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 ABIGAIL.
   Frustrations of a Piano Teacher.
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   I have a collection of cute little stand-out memories for Abigail.  It
was several years ago, and I taught her for just one summer in between
school terms.  Curiously, she was not living with her parents at that time,
but her grandparents.  It was grandmother's idea to get her piano lessons,
and it was she who paid for it.  So far, so sweet.  I never quite got the
full story - well, you can't expect folk to blabber every personal detail
to a virtual stranger - but the upshot was domestic problems, of a
divorcing nature.  This is why Abigail was living with gran and granddad.
They were a nice old couple, pensioners but far from senile, and they
clearly doted on their granddaughter.  I could see why.
   She was 10 years old - such a common age for them to be `tried' with
piano lessons - and a bit plain, but very sweet-natured.  She had brunette,
shoulder-length hair, usually in some sort of ribbon to keep it order.  I
always notice little details like that, even to the point of analysing how
it would be attached and unattached.  I even asked her about it, in a
roundabout way one time.  She demonstrated, taking it on and off for me. 
That's as far as I go with any of them for sexual interaction, and it's not
interpreted as such, and always delivered by me in a way which sounds
innocent.  The girl has no clue, but an adult standing by witnessing the
little conversation might.  I would never dare tread such a fine line
between respectability and revealing a hint of my paedophilia.  Indeed,
there's no such thing as a `hint': because one whiff of it would be
incendiary, of course, obliterating my involvement with that family and
possibly my entire professional reputation.
   There would be an extensive territory of interaction with a child this
age in which she has no concept that she's being groomed, molested, abused
- call it what you will - yet an adult would be able to see it.  It would
be some while before the girl herself gets uncomfortable with it or feels
there's anything to `report'.  For example, chat of a flirtatious nature,
the occasional reference to clothing or personal anatomy.  At this stage,
though, she might relay stuff to her parents (or grandparents in this case)
in all innocence, saying how she found the chat with piano teacher amusing
or interesting.
   "Why the fuck is he talking about her socks with her?" they might think.
   If it was knickers (`panties' to you Americans), that would be a dead
giveaway.  As would the `niceness of her eye-colour', aesthetic and
sensitive though that is as a paedophilic observation.  Abigail's was
brown. My point of this ramble is to show I have to be so careful,
restraining my impulses and judging my conversations with the little
sweeties sensibly.  Besides, I don't actually WANT to leave them with
uncomfortable memories, or affect their lives negatively.  On the other
hand I do, if I was allowed.  For example, I'd definitely bare-bottom spank
them - even if caused crying, or especially if it caused crying - if that
was somehow brought into the canon of legal activities for teachers of
prepubescent children.  Strange, isn't it?  The paradox of life as a caring
but intensely paedophilic person.
   Back to Abigail.  Yes, 10 years old.  Common age for private piano
lessons, but also as coincidence would have it, classic and perfect age for
a paedophile.  There's several reasons for this, both physical and
emotional.  Abigail's body was nice small and cute, not podgy by any
stretch but not as skinny as some her age.  There was a slight hint of
breasts, and I mean slight, just enough to demonstrate she was a girl
really.  This offset the averageness of her face, making her sexually
attractive to me.  More than this, though, she was an example par
excellence of the relative maturity of a child her age.  Compared to, say a
7, communication can be strikingly eloquent and charming.  Even so, there
is still total innocence, assuming there's nothing in her history to cause
otherwise.
   One of these days I'll come across a pre-teen student who stuns me one
day by offering to suck my cock.  I can live in hope.  Actually, what would
I do if that happened?  Of course I would not dare accept.  I would
probably have to report it to someone: parent or social services?  Not an
easy decision, come to think of it.  It could be the parent who is
responsible for her prior corruption, and if I involved myself I could find
myself accused out of defence (a framing, so to speak).  I digress
ridiculously.  Back to Abigail.
   "She'll talk you to death," warned grandmother, one day.
   I chuckled.  "Yes, I can see that.
   I think that was about lesson three.  She had poked her head in through
the door of the keyboard room.  "Just tell her off if she prattles too
much. Tell her to concentrate."
   "I will," said I.
   Actually, I never like to tell them off, although I have an urge to do
that and worse if I don't like them.  Not with Abigail, though, she was so
sweet.  True, she concentrated erratically on what we were supposed to be
there for, preferring to tell me anything and everything about her day.  I
went with it by and large, in a detached way, suppressing my inner wish
that it could all be the precursor and building blocks to a sexual
relationship.  It was easy to see how `grooming' could work with a child
like Abigail.  I suspect I was something of a father figure - I never did
find out his status - or just an `adult friend'.  Put a man and a girl like
this on a desert island, assuming neither are pig-ugly, and I have no doubt
that a paedophilic relationship would sooner or later arise.  A one-to-one
teaching setting with a child is, in a real sense, the nearest thing polite
society comes to that situation.
   Sometimes I find it unbearably delicious that here I am in a little room
alone with a girl-child, with half an hour to do whatever.  The trust is
substantial.  I knew this was why gran - sometimes grandpa - poked their
head in through the door during the lessons.  It was quite amusing really,
but I didn't show it.  They'd make out they were just `passing' en route to
some part of the house, or they'd offer me a tea, or they'd ask some
niggling question of Abigail (like did she remember to phone home?).  I did
not begrudge any of this.  Who can blame them?  I'm sure there'd be hell to
play from the mother if some dreaded thing had happened with this guy
they'd hired to teach precious Abby.  Nevertheless, I always had to keep a
straight face at those moments.
   Were they thinking they might just find me with my hand in her knickers?
   On her bottom?
   Up the front of her blouse, feeling that virtually flat chest?
   Or my cock out of my pants, showing it to her (Abby)?
   Hell, I speculated it would give them a heart attack if they discovered
me with Abigail's hand around my erect penis.
   All the above and more were things I would dearly have loved to do with
her, but needless to say did not.  The law is a bitch.
   One more little detail that sticks in the memory is that most weeks I
saw some scout leader guy go past the window with a little troop (the
lessons were always Sunday morning).  He would wave on glimpsing us in
there, and I'd wave back.  An innocent moment, no doubt, but I can't help
wondering if just maybe...  just maybe...  he too harboured THE thoughts.
After all, I was a `decent' guy but I had them!  How common is it?
   I was more than a little sad when lessons concluded at the end of the
summer.  In fairness, Abigail had achieved very little, and she was
certainly not the studious type.  She was a charmer though.  Who knows, she
might have taken to `sex lessons' better instead?  Seriously.  That was not
going to happen, though, not in this century anyway.  We finished with Gran
informing me that Abby might or might not be moving back in with parents
(or `a' parent, I can't remember) when school starts.  She said they would
call me if piano lessons were to be resumed.
   It never happened.  Fair enough.  They did tell me at the outset that it
was probably a temporary trial - their little gift to Abby and her parents
- and I felt no resentment.  A different kettle of fish to Lucy (same age),
who used to annoy me with her timidity and reluctance, making me all the
more want to commit abuse.
   Well, I'm happy to report that Abigail (and Lucy, I hasten to add)
completed their foray into piano lessons unmolested.  Well, in a way I'm
NOT happy about that.  You know what I mean.
   These are the true thoughts of a 45-year-old male piano teacher.
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   Any feedback or discussion welcome to ep1968@hotmail.co.uk.  Any other
teachers out there who understand my thoughts?  
  
Abigail - Frustrations of a Piano Teacher