I’m in a writing group with my friends Grace, Nancy, and Joan. Once or twice a week we give each other assignments. Today’s (from Grace) was: Use these two lines in a piece, in no particular order: In a blue concrete room stinking of sweat, stale cigarette smoke and beer… and “I promise I do.” Her voice was cool.

In a blue concrete room stinking of sweat, stale cigarette smoke and beer, coach Stavros set up the whiteboard. She diagrammed a play for the boys. She suppressed a smile and tried to imagine how it must be to be fifteen and ruled entirely by testosterone. The boys seemed unable to memorize a simple series of moves — moves that would guarantee relief. The blue-ball team filed into the room, each boy taking one of the old-fashioned automobile seats.

Jeffrey Hite, the youngest and probably least attractive of the boys, took a seat in the front row. He was all earnest intensity.

Stavros aimed her words at him. “Okay, guys, this is a car seat from your father’s time. In all probability, his first sexual experience was on one of these things. He either scored, or he went home with blue-balls. You guys are still virgins. It hurts, I know, but it’s only going to get more agonizing as the year goes on. March is the start of blue-ball season, and if you don’t get laid by June, you may actually die of groin pain.”

Jeffrey Hite raised his hand. “Has anybody ever? Died?”

Stavros took her time. She lit a Marlboro. Then she answered. “Yeah. Last season.”

Oh shit, she thought, Jeffrey’s got another question.

“Is it important for a girl to find me really good looking, or intelligent, or to be of good moral character?

Stavros exhaled a long thin stream of smoke, and gave him a dumbshit stare. “What do you think, Jeffrey?” He was unable to even attempt an answer. She wet her lips and leaned close to him: “It’s important to be Really Good Looking! Forget that other shit.”

Stavros popped a Miller Lite, took a sip, and displayed the can. “This is going to make your job easier. Just one or two cans. No more.” At 45, she still had a great body. She reminded herself of Mrs Robinson in The Graduate.

“Yes, Jeffrey, what is it now?”

“I just wondered if you think I’m really good looking.”

“I do.”

“Really?”

“I promise I do.” Her voice was cool as she looked away from Jeffrey to Ricky Pringle, who actually did turn her on.

She let her thumb rest on her crotch and moved it slowly up and down. After a few moments, when every boy was licking his lips,  she brought them out of wet-dream world with a shriek: “GET YOUR EYEBALLS UP HERE ON THE WHITEBOARD AND LOOK WHERE YOUR ARMS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE!” The drawing of the boy and girl was rudimentary, but clear: Left arm over girl’s shoulders, torso twisting left, right hand an inch or so from the girl’s knee.

Jeffrey Hite rose out of his seat. He was embarrassed and walked quietly to the door. He pulled, but it was locked. He asked urgently if she could let him out. He was practically in tears.

“Sit down, Jeffrey.” Then he did burst into tears.

“In about twenty seconds, boys, I’m bringing the girls in.” She put the pointer to the whiteboard one more time. “You got this? Just etch it in your brain.” She opened the small fridge in the room and invited the boys to grab a beer. Then she let the girls in. As instructed, each boy sat on the right side of one of the double car seats. The girls filed in and chose their seats.  But quickly, before any of them braved a choice, Coach Stavros sat next to Ricky Pringle.

It was a good half-a-minute before Beth Frusky, circling around like the loser in musical chairs, sighed loudly and grabbed Jeffrey Hite. She wiped his tears, sat him next to her, and the blue-balls training went on.