The buzz grew more excited as the headmaster walked into the gym, Dimity craning her neck for a better view. Then all hell broke loose as the Man himself appeared, immaculately dressed, only slightly fuller in the face, his smile as warm and welcoming as I remembered, although it seemed just a little too mechanical. While Dimity preened to impress, I shrank into my body. I hadn't thought this through. What was I expecting? To impress with my witty repartee in the four seconds or so that he would shake my hand? That he would even remember me? What a bloody fool I was. There was no way I could sneak out now.
He played up to Dimity, kissing her hand, the headmaster reminding him of her name. He flattered by saying, "What a pretty girl you must have been in school, because you've grown into one helluva woman. I kick myself I never dated you."
"There's still time," she said breathlessly.
The headmaster ushered him along the line of well-wishers. "And this is..."
Davy let out such a whoop the entire school looked at us.
"Brett Morgan. How the fuck are you?"
He ignored the hand I proffered and I found myself in a bear hug. Not that I was complaining.
I could feel Dimity's envy boring into the side of my head, particularly when the headmaster had to almost physically prise the two of us apart. I liked to think our reconciliation had something to do with the change in his demeanour, for he bounded through the dedication full of charm and bonhomie, captivating teachers and students alike. He was gracious in his speech of acknowledgment, singling out many of the great teachers the school had been home to, as well as some teachers who still trudged the halls not yet broken by their thankless task.
At the conclusion of his speech, it all felt a bit of an anticlimax.
"Show us your budgie smugglers!" one of the shit stirrers from the upper grades yelled.
Pandemonium ensued. Davy turned to me, a broad smirk on his face. "Should I?" he mouthed.
I nodded my head.
Davy went into an impromptu strip routine, flinging his coat and tie over his shoulder. Dimity ran to pick them up and brush the dirt from them. I let her; I was not prepared to pick up after Davy Jones. Finally, he was stripped to the waist, his shoes and socks discarded. Everyone held their breath as he undid his belt, slid down his zip, and slowly peeled down his trousers. I'm sure I wasn't the only one wet from the performance. My cock was leaking like a tap with a faulty washer. I had to remind Dimity to breathe.
It's all very well watching someone on television, or seeing their photos in the newspaper or on the net, but Davy Jones, for all his problems with booze and drugs and marital infidelities was a magnificent specimen. At twenty-eight his body was buff though much thicker than it was when he'd been a half-starved student. His butt was a work of art, his Speedos clinging like a desperate lover to the curve and the crack. And what they didn't hide of his package was not worth worrying about.
"Couldn't he be arrested for obscenity?" Dimity whispered.
Perhaps not him, but I probably could have been for what I was thinking.