Every time I powder my balls, I think of Jake.
Well, that's not exactly true. Sometimes instead of baby powder for lubrication, I use Dove Men-Care moisturizing deodorant. Without something, especially right after my weekly shave, my scrotum tends to chafe against my inner thighs. Which is kind of OK, as it tingles, sometimes even makes me hard.
Which makes me think of Jake. Of his neatly trimmed jet black hair, alluring V-shaped face, smooth ivory skin, misty dark amber eyes, and pouty lips, always wearing that "what the fuck?" smile. Nice 5-foot 5-inch body. Compact and lean, but still soft. Appealing.
The thing is, when I first met Jake, he was Julie. One of 30 freshmen in my Intro to Music course, sort of music history and theory lite, all packed into one semester. I like teaching the course, welcoming nervous neophyte music majors to the U at 9 AM on their first day of classes. I like freshmen generally, especially in their first semester, before they learn the real power dynamic at play. How students can get a prof in trouble, even fired, just by going to the dean, making stuff up.
But back to Jake. Julie hung around after that first class, and shyly asked if I needed help with anything. There was a twinkle in her eye, like she knew something I didn't. Well, lots of people do. In addition to teaching classes and voice lessons, I'm assigned to conduct the worst choir in the music department, the one where anyone can just show up and sing. And then the chair evaluates me on how good they sound. Sweet. But, as registrations for the choir mean money for the department, and I'm low man on the faculty totem pole, it's my baby. It's also a hassle, so Julie's offer of help was welcome. There are always things to do, getting music folders ready, pulling parts from the library, penciling my expression directions into each one, sorting old music, erasing the marks the singers put in, and refiling it, the kind of tedious crap that is the worst part of my job.
As Julie walked to my office with me after class, she reminded me that we'd met previously, at a vocal festival I'd conducted in her hometown the year before when she was a senior in high school. Thus the twinkling eyes. Her quirky smile as she told me jogged my memory. I don't lie as a rule, so when I told her I actually did remember her it was the truth. She'd been assistant principal alto in the chorus, and I'd been struck by how she was so eager, bright-eyed and smiley, and had hung around me at the reception after the concert.
Anyway, she qualified for work-study assistance and we arranged five hours per week when she'd come to my studio and do projects for me. Julie was conscientious, competent, and friendly. Eager. Not flirty eager, just sincere, a nice young woman who wanted to be helpful, to please. She was really pretty, too, but that didn't matter.
I had no trouble finding things to keep her busy, and grew to appreciate her quirky, self-deprecating sense of humor, intelligence, and reliability. I liked her and looked forward to seeing her. And she obviously liked me. A lot, it seemed. Now, I know what you're thinking, dear reader. But the only way I'd survived for six years as an Assistant Prof, been promoted to Associate and got tenure just last year, was to maintain a very firm, proper barrier between me and my students, especially those of the female persuasion. So there was no hanky-panky going on between Julie and me.
By mid-semester I began to see the clouds forming. As I came to know Julie better, I sensed that something was troubling her. A lot. When I asked, she deflected, saying everything was OK. But the second, maybe third time I inquired, Julie split open like an overripe melon, and her anguish just gushed out. Once the water works began, I quickly closed my office door and grabbed my box of tissues. It was time to be the supportive, concerned faculty mentor I am. Julie's pain, frustration, self-doubt, tortured struggle, and angst just poured forth, and, when she leaned into me and put her arms around me, needing comfort, I held her. It felt nice to be supportive, to be there for her, and it really seemed to help.
Once she'd calmed a bit, when she could talk between sobs, she explained. I'd heard that some people feel they are born into the wrong body, with the wrong sexual equipment, but I hadn't really thought about it. Never having had such doubts myself, I had no idea how the conflict could be so debilitating, so horrible. But it clearly was for Julie, who told me right then and there that she wanted me to call her Jake. Call him Jake. Evidently the crisis in my office was the turning point, and she, he resolved to make the change and begin living as a man right then and there.
I told him that I would change the name in my grade book immediately, call him Jake, and do everything else I could to support him in the transition. When he hugged me harder, snuggling closer in gratitude, I eased him to the side so he wouldn't feel the erection that the proximity of a very attractive, vulnerable, sweet, likable person with a pussy and cute little boobs had invoked.
Jake spent even more time in my office after our talk, just hanging out. It was a haven for him, a place he could be himself, certain of support. I saw in his eyes that he was ever-so grateful, and truly liked me, maybe more. Though at 30 I was 12 years older, I felt a real bond, a friendship develop between us, and the feeling of being there for him, providing essential support, was very gratifying. I found myself looking forward to the times when he'd show up for work.
To tell the truth, I had some trouble changing my thinking, conceiving of Jake as a guy, as ever since that hug, the feel of a soft, warm, appealing body melding to mine, I'd had to struggle to keep my barrier up between us. I wasn't worried, though, as I'd always been able to maintain the wall between me and all my other students, some of whom were truly tempting and overtly friendly, if you catch my drift, and so I just ignored my attraction for Jake and kept plugging away.
Until the vocal festival. Every fall, select members from a bunch of area high school choruses come to us for a day of singing, making new friends, learning more about music, with a fun concert at night. As there were too many singers for one choir, I was assigned the other, the one that had the second-flight students. Our senior vocal prof did the cream chorus; I got the milk. No problem. That's how seniority works. Jake was my gofer, especially helpful, and I needed it, as the festival was a big deal, one of our department's major recruiting events for the entire year. It was essential that things ran smoothly, that the prospective students had a good time and liked me.
It all went well until lunch. As I dismissed the choristers - they were to eat at our student union, so they could see how wonderful it was, like everything else here, so when they thought about what college to attend they'd want to come our U - I told them that that they should follow Jake. That she would lead them to the cafeteria.
