The room for my second semester British Literature class was not the large lecture hall I imagined. This being my first day of classes of the year, I had high hopes. However, my vision of a packed lecture hall with a cranky but enthusiastic old English-accented professor scrawling unintelligibly on the chalkboard was dashed the moment I found the classroom door.
Less than a dozen students were seated at the handful of tables, with a few more standing at the front. I froze, taking two whole seconds to glance at the faces to try and gauge if I was indeed in the correct room. The people I made eye contact with simply stared back.
Gosh, college really turns some people into zombies.
Deciding that this was indeed the correct room, I sit down at the front right table, pulling out my notebook and pen in preparation. The syllabus was very straight forward, but simple did not always mean easy, as I regretfully learned in my first semester classes. I wanted-no, needed- to be on my A-game in this class. Even if my scholarship didn't depend on it, English was my major, and I couldn't mess around when my future depended on it.
As my nerves from rushing to my first class settled, I took notice of the conversation that was happening between two students at my table. Two males, smiling and describing their winter breaks with the ease of old friends. A female student two seats away from me seemed intent on nodding her head and laughing at everything that was said.
I couldn't blame her- the guys were good looking and confident in their casual discussion. The brunette had an especially charming aura, with a Clark Kent-like smile gracing his lips as he listened to the other kid's telling of some skii trip disaster. The kid, with a white t shirt and military-buzz cut, kept getting excited and fumbled as he recounted the story, but Kent was very good-natured with the whole exchange, laughing amicably at the poorly-executed punch line.
"And dude, he didn't even have the key to his room! It was so fucking hilarious," buzz-cut emphasized, cracking up again.
"Certainly not what he was expecting!!" brunette contributed with a chuckle. "I hope the rest of us were able to brave the cold better than Josh's buddy did," he continued, addressing the whole room now. He stood up from his seat and moved to the computer desk in the corner, fiddling around until the SMARTboard projector showed up with a "British Literature: Introduction" slide on it.
"Welcome to British Literature," he said, with a stance that claimed the room. "I'm Professor Hoyt, but you can call me Professor H, H-man, or whatever variation you think is appropriate."
The sound of chuckles dimly filtered through my ears. This was our Professor?? I was expecting someone with short term memory loss and thick-rimmed glasses, not this... hunk of baloney.
"Now, I know what you're all thinking: what does this college-aged professor know about teaching a literature class? Well, first, I am older than I seem, so no worries there." His smile was so welcoming, encouraging. He continued. "I just completed my master's this past summer, majoring in British Literature, and this will be my second semester teaching this course. However, I'm not just a pretty face— rest assured, this class will be challenging in all the ways you'll find it intriguing. I hope that we can all grow a lot by the end of May."
He had a cool, chill vibe about him that really seemed to put the class at ease. I could imagine seeing him at a bar and downing a couple drinks with him, not that that were ever to happen. Hah, a guy like him with a frumpy student like me? He seemed to be the complete package— kind, understanding, and chiseled underneath his professional slack-and-polo attire.
As he began his presentation over a backdrop of London, I tried not to stare too long at his thick forearms, or broad shoulders that seemed to ripple as he gestured to the board. From my vantage point I could even make out the shape of his ass outlining the slacks against the lit screen behind him. He was quite the specimen for being a professor.
He turned back towards us, and I glanced up quickly from, well, staring at his butt. He caught my eyes during his perfunctory glance around the classroom and smiled that irresistible smile. His chiseled jaw held my attention, and when his smile broadened I realized he had seen me staring the whole time. Sheepishly, I looked from his eyes to the slide on the board, scrawling down notes to distract myself from my burning cheeks.
I glanced down at my notebook page, realizing it was much more sparse than I would have liked. Get a grip, Mel. This is your professor; stay professional.
The rest of the class passed much in the same way, by taking notes on the "precursor" information Professor Hotness fed us. Well, taking notes and mentally undressing our professor. I could feel the heat from the ladies in the room, and certainly caught a few of them not-so discreetly fanning themselves or whispering comments as he delivered his well-rehearsed presentation on London's history. He didn't have the same experience as older professors, but the information was good, and he was a natural at giving a lecture. There was a bit of nervousness there, too, but it was more endearing than anything. I wanted to tell him he did well for this being so new to him.
Twenty minutes before class ended, he announced that he'd like to take some time to get to know the class, as we were a pretty small number. Two A-type girls sitting at the table behind me immediately started whispering excitedly to each other, and running their fingers through their hair. The way they primped themselves for the teacher disgusted me, but the sad thing is, I was feeling just as they were. I wanted to stand out somehow, for the Professor. I didn't even know him, he was just a pretty face— but something in me made me wish that somehow, a professional relationship could form between us. He studied in my interest area, perhaps he could help mentor me as I progressed through my degree.
Or maybe I simply wanted him to be the Darcy to my Elizabeth. Who knows.
Anyways, Professor Hoyt took a seat on his desk, and made each person share their names, majors, and favorite books. Some shared movies if they didn't care for books, and the Professor was sympathetic to those. When it came to me, my palms were sweating, though I had done this sort of thing a million times before. I diverted my gaze from Professor Hoyt— no way could I concentrate with any eye contact with him.
"Hi, uh. My name's Melony, but I— just call me Mel. And, I'm going into the Literature field, though not too sure about which specific branch for my degree."
"Ah, a fellow English nerd!" Professor Hoyt prodded, "What made you get into reading? You are a reader, am I right?"
