I always loved evenings like this. With mum working a double shift and not due home until late, I could take advantage of a flat all to myself. I enjoyed a long, warming shower, lit my bedroom with sweet-scented candles and squeezed into my favourite pyjamas. The little cotton shorts, the tight pink top falling a couple of inches above my belly button, the white unicorn and rainbow motif across the chest: they belonged to a time much deeper in childhood, but I found comfort in their cosy familiarity. I plunged into plush, plump pillows, relishing the crispness of fresh linen against clean skin. Stretching like a starfish, I let them cradle my neck and settle around my ears. The day replayed through my mind like a silent movie, and my thoughts settled on Mr Renshaw.Mr Renshaw. I caught myself smiling whenever I thought of my favourite teacher. A serious-minded, clever man with heavy-hooded eyes and reddish hair. In his late thirties, I guess, he was sweetly shy of eye contact and always removed his glasses and fingered the frame when absorbed in his lectures. His modern history class on revolutionary Russia often took in literary excursions, from Dostoevsky to Nabokov, that fired my mind and inspired my love of all things Russian.He was also istanbul travesti a deeply kind man. The period around dad leaving hit us hard. That winter of 2012, coming to school wearing a heavy, khaki-green parka from a military surplus store was humiliating for a sensitive kid on the frontier of adolescence, but it was all mum could afford. I quietly endured the teasing and bitching from girls in designer coats and expensive sportswear, but somewhere along the way Mr Renshaw must have caught wind of it. He not only complimented, in front of a full class, my ‘cool, alternative taste’, but used Google Images and his encyclopaedic mind to give an enthusiastic talk on Mod culture of the 1960s. From that day, I wore that parka with pride and even began exploring some of the music of the scene. The snide remarks didn’t exactly stop, but I stopped caring and began to curate a version of myself I believed in, not one that others expected. I often think back to that small act of kindness and the man who gifted me self-confidence when I most needed it.His kindness continued as I progressed through the sixth form. The many hours he gave up guiding me through my extended essay on the art of the Russian Revolution went way beyond the call of duty. travesti istanbul 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 and love of a father. I began to project complicated feelings of warmth and jealousy and attraction onto the few men who came into my life. I understood my feelings, at least, but istanbul travestileri I couldn’t control them. I didn’t want to. The truth is, I had begun looking beyond Mr Renshaw’s shy quirks and kindness. Whenever he spoke, I found myself transfixed by his mouth: his full, generous lips and light beard flecked with gold, yellow and russet, like a wheatfield in August. His Adam’s apple was strong and pronounced, as a man’s should be. The bridge of his nose was dusted with a faint galaxy of brown freckles, slightly faded with the passing of time. I had come to love his aftershave, a distinctive blend of smoke and spice that smelled exotic and homely at one and the same time. The plain, silvery band on his left hand was my torturer, tying knots of jealousy and desire in the pit of my stomach each time it caught my glance.Comfortable and lost to my thoughts, my hand snaked down my body, brushing the soft plateau of my stomach as I settled beneath the sheets. I wet two fingers in my mouth, then slid beneath the waistband of my shorts. Pushing past soft, wispy curls, I found the fleshy outer lips of my flower. Shaping my fingers into a ‘v’, I gently prised them apart. Dewy moisture rose to the familiar touch. Shuffling and shifting on my heels, I spread my legs, bent my knees and allowed myself room to explore. I bit my lower lip and sighed, my fingers gliding in tandem along the moistening groove of my pussy. I tentatively rolled back the hood and revealed the soft hardness of my clit.