PTA Meeting
"He's the only father who shows up to meetings. The five women who run the PTA have been watching him for months. When they ask him to join the executive committee, the real meetings happen after the kids go home."
I was the only dad.
Every PTA meeting, same thing—twenty-three moms and me. My wife traveled for work, so I handled school stuff. Soccer practice. Bake sales. Meetings in the gymnasium at 7 PM.
The committee noticed.
"You're very involved," said President Linda Chen, fifty-two, three hundred pounds of perfectly pressed authority. "We appreciate that."
"Just doing my part."
"We'd like you to do more." She smiled. "Executive committee. Private meetings. Are you interested?"
I said yes.
I had no idea what I was agreeing to.
The executive committee was five women.
Linda, the president. Barbara, the treasurer—fifty-eight, two hundred and ninety pounds, divorced twice. Sandra, the secretary—forty-five, two hundred and seventy, desperate housewife energy. Marcia, event coordinator—fifty, three hundred and ten, former cheerleader, still had the moves. And Donna, volunteer chair—sixty, two hundred and eighty, grandmotherly warmth that hid something sharper.
They met monthly at Linda's house.
After the kids went home.
After the husbands fell asleep.
"Welcome to the inner circle," Linda announced at my first meeting.
We were in her basement—remodeled, soundproofed, equipped with a full bar and furniture that looked more appropriate for a bachelor pad than a suburban home.
"The real committee work happens here." She poured wine. "The gymnasium meetings are just... formality."
"What kind of real work?"
"Stress relief." Barbara crossed her legs. "Community building. Mutual support."
"I don't understand."
"You will." Linda handed me a glass. "Drink. Relax. Let us explain."
"We're five women with unsatisfying marriages."
Sandra said it simply, like she was reading from a grocery list.
"Our husbands work late. Travel. Fall asleep in front of ESPN. We give everything to our families and get nothing in return."
"That's... I'm sorry?"
"Don't be sorry." Marcia leaned forward. "Be available."
"Available for what?"
"For us." Linda's hand found my knee. "One man who actually shows up. Who cares. Who volunteers." Her hand slid higher. "We've been watching you for months, David. We know you're not like the others."
"My wife—"
"Travels more than our husbands combined." Donna smiled gently. "We researched."
"This is insane."
I said it, but I didn't move.
Five women surrounding me on Linda's sectional. Five hands finding various parts of my body. Five faces looking at me with hunger that went beyond suburban desperation.
"We prefer 'unconventional,'" Linda murmured. "The PTA has a long history. Longer than you know."
"History?"
"Every decade or so, a man joins who's... right." Barbara was unbuttoning my shirt. "The last one was twenty years ago. He's a senator now."
"What happened to him?"
"He graduated." Marcia was working my belt. "His kids finished school. But we never forgot him." She freed my cock. "We've been waiting for a replacement."
Linda took me first.
President's privilege, she called it.
She straddled me on the sectional while the others watched. Three hundred pounds of authority descending, engulfing me completely.
"The PTA takes care of its own," she gasped, riding slowly. "You take care of us... we take care of you."
"Take care how?"
"Recommendations. Connections. Opportunities." She clenched around me. "This committee knows everyone. Does everyone who matters."
She came with a muffled scream.
Then climbed off so Barbara could take her place.
They took turns.
Barbara rode me until she shuddered. Sandra demanded I take her from behind over the arm of the couch. Marcia showed me flexibility that belied her size, her legs over my shoulders, her moans echoing off the soundproofed walls.
Donna went last—gentle, grandmotherly, but with a filthy mouth that made me come in under five minutes.
"First meeting," Linda announced when we were done. "You'll learn stamina."
"How often do these happen?"
"Weekly." She smiled. "Unless we need emergency sessions."
Six months later
I'm the most connected man in the school district.
My son got into the gifted program—Linda made a call. My daughter's soccer team got new uniforms—Barbara wrote a check. Every bake sale, every fundraiser, every event has my name on it.
And every Wednesday, after the kids go to bed, I drive to Linda's basement.
"The fall festival needs coordinating," she says, riding my face while Sandra documents the agenda. "Can you handle increased responsibilities?"
I give her a thumbs up.
I'm in no position to speak.
My wife noticed the changes.
"You're so relaxed lately," she said. "PTA treating you well?"
"Very well."
"Maybe I should get more involved."
"It's... pretty intense." I thought about Wednesday's four-hour "strategy session." "I can handle it for both of us."
"If you're sure."
"I'm sure." I kissed her. "Just doing my part for the kids."
Two years later
My kids graduated to middle school.
The PTA chapter changed—new school, new committee, new faces.
But Linda called with one last offer.
"District-level position," she said. "Coordinating twelve schools. The committee is... larger."
"How much larger?"
"Fifteen women. Monthly retreats. Executive privileges."
I thought about it for three seconds.
"When do I start?"
"Tonight." I could hear her smile through the phone. "Welcome to the district committee, David. We have so much work to do."