The Principal: A Novel of Lesbian Love

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It was her haughty little sniff that at once annoyed and amused me. Every day, it was the same scenario. I would go out to the flagpole in front of the high school at around 5:30 PM to lower the flag. As I was folding it, she would come down the broad, shallow front steps and head for her car, briefcase in hand, purse slung over her shoulder.

I would say. “Have a pleasant evening, Dr. Jeffries."

She would sniff.

That was it.

I don't think she even knew my name.

That didn't interfere with my enjoyment, that very evening, of one of many masturbatory fantasies about the principal of Windy Ridge High.

She sweeps into the room and removes her cape with a flourish, tossing it onto the leather sofa.

“Come here, Jane."

Her voice, soft and cultured, belies the toughness of character that is her trademark. At school, during the day, she never speaks to me. No one knows that we have even met. At night, in her office, it's different. Then, there, we indulge our wildest desires.

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