"Until next week," the professor said. We bolted from our seats, rushed through the double-doored exit and walked individually down the otherwise empty hallway to the State Street exit of Powers Hall, the campus' main classroom building.
Our graduate seminar met Tuesday evenings for two hours.
Once outside in the cool September evening, something kept us from heading our separate ways.
Maybe it was the initial discussion between the first two students out of the building. A third student joined them, then a fourth. I was the sixth, and last.
"What a bunch of bullshit," Eric said as I stepped into the circle. "The guy's a damn walking cliché."
"I've never felt more insulted in my life," said Tony. "Reading whole paragraphs from the textbook? Come on!"
"We have no one to blame but ourselves," said Darlene. "I mean with a title like 'Communication, Technology and Democracy' you have to expect this class is going to be crap."
And so on.
Someone suggested we grab a beer at the brewpub a half block away.
"To get the taste out of our mouths," said Bill.
Everyone guffawed.
I remained noncommittal, waiting to see who in our group of two women and four men was going.
One of the women, Rita, I'd been keeping an eye on since the first night of class three weeks ago. Her light mocha-colored skin and large dark eyes had captured my attention. She looked to be in her early thirties.
I assumed she came to class from work because she always dressed in business professional attire--dark skirts, white blouses, dark blazers or sweaters. We'd exchanged smiles a couple of times, but hadn't spoken. When Rita said she'd go, I nodded my assent as well.
There was a moment of disorganized shuffling as our group paired off for the brief walk. I made sure Rita was my partner.
"Yes, I know who you are, Larry," she said when I introduced myself.
All my cute quips and humorous stories suddenly abandoned me and I was left with the pedestrian topics related to work (she was a bank administrator), major (international affairs) and interests (movies, hiking, reading).
The brewpub had one available booth, a small one that comfortably seated four. We squeezed ourselves in, three to a side. Bill was first in the booth, followed by Rita.
Darlene and another guy sat on the other side, leaving the outside seats to Tony and me. Rita extended her hand.
"Thanks," I said.
"Do you have enough room?" she said.
It seemed my stock was rising. I'm a big guy, six-feet two and weigh 235 pounds.
My outside asscheek was barely on the bench. "I'm good."
She pulled on my jacket. "You can scoot closer. I promise I won't bite."
We nursed our beers while we complained about the class and the professor. My attention, however, was on Rita's body--the hand brushing against my arm, shoulder leaning into me while she laughed or reached for more popcorn, her thigh touching mine and not moving away, a couple of jabs to the shoulder and chest in response to something humorous I said.
Every touch, no matter how light or incidental, grew my cock and by the time Bill announced he was calling it a night, I had an erection the size of Florida.
Rita and I stood to let Bill out. Fortunately I'd taken off my jacket earlier and now I held it, nonchalantly, I hoped, at my crotch. We remained standing by the booth while the other four classmates left.
"You want to stay a bit longer?" Rita said.
We retook our seats. And even though it was just the two of us, Rita snuggled next to me.
"You want another beer?" Rita said.
I shook my head. "One's enough for me. I love the TASTE of beer, but the buzz not so much. I get a stuffy nose."
"Interesting. I don't drink much myself either."
It was information to begin building a bridge of commonality.
"So tell me more about yourself," she said.
"Well, I work in development and public relations for a nonprofit."
She gave me an approving nod.
"We collect food from restaurants and grocery stores and distribute it to food banks, soup kitchens and the like."
"That sounds interesting."
"It is," I said. "Feels like I'm doing a little bit to help with a big problem. So many people in our county are anxious about getting enough to eat, especially children."
"Yes. So you're working on an MBA I take it?"
"Public policy. That's the preferred degree for someone in my field."
"I see."
She moved her hand next to my arm. "I notice you're not wearing a ring. Does that mean you're not married?"
The unintentional big sigh I let out surprised me.
"The short answer is I'm married and about to file for divorce. My wife is basically living with a guy in our neighborhood."
She moved her hand to my arm. "That must be rough."
It had been far too long since a woman had touched me like that. As a result, my body turned this innocent gesture into something sexual.
"We've been married seven years."
"Kids?"
I shook my head. "That's about the only thing we've done right. She's got a good paying job so once we're divorced there won't be any alimony to worry about."
She nodded. "It must be hard though, her being with someone in the neighborhood."
I laughed to cover up my embarrassment. "Yeah. We're the talk of the 'hood. One neighbor actually said 'what are you going to do about it?' I didn't know how to respond. What can I do? Shoot the bastard who's fucking my wife?"
She smiled.
"Enough about me," I said. "Your turn."
She squeezed my arm. "I've been married seven years as well."
I struggled to focus on her words and not on my cock's response to her hand still resting on my arm. "Kids?"
"No. And I'm glad we decided not to have any."
"Because?"
"Because our marriage is ending. It's been dead for several years. As far as I know, he's not cheating on me, but he's also not very present."
"Ah! A workaholic?"
She gave me a surprised look. "How'd you know?"
"It's one way not to feel anything about a dead relationship. Spend all your time nose to the grindstone."
She nodded. "That's exactly right. Anyway, I've found an apartment, not far from here actually. I move in this weekend."
We were both silent for a moment before I spoke again. "I guess seven's not our lucky number."
She played with one of the napkins that had been left on the table. "Isn't there something, a saying about a seven-year itch?"
"'The Seven Year Itch.' It's the name of a movie."
"It is?"
Thank goodness for smartphones. In less than a minute I had the answer. "Tom Ewell and Marilyn Monroe, released in 1955, eighty-four percent Rotten Tomatoes."
"I haven't seen it."
"I haven't either."
I thought about asking her if she'd like to see it with me, at my house. But I didn't want to risk seeming like I was being too aggressive with her.
"I'm getting warm," she said. And with that, she struggled out of her sweater, her arms above her head which forced her chest forward pressing her small but shapely breasts against her blouse.
I helped free her arms from the sweater.
"Thanks," she said, her face close enough for me to kiss. "I feel like a teenager on a date."
"How so?"
"I'm feeling a little awkward. I'm enjoying myself with you and don't want it to end, but I know we both have to go to work in the morning."
"Can I have your phone number?"
Her face brightened. "What's yours?"
