If you haven't already, I suggest reading "Office Hours" and "A Second Visit during Office Hours" to get up to speed.
* * *
I had graduated and ventured out into that scary void known to college students as "the real world."
My reaction was similar to others in my situation: "Now what?"
After pondering this question for a good amount of time, I realized that six months had gone by and I was still working at one of the campus bookstores, promoted from temp to shipping clerk. Eventually, I realized that it had almost been a year and I still didn't have an answer.
I was allowed a week's vacation, paid time off and more or less picked a city in a price range that my paltry shipping clerk's wages could handle. I fell in love with this city and scouted out work/school/dwelling. I found a place, but culinary school didn't seem as good an idea as it looked on the website and I hadn't gotten into an MFA program for creative writing.
So, I moved to Portland.
In time, I went from temp gigs to an office job that actually offered health and dental. From my various bicycling accidents, I can safely say that I used my fair share of both deductibles.
Professor Hall was more or less forgotten until he came up in conversation with a friend online. Out of curiosity, I googled him to find that he had returned to the East Coast, teaching at a private college and an writing academic book on history plays during the Elizabethan era. I sent a rather innocuous email salutation and he replied, recommending a book by Evelyn Waugh when I had mentioned that I spent most of my free time (and a good part of my paycheck) on books from a well-loved local bookseller.
When I had mentioned that I had started reading Spenser's Faerie Queene again, he commented that I may be the only student he had that picked it up willingly outside of class and that this was "surely a testament" to my "virtue." I may be too much of an English major of my own good, but I couldn't help but remember the class discussion about the various ironic uses of the word "virtue" in Spenser's Faerie Queene.
I made a small circle of friends from a writing group where we spent more time bitching about our day jobs than actually writing. One could say that I started dating again, but for the most part, I just had one-night stands of a repetitive nature.
One such liaison was with someone I had met online through the independent music magazine personals section. Admittedly, Neil was just as handsome as his pictures, but just about as one-dimensional. He was dull in a conventional sort of way, liked order and routine, liked the sound of his own voice, but at least he was creative in the bedroom. I wondered if he spent more on sex and gym equipment than he had on anything else, especially on a university office drone salary. I know if I had to pick, I'd choose my dining out budget over a gym membership any day. It's little wonder it didn't last long considering he often kicked me out of his bed so he could get up bright and early to get to the gym.
Anyway, I had made the mistake of telling him that I wrote erotica. This resulted in him asking me to write a story the we could act out as a light BDSM scenario. The following story is the result of that experiment.
* * *
"Teacher's Pet"
Finals week was about to draw to a close. With graduation around the corner, I could hardly afford to goof off now, even though I had been reassured by my friends and my instructors that I had earned it.
Well, at least most instructors seemed to be in agreement.
For whatever reason, Professor H. seemed to have a distinct dislike for me. Every comment I made in class, every textual interpretation gleaned from reading criticism or from my own induction was shot down with disdain. A friend of mine who was in the same class that quarter couldn't help but notice it.
"I think he's out to get you." Amy said.
"What? Don't be ridiculous." I said. "Where'd you get that idea?"
"You're probably the only person who does all of the readings and doesn't just cliff it or work based from prior memories of reading Hamlet five-thousand times." She continued after taking a swig from a bottle of Midori mixed with a good amount of vodka that we had been sharing. "You actually give a damn and actually talk in class, but every time you open your mouth..."
"He shoves his PhD-accredited fist into it." I sighed. "I see what you mean. Still, it's not like I'm failing the class."
"What was the grade you got on your last paper?" Amy raised an eyebrow.
"A B minus."
"And what was your GPA before taking Professor H.'s class?"
"4.0." It almost pained me to say it, but I knew that the suspicion lingered in my mind. "You don't think it's because I'm-"
"I wouldn't put it past him, but you'd think he'd pick on Aaron too." She shrugged.
"Aaron's never in class."
"Either way, I think maybe you should have a talk with him." Amy put a supportive hand on my shoulder before staggering to her feet and picking up a bag. "I've gotta go, hockey practice."
"To this day, I will never understand how you can function on ice skates after a few drinks." I shook my head.
"The booze helps numb against the body checks!" She raised a fist in the air as she walked to the door. "Anyway, you should really talk to Professor H."
"And what exactly should I say to him?" I snorted. "'Hey Professor H., I think you're being an unreasonable dick. Give me an A in your class?'"
"Yeah, you could do that." Amy turned around, thunking her large bag into the doorframe. "All else fails, flash your tits. I hear guys are into that sort of thing."
As astute as my roommate Amy was, there was another thing that she didn't seem to pick up on.
I had a slight case of the hots for Professor H.
Granted, I'm an ok student most of the time. Yet there was something about the neat way Professor H. presented himself, the coldness in his vocal tones as he lectured and led discussion that made me want to try harder. Sometimes I would see him at one of the few bars on campus that wasn't overrun with fraternity neanderthals having a pint alone or with some other members of the department, where he was actually the youngest faculty member who wasn't a grad student. He was always so cool and reserved, so well-put together. He looked like a hero from a film noir who wandered into this crass, short attention-span world from the days of black and white. There was something darker in him, something that flickered behind his eyes whenever he deigned to make eye contact during discussion. Maybe it really was a matter of me wanting to impress him. Of course, the more I seemed to try, the more he shot me down, refusing to acknowledge that I had a point or an interesting new idea to bring to the discussion.
An example:
"I think what Spenser was going for with the Redcrosse Knight losing all strength in the battle against Orgoglio the giant was an example of the Aristotelian orgasm, where some aspect of male power is lost in the sex act, especially considering the scene before that was of him and Duessa lying by the riverbank in loose wantonness." This was regarding a discussion about Edmund Spenser's The Faerie Queene.
"Anybody else who isn't just regurgitating from every critical work written in this century about Spenser want to give it a try? Anyone at all?"
It probably didn't help that most of my contributions in class ended up being comments that could be construed as sexual in nature. The sad thing was, I didn't even notice it until Amy had brought it up. Honestly, I'm not a pervert. I don't know if it's just a subconscious reaction to staring at Professor H. for one and a half hours twice a week.
Anyway, with my GPA hanging in the balance, I decided to follow Amy's advice, without that last bit, of course. I went to visit Professor H. during his last set of office hours that semester before the final paper was due. I had at least written a draft of it and was hesitant to ask him what he thought, but at least if I had some feedback, there was at least a chance I could improve my grade with it later.
I knocked on the slightly-ajar door.
"You may enter." He didn't even bother looking up from his papers as I sat down in the rather small chair in front of his desk.
"Hi Professor H." I smiled nervously. "I was just wondering..."
"If you had been paying attention the final day of class, Miss V., you would know that I will not look at rough drafts before the final paper is due." He said. "This is not high school. I would certainly think that after four years, you would understand this by now."
"Three, sir." I said.
"Come again?"
"I'm actually graduating in three years." I explained. "I came into university with a semester and half of credit from AP tests and took some summer classes."
"Well, aren't you proud of yourself?" He stood up from his desk and walked around to where I was sitting.
I could practically feel him staring down at me, like I was an insect he didn't want to bother dirtying his shoes with, but had to anyway, just to be rid of me. I turned around to face him. It was terrifying. The small chair had a magnifying effect of my insignificance, making him seem even taller. I may as well have been sitting on the floor. There he was in full menace, slacks and shirt sleeves well-pressed, not a hair out of place.
"Professor H., that was another thing I wished to speak to you about." I took a deep breath, cleared my throat and tried to put on a brave voice. "Have I done something to offend you? I don't believe you have given the same treatment to the other students that you have to me."
"Do you believe that you deserve preferential treatment over the other students?" He asked coolly.
"I-no. That's not what I meant."
"I think that is what you meant." He smiled down at me. As often as I have stared at his soft lips, watched him lick them the way I wished he would lick me, all I could see in that smile were razors aimed at slicing me to ribbons. "You think that you can waltz right in here, dressed like a tart and persuade me into giving you the grade that you so justly deserve."
"I am not dressed like a tart." I turned back around clenched my knees together. My skirt went at least an inch past them. It wasn't like I was in a miniskirt and stiletto heels.
"Well," he bent to whisper in my ear, lips barely grazing the top of my left ear. "I don't consider myself an unreasonable man, Miss V. In fact, I believe that I do often give people what they deserve."
I stood up and walked to the door. "Professor H. This is entirely inappropriate. This-"
"What is entirely inappropriate is the idea that you think that you can tell me what to do in the confines of my own office." He opened a drawer and pulled out what looked like a crop used to flog horses. "What is entirely inappropriate is being forced to watch you slink your way into my classroom every week, all tarted up like you're ready for a date, with a nice boy I would imagine. A nice boy you would tease and torment, say no when you really mean yes."
"Oh my God, you're insane." I rattled the doorknob to find that the door had been locked. I cursed that the building was old enough to the point where it still had locks that required a key on both sides of the door.
He laughed. "If only because you made me that way. Don't think that I haven't noticed how often you cross and uncross your legs when you wear skirts in my class, how often you brush the top of your pen against your lips and lick it. How could I not picture those lips wrapped around my cock?"
