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It was a characteristically temperamental Midwestern spring day, gray skies, wind, rain and all. My friend Mari and I were taking shelter at the coffeehouse at the end of vomit row since it was closest to the English building and our Renaissance literature class had just finished. This had become a weekly ritual, sitting and chatting over delicious hot beverages.
However, one topic came up at least once during our meetings.
“You know how he crosses his legs a lot during class, what’s up with that?” Mari took a sip from her still-steaming cup of tea.
“Yeah, not to mention almost every other part of lecture and discussion is a somewhat Freudian interpretation about orgasm, phallus and wombs…” I licked a bit of chai latte froth that clung to my upper lip.
“He must really need to get laid.” She sighed. “But, you know, someone with all that pent up energy is probably a really good fuck.”
This was probably not what I needed to hear. Most of my other friends would tell me I was crazy for wanting to seduce our somewhat mousy, possibly sexually-repressed professor. If I had told Mari that our little game of showing up to class wearing dresses and skirts to see if we could get a rise out of poor Professor Hall was a lot more sincere on my part, she would have probably just told me to tell her how it went.
“He’s just so stiff in class, all buttoned up in those suits he wears…” I trailed off, not wanting to go off into meandering slips of words relating to other uses of the word “stiff.”
“I know.” She said. “He just looks like if given the chance, he’d fuck someone right up against the wall.”
I felt a slight creep up my spine and fall back down again, as if punching me right in the gut. All right, it wasn’t the “gut,” but I only like using the word “womb” in an ironic, “let’s make fun of Freud” sort of way.
At the same time, I recall Mari making a similar comment in our D.H. Lawrence class when our professor had asked her what her interpretation of Gudrun’s motivations in a chapter of Women in Love was. She had simply said, “Sometimes a woman wants a guy to take her and throw her up against the wall.” There was a moment of silence followed by our older professor, Eddington, who was usually curmudgeonly in a way that made House, M.D. look like Mister Rogers, saying, “That’s not bad.”
My jaw was on the floor from that. If Professor Hall had taught the Lawrence class, I probably would have needed a new pair of panties after every class and a straight-jacket. My vibrator would have come to life just to hang itself with a note saying that it would rather no longer exist than be subjected to such exhaustion.
Hyperbole aside, it had been a dry spell my last year of college. Then again, I wouldn’t know what a dry year meant until I moved out of state and didn’t know anyone and spent most of my time catching up with science fiction. Back then, it just meant I had no new sex partners and was still having a weekly casual fuck with an old friend from freshman year.
Still, that wasn’t enough to keep me from being a bit too curious about my Renaissance literature professor.
“Oh yeah.” I sighed, trying to will away the image of Professor Hall backing me into a corner of his office and pinning my hands over my head. “He’d probably pin a woman’s wrists over her head and wrap her legs around him while he drove her into the wall.”
So much for blocking out my thoughts.
To my surprise, Mari didn’t have a paroxysm of agreement, but was uncharacteristically subdued.
“What?” I asked.
She nodded upward, looking over my shoulder.
I turned slowly to see Professor Hall at the counter paying for what looked like an Americano or even a drip coffee. He didn’t bother going to the counter where the sugar, honey, stevia and other sweeteners surrounded cream carafes in a chaotic chess game where the board wasn’t marked.
I swear, my life is like a bad movie sometimes.
He hastened out of the coffee shop as suddenly as he had appeared, not settling in a booth or on a couch with a pile of papers to grade, a book to read or a laptop to clack notes in.
“Don’t worry, he probably couldn’t hear us.” She poured the last drops from the tomato-red one-person teapot into the equally vibrant cup.
“Yeah…” I trailed off, wondering what he would have said or done had he heard me, knowing he was the reference for my pronouns.
This simply wouldn’t do. My neurotic sexual obsession with Professor Hall was cutting into my bantering time with Mari, which was another highlight of my typically mundane week. I had originally met her in an advanced poetry writing class. Her work was dark, vivid and of course, erotic and sensual. My work was usually of the angry, personal identity politics nature. We had a mutual hatred of the pretentious poetry workshop professor.
She was much taller than me, Mediterranean features: glowing complexion, curly dark hair, a nose that she practically decked an in-law for even suggesting that poker oyna he knew a plastic surgeon who could “fix” it. Another one of my friends had been bowled by Mari after first meeting, calling her an Amazon. To this day, I still wonder how someone as gorgeous and brash and interesting as her had difficulty meeting decent guys. Then again, this was in college, so I imagine she’s done a lot of weeding out since then and found someone worth the trouble or just decided to not bother with it anymore.
When I hung out with her, I felt like the mouse who tried to run with a tiger.
“Shit, I have Business Writing in ten.” She looked at her cell phone clock. “I’ll catch you later.”
“Later.” I said, getting up and slinging my bag over my shoulder.
I loved that coffeehouse. Our usual place was in a corner tucked down a small set of stairs with a couple of overstuffed old velveteen couches and a well-ringed coffee table with board games missing pieces and dog-eared trade paperbacks resting on a shelf beneath it. However, it was taken by some group that had scheduled a meeting there, so we were up with the rest of the madding crowd.
I walked down the stairs instead of leaving immediately, noticing how despite the reading lamp, that little area was dark. I hadn’t even noticed it was there until Mari had pointed it out. I couldn’t help but picture running into Professor Hall here again, having a brief chat that would somehow lead to me straddling him on the couch, his hands grazing up my thighs, fingers slipping beneath my panties as I kissed him, pulling at his dark hair, biting his lips. He would undo the fly of his pants, lowering them and loosening his cock from his boxers (I couldn’t picture him as a briefs wearer, even though he was a bit tightly wound). I would slide my panties down from under my skirt (fantasies always have to be in a skirt for easy access) and we’d fuck quietly so that no one would even notice we were downstairs.
“Oh, excuse me.” A jolt brought me back to where I was on the small stairs, where the barista was walking back up with a full bus bin.
“Sorry.” I mumbled, looking back down for a moment and walking to the exit.
* * *
My final semester went more or less as planned. I was definitely going to pass all my classes, but for once, I wanted to make straight As as opposed to letting one class slip into the B range due to lack of interest. I was busy trying to keep things together in my campus organizations and maintain my GPA that I had forgotten about the most important thing: what would happen after I walked across that stage in June. I hadn’t expected to graduate that semester, but my adviser told me I could do it if I took a class that summer.
My last week of classes was about to end and Thursday 10:00-11:15 a.m. rolled around as if for the last time. Mari had decided to skip because she had a project due for her noon Business and Technical Writing class, so I was there, playing the old game by myself: trying to stay cool in the antiquated, air conditioning-less English building with a blue and white cotton sundress so thin you could see the peach colored silk bra I had on beneath it. Meanwhile, the other students were equally minimal in dress. Girls in short shorts and spaghetti-strap tank tops, guys in cargo shorts and tees.
Yet just as he had been clad in January, there was Professor Hall, sitting in a desk with the rest of us in the circle, wearing a black suit, white button-down and black tie neatly knotted, not loosened with so much as a button undone.
At least this time I knew he had a legitimate reason to sweat. To make matters worse, there were no windows in the classroom.
Also, it was my turn to present an interpretation of a passage. Fortunately, the last text was Hamlet, as if Professor Hall had anticipated people would skip the last week or not bother doing the reading for class. I could have done my presentation in my sleep, but I still had tried to teach an old dog new tricks in finding an additional academic article, feminist critical theory, of course.
I stumbled occasionally on my words, refusing to look up from my notes the whole time. I hated public speaking and couldn’t stand the idea of the other students watching me, let alone how nervous I was, knowing his eyes were on me. Fortunately, he let us remain seated when we’d do our individual presentations. Still, I kept fidgeting in my seat. It was so hot I kept moving my knees together and apart, trying to keep the air circulating up my skirt and around my legs. I was probably doing an inadvertent Marilyn Monroe on the subway grate, an unconscious homage.
Was he looking? Maybe I was imagining things, but I wanted to think that his eyes started on my face, paying attention to my words, as mundane as they were considering how well-trod Hamlet is to any English major or instructor. Then he’d notice that this was the first time he had ever seen my bare shoulders, as I usually wore sleeved shirts to class. I felt sweat beading on my back, canlı poker oyna right between the shoulder blades. Where I slid against the back of my seat, I imagined him running his tongue and lips along the plane of my back.
After a very brief open discussion after my lecture and his comments, class ended just as it did every other week. Professor Hall mentioned that our final papers were due next Thursday, but we could drop them off in his mailbox at any point before then as well. Also, we were welcome to talk to him during office hours today or schedule an appointment before the due date.
I had half a mind to schedule a private meeting, but I didn’t. I had completed my paper and had it printed and ready to hand in during his office hours. As I had discussed with him earlier (well, not so much discussed but stalled for time before retreating), I ended up writing my final paper on sex acts in Spenser’s Faerie Queene.
I knew no one else in the class would have the foresight of completing or even starting the paper this early, so there was a good chance I could talk to him without fear of interruption. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck standing up even though it was still unbearably hot in the corridor.
My shoes clicked on the tile floor. Instead of causing an echo in the unusually clear hallway, the sound fell with a thick thud as if the dampness in the air cushioned the blow. I felt a little sick as I watched Professor Hall turn the corner to where his office was. Unlike other Assistant Professors (who were basically non-tenured professors), he had his own office. Yet another privacy interruption roadblock out of the way.
Still, this didn’t seem right. I felt damn near predatory gliding my way to his door. I figured I would give him a moment to put down his briefcase and get his things together and have a seat before I pounced on him.
I glanced through the doorway. Unlike last time, this time, his windows were wide open. It looked like he had finally caved in and opened the windows. This made me glad. I could hear the students outside talking, playing frisbee, walking pets… and I could see him, eyes cast downward at a stack of papers. I knocked at the door frame, leaning in.
“Come in,” he said, not looking up until I stood in front of his desk.
I put my bag on the floor and rummaged around in it for my notebook for his class, where my paper was neatly sandwiched.
When I looked up to see him, I realized that my dress rode a bit lower since I stood up and left the classroom. I debated about adjusting for a moment, but realized that would only call even more attention to the fact that I probably just flashed my cleavage (maybe even more) at my professor.
“Did you have a question about the paper?” His eyes were on mine, not seeming for any instant that they were avoiding looking any lower.
“Oh, er, no, Professor Hall.” I said, placing the neatly stacked and stapled, double-spaced, 12-point Times New Roman font paper on his desk. “I finished it.”
“Oh.” He said, smiling a little. “Big plans this summer?”
“No, sir.” I said. “Why?”
“It’s just that when students turn things in this early, they usually have some vacation or summer study abroad planned soon, so they have to take care of their finals ahead of time or risk losing things in the mail or via email attachment.” He explained, almost looking disappointed in me for not having exciting plans.
“Oh.” I said, pausing a moment. “Well, I am graduating this semester… unless I fail your course somehow.”
That, even for me, was a terrible joke.
He stood up and walked around his desk and stood in front of me, extending his hand. “You have nothing to worry about.”
I took his hand and shook it.
“Congratulations.” He said.
The moment after that wasn’t very long and I hadn’t thought much of it immediately after the fact. However, after re-examination of my memories years later, I tend to make much of that moment.
He looked at me. No, he saw me. That was all he did. I felt more naked than I had while with any guy I had sex with. His hand was warm. The sweat from his hand mingled with mine as he just held my hand in his. We just looked at each other.
I don’t think I really saw it in that moment and like I said, maybe my nostalgic memory is clouding my judgment, but I don’t know what I saw in his eyes, behind his eyes or perhaps mere projection on my part. Was it a mere sincere congratulatory look from a teacher to a student, knowing how much work will soon be behind them, but may still have to face ahead? Was it a look of tenderness, stemmed from the longing of someone who was a bit lonely, didn’t have the time to establish connections to other people and so tried to find one, albeit brief, with one of his students? Was it a different look of longing, one where the next moment, his grip would tighten and he would pull me into him…
Or maybe, I was just the lonely one.
Looking into those dark eyes, standing internet casino so close to him to realize how much taller he really was compared to me, I felt two things. One was the desire to gasp, breathlessly ask if I could close the door and speak to him more personally. The other was to run out of the room.
We just kept looking at each other.
As opposed to the “fight or flight” response I had learned about in my introduction to anthropological biology class, I guess I could refer to this as the “fuck or flight” response.
“Professor Hall…” I tilted my chin up, not moving my eyes away from his.
“Yes?” He asked. I could smell his cologne again, the one that whispered of citrus, smoke and leather or suede, but tinged this time with sweat from the heat. His hand seemed to grow even hotter in mine, his body even closer to mine.
“May I close the door?”
Somewhere, an evolutionary biology major felt the urge to go skipping, but will never understand why.
Being the perfect gentleman, he closed the door before I could even take a step. He stood with his back at the door, as if he was afraid I would change my mind and run off. It was best that he closed the door, as my legs refused to move. I felt like a statue, my arm still limply extended in the ghost of a handshake that lasted a moment too long, or perhaps, just long enough.
“Was there something you wanted to ask me?” He asked, leaning against his desk in front of me.
My legs had been shoulder-length apart. The way he was standing now, I could feel the warmth of his leg against my own.
“I… have this friend, you see.” I tried to find the words, some sort of alibi.
“Yes?” He stood up, almost pressing into me, except not even the fabric of his suit brushed against my skin. I just felt this heat, barely noticeable in the noise of the sudden summer humidity, rush into me like a wave.
“She has an interest…” I licked my lips. “In one of her instructors… and wants to know what I think.”
“About what?” I felt his hands brush against my arms, taking me by the wrists.
“Is it all right?” I closed my eyes, trembling.
“What do you think?” His voice was a low, harsh whisper.
“I-” I opened my eyes. The same questioning look, my hands in his, the room almost boiling. “I mean, she wouldn’t want to get him in trouble… and I wanted to know what you think.”
“She’s not just doing this to pass a class, clearly, and neither she nor this instructor would tell anyone, right?”
“No, of course not.” I sighed.
“Then I think it’s all right…” He said.
I tilted my face slightly, feeling my cheek brush against his chest.
“Well if it’s all right with you, then it’s all right–“
I couldn’t finish the sentence. My brain didn’t seem to be connected to anything but my hands and my Netherlands (as Shakespeare would have said). I lifted my arms, which felt so heavy, tracing as far up Professor Hall’s back as I could reach. His shoulder blades and back felt strained and confined beneath the blazer. I let my arms drop back down and circle around to the front, undoing each of the buttons that held him back.
Meanwhile, I felt him bend down, trace his hands up and down my arms, onto my shoulders and neck. His lips followed, trailing kisses on my skin. I could feel the brush of his ever-present five o’clock shadow against my collarbone. I felt his rough cheek brush against mine before our mouths finally were properly introduced.
Words come to mind, usually stolen from other people: “He drank of my mouth like a fountain/a wineglass/a stream.” “He took my breath away/overwhelmed my senses/took me in completely.”
Of course, these are just words. This whole thing is just words.
When I pulled back from the kiss, knees knocking together and feeling about to fall over, I looked at him, completely mussed. His shirt and blazer were completely undone, revealing more or less what is expected of someone around his age who values intellectual pursuit over logging hours at the gym. He was soft in places, but still very solid for the most part, broad in the shoulders. Then again, I had more than earned my freshman 15 (and sophomore 20). His hair stuck up slightly from where I had managed to run a hand through it, the same overwhelming look of tenderness in his eyes.
I didn’t ever want him to stop looking at me, but I wanted him to touch me, taste me even more.
He knelt in front of me, taking off his jacket but not his shirt, which was now covered in sweat.
“Lift your skirt.” He said softly.
It was like that game you played before you knew you weren’t supposed to play this way with members of the opposite gender. I see London, I see France, can I see your underpants?
With shaking hands, I drew the fluttering blue and white cotton up my thighs, holding the material against my stomach with one hand as the other ran through his hair again. The panties did not match the bra, as they were red and not peach, because I was never one to buy these things in sets.
He did not seem to mind.
With a slight wave of the hand against my right knee, he parted my legs further. I felt his five o’clock shadow brush my thigh and I swayed a little.
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