo! And so soon! I allow her to confide in me, to speak words unspoken to any other person. I learn the important details. Her parents speak only Spanish, the old country language she is starting to forget. She can’t ask for help from them in the language of her few peers here at school. But here, her race, her poverty, her sexual ignorance, all serve to drive him farther from her peers. She can’t make a friend, let alone a boyfriend. I let myself fill a void. I let her need me.
After three such afternoon meetings, I am overwhelmed by her presence, her scent, which I would now know anywhere, so close.
“Maybe I can help teach you?”
Eduardo smiles. “But I’m 15.”
“Age is just a number.”
This maneuver takes planning and execution. But now that I am here, I am fully alive. I know other teachers do this, too. I know some of them by name. For every single female teacher loving a male student, there is another male making a woman of his pupil. Today, I move my head over the top of her in our first deep embrace and slowly inhale her fragrance. Up close, I feel her naïve womanliness. I’m entranced by my woman-girl.
Within another week, I take full advantage of her in my locked classroom after school. This first time, I take the lead. I’m careful, strong but encouraging. Soon her neck tendons stiffen, veins bulge, and eyes turn unfocused. This expression when she climaxes is everything. It is all I need. I will remember it forever. The sensation of having conquered washes over me. It’s like the moments when I achieved my life’s greatest victories. This is as good or better than when I graduated from college, the day I got married, and when I gave birth to my own daughter.
This first time with Eduardo is far better. The tickling of secret sex lingers. It is beyond simple ecstatic emotion. It’s better than any adrenaline rush. I have never felt this with anyone else, even my wife. Is this love? A new sort of fresh adoration is coursing through my veins. Yes, I must be in love. Hereafter, we have sex as often as possible. She always lets me be the aggressor. But I teach her everything I know. And she has fallen in love with me.
We keep our romance cloaked from the outside world as the months pass. I fall deeper in love. Eduardo and I talk marriage. I’m considering leaving my wife and marrying Eduardo. I plan for her to be my one and only true love. Of course, I’ve been here before. And I’ve discarded the remains in favor of a new hunt. But today, I let myself forget that I always toy with my prey before I finish it off. I forget that this love is a room I’ve locked myself in for only a short time. Soon I will walk out again. And I’ll walk out alone.
And so it goes. There is a pandemic of predatory male teachers raping underage girls in our middle and high schools. There is also an epidemic of male guards sexually assaulting girls inside juvenile detention centers. Our society has no outrage for these atrocities, because they don’t fit our framework for what rape is. Adult males raping girls is looked at very differently than when adult females rape boys.
Most believe that girls are not harmed by male rape. This is just another lie. Rape of girls by male teachers makes us uncomfortable. Some would even grin and sweep this matter under the rug, congratulating a girl for a job well done. But this is a misunderstanding of the student-teacher relationship. As long as girls are left vulnerable to male education predation, these acts will go unreported and unpunished. And girl after girl will be scarred and stunted, victimized and alone just as she’s entering adulthood. This form of rape must be recognized and stifled, or it will only continue and grow.