Fila Ferme writes of his love of math and his personal tutor Frida.
Fila was lagging behind in his studies. His dream of studying at the University of Chicago seemed far away.
But personal tutor Frida from Spain saved the day and his academic career, raising his grades several levels and teaching him lessons in love.
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I date my fascination with older women to my late teens when my father, a professor at Northwestern University, employed a sultry Spanish grad student named Frida to tutor me in math and physics.
Much to my father's consternation, I had fallen behind in math and it was looking increasingly unlikely that I would follow his footsteps to study math at the University of Chicago.
His stroke of genius was to give Frida, one of his most talented and beautiful students, the task of raising my grades from C to A.
I have no idea whether it was Frida or my father who decided on her dress code of heeled black pumps, tight black skirt that reached just above her knee, black stockings, and tight sweaters. Added to that was blood red lipstick and nail polish. Her thick black hair, was pulled back and arranged in a strict, professorial bun.
I fell for Frida the moment I set eyes on her. At our first session, aimed only at establishing how dire I was at math, we sat knee to knee at the dark, heavy dining room table. Frida told me,
Mr. George, you are not quite as stupid as your father thinks, but we have a mountain to climb to raise your grades to the required level.
Frida, much to my joy, told my father that one session a week would not be nearly enough. She would need to see me at least twice a week for the next three months.
She was available on Sunday afternoons, which pleased me greatly because her company brightened the otherwise crushing dullness of Sundays. And she shortened and enlivened my school week by tutoring me on Tuesday evenings from 5 to 6 p.m.
I vowed to do all I could to impress Frida and my father, but not to improve so much that her services were no longer required.
My favorite time with her was during what she called
Quiz Time, when we would leave the table and sit opposite each other, almost knee to knee, in the big leather chairs of my father's study.
I often drifted into a trance by the closeness of her body, which made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end in electric excitement.
Frida's teeth were perfect and white, either the result of of fortunate genetics or expert cosmetic dentistry. Her fingers were slim and pretty. Her arms would sometimes brush against mine, causing me to glow and feel light-headed.
To my dismay, I found out Frida had a boyfriend, a doctoral student in the physics department of Chicago University. A few times, he'd drive her to our house and I'd watch the two of them kissing before she walked up the path to our front door and ring on the bell, adjusting her skirt as she did so.
That brought me down to earth. Of course, I had been harboring a desire for Frida to choose me, but that couldn't happen. She was there to improve my math skills. I just needed to be grateful I had such a beautiful private tutor.
By Fila Ferme