She wiggled her peachy round bottom wrapped in her little pleated navy skirt as she passed and Miss Harley smiled at her. “Good bye Charlotte,” M...iss Harley purred, “Have a wonderful holiday!” “Thank you Miss Harley,” Lottie replied, feeling her nipples stiffen and a tingling warm moistness grow in her regulation white knickers as she made her way to the door. She bit her lower lip. God! What was wrong with her, she thought. She was having so many crushes on other women that she wondered if. Now, before you hit the panic button, let me explain. I'm no religious zealot, looking for a clinic to bomb; neither am I going to hand out pamphlets and scream, "Murderer!" when women walk into them.For me it's far more personal.My dad and I never really got along. He didn't even want me, a fact I intuited (I think) pretty early; not until I was about eleven years of age did I really begin to grasp that.You see, all through my childhood, whenever I did something wrong -- which was pretty much. He breathed deeply. More like a sigh. ‘Sure.’ ‘Giving interviews isn’t your favorite thing to do?’ I hoped he knew I was referring to the sigh with that question. ‘You haven’t given an interview in ten years?’ He paused before answering. ‘Before I started teaching high school, I was playing a lot of music. I did a lot of seat-of-the-pants touring. With bands that were always falling apart after a few months and such. ‘But anyway,’ he went on, ‘what can happen after an interview is a lot. With a casual glance to you right, you see that it's already twelve. You'd rather just stay in bed all day today, but that would just get you yelled at by your parents once they both get home. You toss the covers off yourself and whip your legs over the edge of you bed. Exhaling in a loud groan, you stretch once more, before pushing yourself to your feet.As you walk over to the bathroom, you brush your hands through your blonde hair, which reaches to a few inches below your shoulders. You stare.