A Teacher and a Poet

By Cy Blanca

Shawnee County, Kansas, might not be the most accepting place for a gay couple, but boyfriends Antony James and Curtis Ramírez have made it their home. Both of them work at Pauline Central Primary School, and while Antony is content teaching, Curt would rather pursue his passion: poetry. He plans to resign, but he doesn’t get the chance.

Working together has its risks, and when a student witnesses Antony and Curt sneaking a kiss in the workroom, they’re reprimanded. The school board’s punishment is mild, but some members of the community aren’t willing to let the indiscretion go. That small mistake could cost Antony and Curt their home—or it could remind them that home is in the heart, and as long as they stay strong in their love, they’ll always have a place to belong.

States of Love: Stories of romance that span every corner of the United States.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
• Release date: Mar 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781635333398

Book preview

A Teacher and a Poet

By Cy Blanca

Shawnee County, Kansas, might not be the most accepting place for a gay couple, but boyfriends Antony James and Curtis Ramírez have made it their home. Both of them work at Pauline Central Primary School, and while Antony is content teaching, Curt would rather pursue his passion: poetry. He plans to resign, but he doesn’t get the chance.

Working together has its risks, and when a student witnesses Antony and Curt sneaking a kiss in the workroom, they’re reprimanded. The school board’s punishment is mild, but some members of the community aren’t willing to let the indiscretion go. That small mistake could cost Antony and Curt their home—or it could remind them that home is in the heart, and as long as they stay strong in their love, they’ll always have a place to belong.

States of Love: Stories of romance that span every corner of the United States.

Table of Contents

Blurb

Dedication

Acknowledgments

1

2

3

4

5

6

Epilogue

About the Author

By Cy Blanca

Visit Dreamspinner Press

Copyright

To those who gave me poetry and taught me what to do with it: Toi Derricotte, Jan Freeman, Terrance Hayes, Dawn Lundy Martin, Carl Phillips. But most of all, Jeff Oaks and Lynn Emanuel. Your lessons will stay with me forever, and your mentorship and love are steeped in every single word I write.

To the most important man in my life—my father, who’s dedicated his life to education, especially for at-risk youth, and the mission of giving young black men the chance to make it in this world with the support they need and deserve. You were in the back of my mind the whole time. I love you, Daddy.

Acknowledgments

THANK YOU to Alan Hageman, the current principal at Pauline Central, for helping me with the information about my former primary school. Your help was integral in making this story as honest and thorough as it is.

I also must give thanks to Trish and her team of editors! You all had so much patience with me and were so very helpful in making my first vella the best it could possibly be. I honestly couldn’t have done this without all of your care, attention, and absolute kindness. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, really.

1

SOMETIMES TEACHING primary school really just… sucked. Even the eloquence of a writer failed Curt when he was in this kind of mood. He loved the kids, yes. Loved how eager they were to learn new words, to read new things. But damn, on days when it rained like this, turning Shawnee County’s landscape into a gray smear against a dreary sky, his third graders became antsy and unfocused, and they were all just a cankerous pain in Curt’s round ass. The boys kept pestering the girls, the girls kept whining, but here they were, stuck inside with another thirty minutes left in the day.

Sarah, if I have to tell you again to stop hitting, you’re going to the principal’s office.

But Mr. Ramírez, Mike started it!

I don’t care. Both of you sit down and please finish your reading. There isn’t much time left in the day. Can you just all sit down and shut the hell up till your unfortunate parents come to pick your bad asses up? At least he could let the vulgarities of his mind entertain him, even if his kids were being unbelievable brats.

Yeah, being a primary school teacher really did suck. He needed Antony. There was no way his students were being this bothersome so close to the end of the day. But of course, his classroom was all the way on the other side of the school. Third grade and first grade never intermingled except during recess. And as the rain had been drizzly and disgusting all day, he hadn’t gotten to see his boyfriend of three years at all. He sighed. It wasn’t like he could start cussing out his kids. It wasn’t their fault Mother Nature was a bitter old bitch who was long overdue for a good stuffing. Hell, it wasn’t his fault his sex life was so good. Why was she taking it out on him?

Fifteen minutes of whining and exclamations of Ouch! and Stop it! and, his favorite, I’m telling the teacher! and Curt was ready to throw a little blue plastic chair through one of the windows in the reading corner.

Okay! Everybody, heads down and mouths shut. This is quiet time. Anybody who makes a sound gets sent straight to Principal Keller’s office until their parents come to pick them up and no free reading time tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?

The children gaped at him, more than a few of them sniffling at the rage in their teacher’s voice. But at that point, Curt’s give-a-damn had long since gotten up and given him, the kids, and all of Pauline Central the finger as it did a Cadillac stroll down Wanamaker Road to Devlin’s. Despite their pained looks, they did as they were told, and Curt was finally gifted with a few minutes of silence, blessed silence.

Fourteen minutes and fifteen seconds later, Curt saw the first parent roll up. Shortly after, a parade of cars pulled into the small parking lot in front of the school. Finally.

Okay, kids. You can get up now. Get your things ready. Do it quietly.

The students, some of them obviously waking up from a deep sleep (all that whining and hair pulling was exhausting work), slowly made their way to their cubbies to collect their lunch boxes and book bags. At exactly 3:00 p.m., just as they were about to put on their coats, the last bell of the day officially released them from school and Curt from his tormentors. He opened the door and let the children loose, never mind about lining up. He wanted them gone. Once the last body had left the classroom, Curt closed the door, walked to his desk, and slumped in the chair in front of the whiteboard. He let out a heavy breath, closing his eyes and letting his head roll back.

Tough day, babe?

The smoke and spice of Antony’s voice forced a smile to slowly curl Curt’s mouth for the first time all day. Eyes still closed, he responded, "You have absolutely no idea, nene."

Antony chuckled. I think I may have one or two. It’s called first grade, remember?

Curt sighed, then straightened up and opened his eyes. Damn, Antony looked good. Come here a second, huh?

Antony shook his head and walked over to the desk where Curt sat. Yeah?

Come here, he urged, reaching for Antony, fingers flexing as if grasping for the feel of hard muscle and smooth skin.

Antony walked around the desk and stood next to Curt’s chair, waiting for him to turn. Yes, Mr. Ramírez?

Curt turned, then grabbed Antony’s hips in one movement. He pulled Antony closer, then buried his head in his abdomen. He took a deep breath and let a small groan escape on the exhale.

Shit, I sure did miss you today, Ant.

We saw each other at lunch, Ram. Don’t be overdramatic.

Curt looked up at him. I only saw you for fifteen minutes. That doesn’t count.

Antony rolled his eyes. Typical writer. Always overexaggerating. Always overemotional. Jeez, we’ve had rain days before. Why so needy today?

Curt let another groan dance past his lips and buried his head in Antony’s stomach again, shaking it from side to side. He could feel the rough starch of Antony’s shirt as it slid against his undershirt, hear the slip of fabric on fabric. The sound was comforting; it melted away the screeching of child voices, the squeak of marker on the whiteboard. He