The Tales of Mrs. Larson

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Jake banged his head on the locker and groaned.

“I got Mr. Hein for health class. The guy with the yellow teeth. What a waste. My doodling will so improve this semester. Who did you get for health?”

Mark scanned through his semester’s schedule.

“Mrs. Larson, just after lunch, third period.”

“Mrs. Larson! Man, you lucky shit, I can’t believe it.” Jake punched Mark in the arm.

“She good?” he said and punched Jake back.

“You getting her is so wrong, so unfair. Since ninth grade I’ve wanted to be in her class. But never, not even in my last semester did I get her. I swear the universe is against me. It hates me.”

Jake stared upward and, raising both hands, he pleaded, “What did I do to make you hate me so much?”

Mark laughed. “She good enough to make you think the universe has cursed you?”

“Mark, Mark, Mark,” Jake patted his friend on the sore shoulder. “It’s obvious you know nothing. Let me say there’s some history—true stories, I tell you—about Mrs. Larson. I’ve heard of ‘out of this world,’ first-hand accounts.”

Seeing Mark’s nonchalance, he grabbed the front of Mark’s shirt.

“Amazing things! Fantastic things! Things that manifest alone in fiction!”

Mark removed Jake’s hands from his shirt and straightened it.

Jake leaned against the wall of cold metal lockers. “Universe, all I ask is to have my own adventure with Mrs. Larson. To become a hero in this place. A demigod in this school.”

“But the universe has said no,” Mark joked.

“Must have, it must have.” He hung his head and felt the sore spot on his own shoulder.

“What are these stories you’ve heard about? They must be really, really good, if you’re getting this depressed.”

“Legends, my friend, sagas unparalleled, events that happen only once in a thousand years.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “When’s drama class?

“Fourth period.”

“Save it for class. Cut the show and tell me about her.”

Jake glanced around, as if someone might listen in, particularly the universe.

“Mrs. Larson is said to call herself ‘Ms. Joy.'”

Mark’s forehead crinkled, as Jake’s words of knowledge failed to pass through. “You mean like she’s happy. So what?”

“No, no, no. I’m talking about herself herself.” His eyes darted down for a split second, attempting again to convey a message.

A light clicked on in Mark’s mind. “Herself herself, as in that herself?”

Jake only nodded slightly, the corners of his mouth upturned as Mark got the message.

Suddenly though, Mark’s astonishment vanished from his face and skepticism replaced it.

“Pretty far-fetched, if you ask me. How would anyone know that? Anyone actually heard her say it?”

“She has said it, dude. People have heard her say it—I mean, actually heard the name roll from between her lips.”

“Which lips?” Mark laughed. He then crossed his arms. “I’ll believe it when I myself hear her say it. And only then. These tales about teachers can last for years. One student says something and everyone else takes it as God’s honest truth and then they repeat it. Soon it’s blown all out of proportion. But it all began as a ‘mistruth.'”

“My brother said he heard a friend of a friend say she said it in class once.”

“You mean your brother Robbie? Ha!” He waved off Jake’s statement. “If Russel had said it, I might have—maybe have—believed it, maybe. But Robbie? And when was he in school, like ten years ago. Was Mrs. Larson actually teaching here way back then?”

“Whatever you say, have it your way. I believe it though.” He jabbed his thumb against his chest.

Then Jake looked at Mark with a plea. “Truth or not—for me, for your friend—pay attention in class, listen to every word she says, especially when the topic is …”

The bell directly overhead rang loudly and echoed through the halls and in their ears.

“Talk later.”

And they split to first period.

All morning, the thought of that conversation and the tale intrigued Mark, despite its absurdity. What if the story was true?

First period went slowly and second period dragged on too. Lunch was lunch. Finally third period arrived.

He took his seat in the back of the class, a spot where he could get a better view of all that was happening and avoid having a room full of mischievous teenagers, with spitballs and paper airplanes, behind him.

Mrs. Larson walked in after the bell rang for the start of class. She was a full-figured black woman with a head of frizzy styled hair with dark red highlights. Her slim eyes gave the impression of a strong personality. If she wanted it, she’d get it. Still the stoic nature she exuded made the “Tale of Ms. Joy” even more far-fetched. However, admiring his teacher, Mark decided it would be quite intriguing.

Her glistening brown lips parted as she welcomed them to her class. She had a lovely, broad smile. Mark even noticed her pink tongue in her mouth, a contrast to the rest of her.

Mrs. Larson spoke briefly about herself, the class syllabus and topics she would cover during the semester. Bayan Eskort While talking, Mark noticed her long fingers and the gold rings she wore, including a wedding band studded with a large diamond. He concluded that Jake had a wild fantasy about this teacher, this wife. Nevertheless, Mark listened to her—just in case something unexpected, and unlikely, might come through those lips.

Later that day, Mark gave Jake the bad news. “Shucks! She didn’t say it,” he said sarcastically.

“There are weeks ahead.” He showed his crossed fingers.

“I think you’re stupid.”

“You still don’t believe the stories. You need to hear it from the source.”

“Robbie only heard it from a friend who had a friend who heard her—supposedly heard her for that matter—say ‘Ms. Joy.’ Who knows if it was said in the right context!”

“Let’s talk to Robbie.”

A few hours later, Jake and Mark sat on the floor in Robbie’s room, which was cast in blacklight. Odd posters and blankets glowed in the dark. Jake’s oldest brother was relaxed in his bean-bag chair. He smiled at hearing the topic the two guys were interested in.

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Larson, Mrs. Larson,” he said, stroking his chin, “what a woman. Could teach health better than any other teacher.”

His grin widened. “I didn’t know what I was getting into when I took my seat in her class.”

“She was teaching here when you were in school?” Mark asked.

“Her first year, yep.”

“Where’d you hear about ‘Ms. Joy’?” Jake asked.

“Barry Windell was his name. A good-looking guy, girls loved him, were all over him. He had whoever he wanted. No questions asked.”

Mark was already shaking his head, but he listened.

“One day Barry met with Mrs. Larson. He said he wanted her, that he had been turned on by her ever since he was in her class. And now he couldn’t handle it any longer.”

Robbie took a drag on his cigarette and let the smoke flood from his nostrils.

“She was shocked, so she told him, ‘I knew I turned you on. That’s why I wear short skirts and keep my back to the class, so you can see my large ass.'”

Jake nudged Mark, as his brother shared the tale of Mrs. Larson.

“It began then between Barry and Mrs. Larson. She told him, ‘You want to meet Ms. Joy?’ And Barry told her she should meet his man first. So she knelt down behind her desk and sucked his dick. Yep, that’s how it happened.”

“You’re saying she just knelt down in her classroom before everyone left for the day? Give me a break.” Mark put his head in his hand. “A little too out there for me to believe. And not to mention, a guy who can get any girl he wants when he wants her? No guy is that good, even the rich men in the world can’t get pussy anytime from any girl.”

“I can’t believe you still doubt us,” Jake said. “Dude, this is the Odyssey of our school.”

“The Odyssey is only a overblown poem. Nothing in it is true,” Mark responded.

Suddenly Jake seemed to have a revelation. “I understand it now! Mark, the universe allowed you to get Mrs. Larson so you’ll become a believer.”

“What, and you didn’t get her all these years because you’re a believer?”

“The universe is perplexing.”

“Yeah, dude, it’s—” Robbie took a long toke. “—it’s twisted, man.”

The next day, Mark decided to sit nearer the front of class. He still didn’t believe Robbie or Jake that this woman, who was handing out worksheets, was the heroine of the school’s locker room Odyssey.

Mrs. Larson passed down the aisle of desks and bumped Mark’s elbow.

“I’m sorry, honey,” she said sweetly and touched his arm.

Mark’s body reacted immediately. He felt her hand’s warmth, its strength, her fingernails. He also saw, up close, the diamond on her finger.

During class, he examined her polyester white dress pants. Against her skin, he could make out the lightest outline of the pockets. Despite close but discreet scrutiny, he could not find a pantyline along the skin-tight slacks. He imagined a thin strip of elastic deep in her ass. Or no panties at all. With all these thoughts, there was no way he could stand up. Luckily he had calmed himself by the end of class.

“Sorry, Jake,” Mark said when he saw his friend in the hallway, “she didn’t say it.”

“Who say what?” interjected Derrick who was with Jake.

“Mrs. Larson and ‘Ms. Joy.'” Jake said flippantly. “Mark, here, is not a believer.”

“Not a believer? Man, believe it because in life there’s nothing as sobering as a world without naughty women.”

Mark looked skeptically from Derrick to Jake.

“Derrick’s in philosophy,” Jake answered.

“And you’re in drama,” Mark said.

“And you’re in denial!” Jake retorted.

“Derrick, here’s a thought for you to chew on. ‘The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.'”

“Fredrich Neitzsche! Love him.” He gave Mark a high-five.

“If you have faith without proof, Neitzsche would consider you a fool.”

“You need to meet Harry Gosstold. Anadolu Yakası Escort He’ll give you proof. He knows plenty of people. He had health class during summer school one year.”

“You know him, Jake?” Mark asked.

Harry Gosstold rolled out from under the broken-down pickup truck.

“The stories of Mrs. Larson have hit your class too, huh.”

He stood tall in his garage fatigues and smelled like burnt oil.

“I wasn’t in that summer class with Mrs. Larson. But my best friend’s ex was in summer school—several times—but not with Mrs. Larson. I have not gotten any the dirty details because when Ernie and her broke up, she wasn’t talking to any of us. This many years later and she still ignores us. A bitch. Erin’s ex, not Mrs. Larson.”

He wiped off his greasy hands.

“But I have heard of a game she made up. It’s called Strip Dodgeball. If you get hit, you have to take off a piece of clothing. Would’ve loved to play that game.”

“Strip Dodgeball? That’s stupid.”

“The stories are true, Mark, true. Believe them,” Harry said.

In the fresh air outside of the Gosstold Garage, Mark was even more unconvinced.

“How can all of you believe this if no one has had a first-hand account? You barely have enough proof to jack off to. Do you understand that?”

Jake shrugged, dismissing the comment.

The next day, Mark sat in the front row of health class. He checked out Mrs. Larson in her buttoned blouse. Mark counted three buttons undone. As she lectured, Mark was entranced by the depth of cleavage that would appear because of those undone buttons.

He was pulled from his musings when a girl next to him raised her hand. “Mrs. Larson, I have a question.”

The large woman passed down the aisle and leaned over to look at the girl’s paper. Mrs. Larson listened to her question and scanned the paper. Meanwhile, Mark had locked his eyes on her breasts that were clamped tight in the nude bra. The buttons offered a perfect view to ignite the imagination.

Suddenly Mrs. Larson moved and Mark could not dart his eyes away fast enough. She spotted his stare. She adjusted her blouse and buttoned one more button.

Afterward, he told Jake, “Class started with three undone but ended with two.”

Jake groaned at missing the view. All he could say was “How’s this for a doodle?”

“It’s Hein-worthy.”

One evening though, Mark hopped in his pickup and headed to the Supercenter for some pork chops and a bag of charcoal for the grill. Hiking through the meat section, he noticed a woman with a round ass bent over in the frozen foods. It could be just one woman.

“Hi, Mrs. Mower. Doing good tonight?”

The woman stood upright. “Mark, hi. My goodness, everyone’s out tonight. I saw Mrs. Larson earlier.”

“We all think alike. See you in class tomorrow.”

She waved and reached back into the frozen foods.

Mark was intrigued by the thought of seeing Mrs. Larson outside of school. He suddenly didn’t mind slowing down his pace and meandering down some extra aisles.

“Wait till Jake hears about this. If the universe is against him, it’s definitely for me.”

Amused by the thought, he turned into the dairy aisle. And there was the shapely woman.

Mark had the urge to pull back and hope not to be seen. But it was too late.


It was the voice he had come to consider silky and arousing. His teacher was holding a gallon jug of milk in each hand.

“Hi, Mrs. Larson. I’ve seen everyone out tonight. I saw Mrs. Mower.”

“Principal Simmon and his wife, Laura Beth, are here too,” she said. “DeWayne, this is Mark, a student of mine. Mark, meet DeWayne, my, my husband.”

Mark was confused by how Mrs. Larson had awkwardly described this man with her, her husband.

He was as thick as an oak tree and stood head and shoulders above Mark. He also had a strong handshake that matched his giant hands.

Mrs. Larson handed her jugs to DeWayne, and then playfully patted the cold wetness on DeWayne’s shirt. DeWayne shooed her away.

“He doesn’t like wet hands,” she said. Turning, she again saw Mark’s eyes fastened to her form.

“Mark.” She woke him up from his stupor by snapping her fingers.

He shook his head, as if rattling his eyeballs loose.

“You here to get momma some milk?”

Her question confused Mark’s slowed train of thought. What did she mean “buy his mom milk”?

“Uh, yes,” he stammered. “Milk and some charcoal for the grill.”

“Skim milk, I assume,” Mrs. Larson said. She opened the glass door and reached in for the cool half-gallon carton.

“No, not skim milk,” Mark answered. “We drink whole milk. We don’t even like 2 percent milk. Mom doesn’t drink it.”

“Whole milk, DeWayne, hear that? Whole milk is still what some guys want.”

She winked at her husband, and his face lightened up. “We drink whole milk too.”

Mark grabbed the gallon jug that she handed him. He kept his view from sliding down. He did not want to be caught twice staring at the wife of a man the Pendik Escort size of DeWayne.

“Nice to see you, Mrs. Larson, and Mr. Larson.”

“Not Mr. Larson. Call me DeWayne, please,” the tall man corrected. “I am not a teacher.”

They said their goodbyes, and the three went their separate ways.

Mark rushed to the outdoor section of the Supercenter to get away from the Larsons. He needed to steady his mind as she had totally confused him. She must not have had any other intent than to mean he was buying milk for his family at the request of his mother. There was no innuendo, of course. They had met in the dairy section.

But assuming skim milk? And seeming surprised by drinking whole milk. Then telling DeWayne that people still like whole milk. Was she insinuating something? If she did mean more than what she said and was so candid about it, Mark started to wonder about the tales.

He set a large bag of Kingsford in his shopping cart, left the milk jug on an empty shelf, and headed for checkout.

DeWayne appeared. “You had a good idea about grilling.”

He saw the giant man toss a large bag of charcoal onto his shoulder.

Mark felt his scalp heat up and his cheeks turn red. He quickly concocted a straightforward apology for any rudeness in looking at Mrs. Larson and convincing him that he would not look at his wife ever again. He would even drop her class if it was necessary.

DeWayne walked beside him.

“Yvonne likes you,” he said and patted Mark’s back with his free hand. “When she horses around with a student like she did with you, I know it. She’s typically stiff when she bumps into a student of hers outside of school.”

“Horsing around?”

“Her jokes about whole milk. And wiping her hands on me.”

“She should have wiped her wet hands on me.”

DeWayne turned his head.

“I mean, you have a nicer shirt, I only have a t-shirt on.”

DeWayne cracked a smile. Then he offered advice that surprised Mark.

“Don’t be shy around her. Tease her back. She needs it to keep her fun for me. I don’t like a moody Yvonne.”

Mrs. Larson came around the corner into view. “There you are. We’ve got places to go.”

DeWayne glanced at Mark. “I need to get her away from these shopping trips.”

Mrs. Larson tugged the sleeve of DeWayne’s shirt. “I need to get my husband moving. Time’s a’wasting.”

“I’ll talk to you another time, Mark,” he said as he was pulled away.

“Don’t burn your meat,” Mark said, with a wave.

“Don’t forget your milk,” DeWayne answered.

Mark wished he had not left the milk behind. “I guess I need to get another jug. She’d be happy with your jugs.”

Mrs. Larson let go of DeWayne’s shirt when she heard that comment. She cocked her head, confounded.

“I forget to check the date of the milk.”

Mrs. Larson’s expression eased.

“Don’t upset your momma,” she said. “Mommas should always be made happy. I know I like when I am, right, babe?”

He looked at Mark. Mark nodded.

Mrs. Larson again tugged on DeWayne’s shirt to get his attention. “What were you two talking about?”

“The happy Yvonne,” DeWayne said.

“How he makes you happy.”

She was not convinced that was all of it.

They said goodbye again.

The next day, Jake was astounded by the story and read deeply into the milk comments. The story further convinced him that the universe hated him and was paying him back for some terrible act he had committed in a previous life.

“DeWayne said Yvonne likes me. She doesn’t joke with students like she did me.”

“Yvonne? You’re using her first name?”

Mark pushed back his shoulders in pride.

“The universe is giving you these opportunities so you’ll believe in Ms. Joy.”

Mark looked up. “Universe, take note, I will need to actually see Ms. Joy before I believe.”

“I have a feeling the universe will allow it to happen.”

Mark was the first person in class and Mrs. Larson said hello and gave him a warm smile.

“Hi, Yvonne,” he said lightheartedly.

She frowned. “‘Mrs. Larson’ when you’re in my class. DeWayne should not put me on a first-name basis with students, unless we aren’t in class.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Larson.”

“You and I can have a first-name relationship in a few months … maybe.”

This time, she confused Mark and he wondered what she meant.

And, hearing about the conversation, Jake put his head in a locker.

His comment echoed from inside. “You’re going to be the hero in this school soon.”

One evening, Mark was bussing tables at the local fish camp, and Mrs. Larson walked into the restaurant. She wasn’t with DeWayne this time. It was a new man.

Mark tried to remain unseen, but she saw him immediately. She gave a brief wave.

He cleared off the table next to hers, and said hi.

“I come here a lot and I didn’t know you worked here,” she said.

“I’ve been here for a few months.”

Mrs. Larson glanced to the man across from her and then to her student.

“Mark, this is Marcus. Marcus, meet Mark, a student of mine.”

He smiled and nodded.

Marcus was thin and quiet, unlike DeWayne.

Mark continued his duties, cleaning off the empty tables.

A while after Yvonne and Marcus had been seated, Mrs. Larson left the table and bumped into Mark.

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