Looking for Lanie
A professor searches for a woman with Daddy issues
This story was inspired by Melanieatplay. She was a willing encourager, but a non-consenting collaborator. One way or the other, Mel contributed significantly to the content.
Chapter One
I'm a doctor. Not the kind of doctor who can do anybody any good. My degree is in academia. Simply reading the title of my doctoral thesis could put you to sleep. My classes won't. I've been told I'm an engaging communicator. Prior to COVID, there was always a waiting list. I don't say that with pride. It's simply that I enjoy teaching, and it shows. Students prefer someone who is passionate about what they teach, and someone who wants others to share that passion.
It's possible you won't like me once this journey starts. I might come off as creepy at first. But I'm not. At least not the way it will seem. I promise you that when this story ends, even if you still think I'm creepy, it will be in a whole different way. I'm not the villain. I might even be the victim.
In addition to teaching, I also write. Actually, I'm required to write. Publish or perish is not just a saying. It's a real threat. But the academic world is not high-paying. I am the department chair. I get a decent salary. My scholarly journal articles and handful of books have probably made me hundreds of dollars. So out of financial desperation, I started writing other things.
The first was a short story I submitted to a mystery magazine. Using the pseudonym Dow Drucker, I wrote "One Bird, Two Stones." They bought it for tens of dollars. But it was the encouragement I needed to spend my free time writing in the mystery genre. One of my detectives clicked. Within a few years, I found modest success with the "Adam Knox, PhD" series.
Knox was a character loosely based on me. An academic who decided to use his intellect outside the academy. Number 1 sold well enough to get a contract for more. Numbers 2 and 3 were moderately successful. Number 4 is going to hit the digital shelves any day. Number 5 is giving me fits. Knox needs to go new places, but I am stuck.
Meanwhile, my savings account is the healthiest it has ever been. But I don't spend lavishly. I still drive a 12-year-old Corolla. While dependable and good on gas, the biggest problem is inserting and extracting my 6'2" frame. I'm not a car guy. And I see no need to draw attention by showing up on campus in a new vehicle. Professors can be jealous, suspicious, and petty. I have no desire to provide them with fodder for feuding.
Even in the remote chance that "Adam Knox, PhD" develops into some sort of mega hit, I want to keep teaching. I have tenure. At 53, I've easily got another decade in me. I play tennis twice a week. That keeps me in moderately good shape. I gave up full-court basketball when I turned 50. My vertical leap had turned into a horizontal lurch. So I'm enjoying good health and some wealth.
But there's a problem. And I'm not talking about my Knox character development issues. I'm talking about Lanie. Technically, she's not a problem. She doesn't even know me. The real me anyway. There's a lot of ground to cover before I get to Lanie. Bear with me. She's worth the wait.
It's about time to introduce myself. Jacob Visser. That's my real name, not my pseudonym. Usually there's Doctor in front of it. I never say, "My name is Dr. Jacob Visser." That's pretentious. With a PhD you can get a venti Americano at Starbucks...provided you also have about five dollars.
I'm single. That's not what I wanted. Joy and I met in college, married when I was in grad school. We didn't have children, but we did have a good life together, until I screwed up. That was years ago. I'll tell you about the screwing part, even though my life didn't actually explode until years later. My affair with a student was more than a decade in the past when Joy found out. There is no statute of limitations on infidelity. In Joy's mind it might as well have happened yesterday. The marriage was over.
Her name was Samantha. She was in my medieval literature course. Bright, attentive, attractive. I was still in my 20s then, so the age difference was negligible. Okay, maybe I was 30. Regardless, I was the professor. At the time, the power differential never entered my mind. Looking back, I realize how wrong it was on every level. The biggest concern I had all those years ago was the fact I was married. Even though that did enter my mind, I didn't see the wrecking ball headed in my direction. I'd never cheated before. Sadly, that was about to change.
Before I show you what I'm dealing with in the present, I have to take you back to that past. You need to know what I wish Joy had never discovered. But I guess the truth is, even if Joy hadn't found out about my affair, the problem with Lanie would still be a reality. And before you can meet Lanie, you need to know about my affair with Samantha. Confused yet? Imagine living it. I'm still befuddled.
Samantha was tall, athletic, with long, light caramel brown hair that she would casually sweep behind her ear on one side, while the other side seductively covered just a bit of her beautiful face. That description alone will clue you in about how closely I watched her. She sat in the front row. In Medieval Lit, the front row usually filled last. But she always chose it. Samantha crossed and uncrossed her legs. I watched every movement. Some days she wore a skirt. Those were my favorite days.
Her papers were excellent. Clearly my top student. She taught me a thing or two. She had insight on Jacobus de Varagine's the
Golden Legend
that was astounding. There was no need for tutoring, which I would have gladly supplied. So I settled for surreptitiously staring.
With a little innocent snooping, I found out she was on the volleyball team. For the first time ever, I went to a game or match or contest, or whatever the hell they call it. I don't know volleyball. Still don't. I watched her every move. Samantha's backside was hypnotic. All these years later, I can still see her tight athletic shorts hugging her ass. My eyes were fixed on her every bend, every serve, every jump.
Once, after she spiked the ball to win a game, Samantha did a little happy dance. Her back was to me at the time. The side to side motion as she swayed from one foot to the other, defined each cheek in a way that will be emblazoned on my mind forever. It gives me an erection just to think about it now. After that one match, I realized I probably shouldn't go again. I was feeding a fantasy. I needed to stop. But I couldn't. I attended every home game with great enthusiasm.
The semester was almost over. When I ended my lecture one Friday, my class rushed out like it was an active shooter drill. Most were anxious to get started on the long weekend. A couple of the hard workers were headed for the library to get started on assignments. There were fewer of those students than I would have liked.
I bent down behind the lectern to unplug my laptop. When I stood up, Samantha was right there. Immediately I noticed her height. I'd never been this close to her when both of us were standing. I'm used to looking down at women. I don't look down "on" them, except in the physical sense, since most are almost a foot shorter than me.
Samantha seemed eye-to-eye. It made me feel less in control. It also made me excited. My eyes skittered over her. She was wearing a sage green sleeveless top, tucked into high-waisted jeans. Her height was explained by her shoes. They were like platform tennis sneakers. I learned later that the term is stacked. A word which fit much more than her style of footwear. My visual scouting trip was brief, and my eyes made it back to her face. Her perfect mouth and dark eyes communicated a slight smirk at my expense. Her fingers reached up to curl her long hair behind one ear, leaving the other side partially hiding one eye.
In my classroom, I'm in charge. There's an air of authority about me. I don't abuse it. I'm not a jerk. I just like things to be respectful and orderly. I'm in command of most situations. Even when I don't seek it. I've been selected for two jury trials. Both times I was made foreman. I didn't try to make that happen, it just did. Most people want a leader. Not someone who is selfishly demanding or demeaning. They want someone who knows what to do, leads by example, and takes responsibility. My approach is to treat the students like adults. I expect the same in return. That's the demeanor I have with Samantha, even though I'm enamored with her.
"Yes, um...Miss...ah...Taylor."
Despite the size of some of my classes, and the number of students I teach, it's always been my practice to know their names; especially by the end of the semester. Somehow, it seemed overly familiar to use Samantha's first name, even though that's what I would have done with every other student. Subconsciously I was trying not to betray how much I thought about this one particular student.
Her suppressed smirk or grin, broke into a full smile. As Elf said, "Smiling's my favorite." Her smile was the best of all. I could help but smile back. She shifted the bag she carried to her other hand, and curled her hair behind her other ear. Now I could see both her eyes. They sparkled. They drew me in. Her lips were moist and full and moving. That was when I realized she was actually speaking to me, and I should start listening instead of gazing like I was a tourist in a museum admiring a Monet.
"Well prof," she said, "I wanted to ask about your course on Magical Realism next semester."
"Sure," I said, trying not to reveal how much more I would look forward to every class knowing she was in it. That would put some real magic in what was usually my least favorite class to teach.
"Any reason I shouldn't take it?"
"None that I can think of." Truthfully, I wasn't trying very hard to think of any reasons. "It would fit you well."
"Would it?" she asked with a bemused look. Even I could tell this was a rhetorical question. Was she being provocative, or was it just my imagination?
"I'm confident it would," I said, trying to sound detached and professorial. "You are my best student, after all."
"Am I?" It was really a statement. "Is that why you come to my volleyball matches?"
"I...uh...like to support school sports," I said, making a mental note that it was a match not a game. I decided to regain control.
"I apologize if my presence made you uncomfortable in any way," my tone turned formal, but I avoided any hint of self-justification, or blame-shifting. "I'll stop attending...and if that's the root of your concern about taking my Magical Realism course..."
"No need to be defensive...prof," she said evenly. "I'm not complaining."
Just like that, my last vestige of control evaporated. I was no longer the professor, but the student trying to get an extension on an overdue assignment. The way she said she wasn't complaining made the blood rush to my head. I still tried to keep it together.
"Very good, so I'll look forward to having you in class next semester...if you so choose." I shut my laptop, and began to wind up the power cord, avoiding eye contact.
"Are you going away over the weekend?" Her tone made this an innocent question.
