I saw your head above the carousels and shelves of clothes. There you were in the dressing room mirror. You had three panels of mirrors admiring you. You turned around and pulled on your shirt tightly-looking over your right shoulder in the mirror to take notice of your ass. I called out your name. You looked at me smiling: “Just in time. I need your opinion.” Turning profile...the way you had your shirt pulled so as it showed just a little of your back, the waistband of the jeans you were trying on and the way they hugged your ass....I became jealous of your jeans. Wishing it was me hugging and caressing your ass in my hands. You slid your right hand along your right ass cheek slowly from just slightly below then straight up to the waistband: “So what do you think? Do they make me look fat?” I came behind you and grabbed you tightly towards me. You let out a giggle: “Phat with a ‘ph’-yes!” Then I whispered in your ear: “You have the opinion of my cock as well, don’t you” as I. He always found time, patiently reading drafts and listening to my ideas. He pointed me in the direction of invaluable resources and used his knowledge of college systems to secure me a travel grant so that I could visit an exhibition in London. His enthusiasm for Russia and art was infectious, and I felt I had found a kindred spirit. The student-teacher boundary always held, of course; he was scrupulously professional, and I found something strangely sweet in his comical struggle to look me in the eye or quite reconcile himself to calling me 'Tori'. My friends thought him stuffy and uptight, but they didn't get it. Behind the shyness was a brilliant, selfless, wonderful man; how could anyone not see that?Even at eighteen, my heart still ached for dad or, at least, the ideal of dad I'd constructed from my own memories and quiet study of friends' families. Mum had had plenty of boyfriends, one or two of them nice guys who stuck around for a while, but I missed the unerring protection.
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