Too Shy To Be Noticed (Story 1)

Jin had apparently taken an organic chemistry class with me three years earlier. I was embarrassed to confess that I had no recollection of it, but she seemed to not be bothered by my faulty memory. It was, after all, a class of nearly three hundred students that met for three lectures per week, for ten weeks. I did recognize her name from the class roster, but she herself was all-in-all forgettable. Yet there we sat, in my living room, reminiscing about something I couldn't fully remember. The only reason we were talking at all, was because our club was coming together to remember a crazy day one year ago. It was the one-year anniversary of a day that changed many student's lives, including Jin's. She had gotten a ride from Rose, the older sister of a student we lost one year ago. Rose had left after taking her turn to speak, and now only students remained. Oh, and one teacher, that being me. We had been meeting once a month for the past year.

Little by little, everyone was leaving and it was down to a few remaining stragglers, Jin being one of three guests left at the event. She was very shy, and mostly listened to others as they shared how the past year had treated them. When the couple got up to say their goodbye, I was surprised that Jin didn't stand up. I asked if Jin was riding with them, and she shook her head side to side. They said they could give her a ride if she was going inland, but she lived north. That's when I learned that Rose had left her and that she was supposed to be coming back for her. It was a little past 6:00, so it wasn't so late to worry.

So after we said goodbye to Javier and Mary, it became a party of two. I was worried about the struggle for conversation that would ensue. She was cripplingly shy, and offered minimalist replies to questions, if she couldn't accomplish her reply with the movement of her head. She got up and started to clean up after our quests, and I said, "You don't have to do that."

"I don't mind." She was the type to feel guilty if she didn't help.

I went around with a trash bag scooping up empty cups, plates, and plastic cutlery, and she rounded up actual plates and silverware and put them into a soapy tub in my sink. We made small talk about cleaning and how tidy her house was. I guess it wasn't exactly small talk, because that implies it was a two-way conversation. I would say things and she would either nod or give a one to three word reply. Her friends say she was more talkative before the incident. Although I had her in class before that, I couldn't recall how she used to be, because she was invisible in the crowd.

I confessed that I was a bit of a clean freak, but not to a psychologically questionable level. She said that she kept her room and bathroom spotless, and I proceeded to brag that I did the same. She looked at me like she didn't believe my standard of clean met her definition of clean. She had seen the living room, dining room, bathroom, and hallway, but the twenty or so guests that were here had ransacked those. As we cleaned up the hallway, I opened my bedroom door to show her a made bed, a spotless carpet, and everything tidy. I then opened the guestroom and showed her the dust free shelves, made bed, clean closet, empty trashcan, and all around neatness.

In her typically quiet voice said, "It is very nice."

I could hear the unspoken 'but' in her answer. I looked at her and she simply opened her eyes a little, before looking to the floor. I asked, "What is it?"

In a voice I could hardly hear, she said, "Bathrooms and kitchens."

I replied, "Well you weren't here at the start to see how nice the kitchen was. But follow me and see for yourself what a clean bathroom looks like." As we walked into my room, I started laughing to myself that my fears about not having anything to talk about were real, but it was still working. A clean competition had saved us from an awkward silence. I was also learning that silence is not necessarily awkward.

She looked in my bathroom, checking the shower, medicine cabinet, sink, and toilet. She nodded affirmatively, which I took be an A in cleanliness.

"I'm glad I passed your scrutiny. I honestly never thought I'd have to prove my hygiene commitment to anyone."

She just gave a shy smile and then it was silence again, and this time was awkward. I wondered if she had seen the box of rubbers in the medicine cabinet, but I sure as hell wasn't going to ask. I suggested we return to the living room, and started to walk there as she fell in step. I closed the door behind us and walked behind her to the living room. I'm sure she could feel me staring at her, and I was afraid it would make her uncomfortable. I had never looked at her in my life, but in this situation I did. I didn't want to stare, which ironically made me actually do it more. She had a cute figure, something I had never before noticed. She was 5'1"when she stood up straight and probably 90 to 95 pounds with soft brownish-black hair and these light hazel eyes that looked almost green at times. She had a ten-thousand dollar smile, in the most literal sense, because that's what it would probably cost to have teeth as perfect as hers. As much as I hate this description, as it comes across as a fetish more than a description, she was a real life porcelain doll. Her skin rarely saw sun and had an iridescent quality. She wore light green, tight-fitting spandex workout shorts that went to mid-thigh and firmly fit her butt and hips. She had no panty line underneath, and I had looked. She had a tight-fitting white, athletic top that distinctly showed the outline of her bra underneath. Her C-cup breasts were compressed by her top, and might actually be D-cup when uncaged. They had gone unnoticed during our event, but I was glimpsing what I could until we got to the living room.

I asked her to grab a cup we had missed on a six-foot high shelf behind the TV set, and watched as her midriff came into view when she reached up to get the cup, going to her tippy toes. Her calves were muscular when she did it, and I could not believe how much I was checking her out. What the fuck was wrong with me? We had just finished an emotional event and here I am ogling a woman I hardly knew, a student in my class, while she was looking the other way. She had been to my house in this very living room, at least ten times before, and I had never noticed anything about her. But at this moment, I was starting to get those thoughts. I had to keep them at bay. I was her professor for Christ's sake.

She had taken two quarters off from school to get her head straight after everything that had happened, and this was her first quarter back. She had also taken a year between high school and starting college, at the suggestion of her parents so she could grow emotionally before starting her academic trek. She was twenty-three years old and still technically a junior in college. She had enrolled in my class, despite having taken the class already, to get back into the academic groove. She was enrolled in just two classes, my class and a dance class, as she planned to ease her way back in before going full speed starting in the fall.

She walked to the kitchen to toss the cup in the trash and then wash her hands in the sink. I couldn't believe that I watched her every step, like a lecher. Seriously, what was wrong with me? To make conversation I asked how her classes were going, and she actually responded with a couple full sentences.

She came back into the living room and actually spoke a complete answer, "I'm glad to be back. I love your class and your jokes. I love my dance class."

I sat there dumbfounded at the fact she had shared more words in that answer than her previous twenty answers combined. I asked, "What dance class are you taking?"

She replied, "Jazz."

"Sunny's class?"

"Yes."

She had a quizzical look, so I said, "A friend of mine teaches dance, and he constantly mentions how amazing Sunny is and that students flock to take her class. I have watched a few of her classes and they are really good. She mixes in a lot of street dance with her jazz."

"You watched?"

"No, I actually audited some of Steve's classes. He, Tommy, and I used to go clubbing together, so his class was a chance to show off and master moves we'd pick up. Her class was right after his, so I'd see the warm up and first few minutes."

"Steve is good." And the short, low-energy answers were back.

I stewed in silence for about twenty seconds before asking, "If it's third quarter jazz, don't you have to choreograph your own dance in that class?"

"Yes."

"How's that going?"

"Okay."

"What kind of dance are you going to perform, more on the jazz side or the street side?"

"Jazz."

"Is it fully choreographed?"

"No."

"Want to show me what you have so far?" I asked knowing she'd say no, but it was polite to ask.

"Okay."

I was literally dumfounded, because not only did she say okay, but also she took off her shoes and socks and then got up to walk to the middle of the living room. She assumed first position, then counted in her head with her lips moving slightly, and then she dipped and chasséd across the floor like a ballerina, but with more hip movement and bent knees. She stopped, and then gyrated her hips for eight counts. She then came back across the floor, this time doing pirouettes, and once again, stopped. This time she bent into a near complete squat and gyrated her way up while standing. As she did that, she slid her hands up her stomach, literally onto her breasts, before lifting them above her head. It looked like a cross between dancers in a rap video and moves in a gymnastic floor routine when they aren't tumbling. It wasn't well choreographed, but in that last move she had the body movements and facial expression that could rival exotic dancers.

My jaw literally must have hit the floor. I sat there completely stunned. I thought, 'Where the hell did that come from?' I understood that an original dance was a course requirement, so she had to do it... but that was so far beyond what this shy little girl was capable of. She stood there, confident... and sexy. I just stared in disbelief, clearly for too long. She stood still, with her hands on her hips, waiting for feedback. I think she enjoyed that I was stupefied.

I finally said, "You trained in ballet?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Seven years."

Things made a little more sense, with her having studied dance for so long. She had been molded by the training process, and performing in front of people was familiar. She had to have been on stage enough times to have grown comfortable there. Or, if not comfortable, then less shy. I finally replied, "I can see the ballet in your routine. Have you considered adding more street? Sunny is into street."

"Yes." I had no idea what question she was answering, because I had asked too many at once. She was back to shy mode, although she still stood there looking confident.

"Personally, I would probably do street, because my entire dance career has been a couple dance classes and a ton of clubbing."

"Oh." Her reply had no emotion at all, so I had no idea where we were at conversationally.

I said, "Shall I show you?"

"Yes."

I kind of wanted to shock her, like she shocked me, but with skill and not sex appeal. I got up and proceeded to do a four beat slide that flowed into an eight-count snake, followed by a four-beat slide. I then did a sideways moonwalk, and then repeated the previous sixteen-count pass facing a different direction than before, before doing a sideways moonwalk back to where I had started. I stopped and took an overdramatized bow and smiled at her.

She smiled and clapped, and started to say something, before stopping herself.

I asked, "What were you about to say?"

"Nothing," she eked out at somewhere around twenty-five decibels. Luckily I had very good hearing.

"I saw it flash across your face before you suppressed it. Please share."

"It's silly."

"That's fine."

She stood silent, and although I didn't know her well, I knew from her shyness that it was pointless to ask again. I instead said, "People are surprised when you can dance." Her face turned a little red, and there it was. That was causing her shyness this time, so I let it go. I had heard it a lot, and kind of liked hearing what she was too shy to say. Her expression said it all. 'Pretty smooth for a white boy.'

I asked if she wanted to learn the steps, and her face lit up and she nodded her head affirmatively a few quick times.

I took her hand, which she eagerly gave, and walked her to the middle of the living room. I asked her, "Is it okay if I put my hands on your hips and waist to help guide you, like a dance teacher does?" She nodded her same enthusiast yes, without saying a word.

I commented, "You're already in dance clothes. Were you planning on doing a performance or getting private dance lessons?" She turned beet red and I instantly regretted asking it. I apologized and told her I was joking and she returned to verbal communication for a moment.

"It's okay." After about five seconds she added, "Kind of."

"Kind of okay?"

She shook her head "No."

"It's not kind of okay?"

She looked a little frustrated, but at her shyness. She finally let out a soft, "Kind of dance lessons."

I wasn't sure what she meant, but knew it would be an effort to get a clearer meaning. It wasn't worth it, and I was eager for the chance to touch her while we danced. I moved behind her and placed my left hand gently on her left hip and she jumped ever so slightly, before quickly moving her hand to hold mine in place before I could remove it. I said, "I'm sorry. I'll give you a warning before I touch you again."

She said, "It's okay."

I then said, "I'm going to put my right hand on your right hip," before doing exactly as I described. I then said, "You're going to have to let go of your burning need to assume first position. This is all about hips and core, and letting your feet and torso follow." I then pushed her hips left and right gently, and she little by little let them flow more freely. I moved my hands up to he waist and then immediately apologized, "I'm so sorry again. I'll get better about warning you." She hadn't flinched, but I was self-reporting my infraction.

She said, "It's fine." I couldn't see her face turn red from my position behind her, but I sensed it. My silence didn't help, but I wasn't sure what to say.

I finally said, "I'm going to be moving my hands around, like a dance teacher does, as I'm sure you have experienced in seven years. I'm obviously going to be touching you. Where is it okay to touch?"

She replied quietly, "Anywhere."

It took every ounce of will power to not repeat, 'anywhere?' I finally said, "Okay, we're ready for the first four counts. Take normal left, right, left steps in place while rocking with your hips and shoulders in rhythm and then on the fourth count, plant your left foot and push to the right, stepping with your right and then dragging your left foot." I demonstrated in front of her, and then returned to behind her.

She did it, and although it looked mechanical, she was on beat and ready for the next steps. I said, "On to the next steps. Get a wide base on your first side step." I slid my hands to her hips again, and pushed them to entice her legs to follow. I started to say, "I'm sorry., I..." but then I trailed off.

She quietly said, "Don't be sorry."

"I know, it's just I had promised and I want to make sure you're okay with my hands guiding you."

"It's okay." The word 'anywhere' was still reverberating in my head. I don't think she turned red this time, but I may have.

I said, "Okay, this is the part where you have to commit for it to work. Counts five through twelve are exaggerated body sways. Lead with your shoulders, follow with your abs, and finish with your hips. We'll work on legs later.' I then took a deep breath and said, "I'm going to be moving my hands a lot for each count, and I want to make sure I..."

Before I could finish she softly said, "Anywhere."

I was confused. This young, innocent woman, my student who suffered from crippling shyness, who looked at most sixteen years old, had again told me I was free to touch her anywhere and without advanced notice. I had been envisioning touching here anywhere the last ten minutes, since first noticing her sexiness, but so far had been successfully fighting my urge to. Because of the image I had previously developed of her in my mind, it felt so inappropriate and wrong. It was time I just let it flow, because it seemed she was fine with it. I had to remember that she was a veteran of many dance classes, so she had to have been touched during class on many occasions. Finally after the battle in my head subsided, I put both hands on her shoulders and said, "It all starts here and you have to dive into this sixth step. Lunge down to your left while maintaining your base. Then you contort and follow with your asbs. I slid my left hand to her side, and rested my fingers at the base of her left breast. It wasn't intentional, that's just where may hand needed to be. I could feel her lightly trembling when I touched there. I took my right hand and placed it on her right side ribs, and said, this part requires fast, jerky motion that follows your shoulders. You will need to maintain a strong base."

I looked at her feet and they were not wide enough. I said, "Wider," but then she rotated her right foot as she spread her base. She had instinctively drifted towards first position. Without thinking, I stepped in front of her and lowered to one knee to grab her foot and physically move it into place and alignment. She had turned as I was doing it, and there I was with my face inches from her stomach. I panicked and froze for a moment, before saying, "Hold still just one sec." I fixed the alignment of her foot, gently rotated her knee into place and squared her hips up. I stayed there to see how it looked, and I felt something in the air. She was at ease with my being in her personal space. I think truly meant 'anywhere' when she said it.

I then stood back up, walked behind her and placed my hands on her right hip and left side with my fingers folded in front and definitely on the bottom of her bra. I had no intentions to overstep into inappropriate contact, but it sort of happened. I pushed on her body to initiate the movement, and in the process she moved quickly as instructed and her left breast slid into my left hand. I had inadvertently cupped it, before moving my hand away. I started to say "Sorry..." when she said, "It's okay." Her meaning was clear, and I guess I was just too in shock to believe she could be okay that I copped a feel of her boob, on purpose or not. She sensed my confusion, and turned to face me, looking into my eyes with her innocent child-like eyes. She said, "Finish this later?"

I panicked, because deep inside I wanted to touch her anywhere, and it was my shyness that had ruined it for us. She was not sending mixed signals, it was me who was mixing up her signal based on an image I had created in my mind. Because she didn't use many words, she was very expressive with her body language and facial expressions. I had to realize that her message when we were dancing was that it's okay to mesh. Finally I said, "Okay." We returned to siting on the couch.

Before I spewed another 'sorry', I caught myself and morphed it into a "So how are you doing?"

"I'm okay." She paused and then added, "I get sad sometimes."

"That's understandable." She was close to the others, although she was not there that day. "It takes time to heal."

Then she caught me off guard, which was par for the course tonight. "Sometimes I just need to be hugged." With that I leaned over and hugged her. She collapsed into me and clung on. The dancing suddenly made so much sense, because it involves contact... the kind of contact that makes you feel alive. She just wanted to be touched and held.