College Days

"You're different. You love pussy.

You're short. You stutter.You're

clumsy. Your ugly glasses don't

even fit. And, that dueling scar

or whatever on your right cheek.

Yet you screw two-thirds of

the women you meet. You just love

pussy. Women sense that. They know

how much you enjoy them. They are

flattered, and you turn that flattery

into a fuck." ---- Doris Loro

The Perfect Professor

Within six weeks of starting college, I got a job in the sports department of the local newspaper, found an apartment across the river and fell madly in lust. Three years later, I'm still writing about high school sports, still living two blocks from the ferry, and still in lust with Mary Adams. Like all first year students I took a required class in English composition: ENG 101, MWF, 9:00-9:50. The instructor, Dr. Richard Adams, had us read and discussed Poe, Emerson, Thoreau or whomever, and each week submit a 500 word essay on any of about 100 subjects.

One week in October, bored to death and probably drunk, I wrote a paper on the poet John Milton, comparing the angels and devils in Paradise Lost to various politicians. Of course the instant I turned it in, I had second thoughts, the same thoughts I had the following Monday when Professor Adams handed back the papers. All the papers but mine. "Mr. Strange, see me in my office this afternoon." (Bored to death became scared to death.)

I had a burger and a beer -- actually a few beers -- at the university center before taking the long walk up the wide, green mall to the English Department.

Surprise No. 1: Adams praised my paper,

Surprise No. 2: He introduced me to his English professor wife, Mary, who had also read the paper and wanted to meet its author.

Damn, this was one awfully good looking woman. I just stood there for a few minutes staring,as my eyes began trying to take it all in, from head to toe. Richard and Mary both were both amused at my reaction. Did they assume I was shocked by the good news about my paper? Or, did they know I was head-over-heels in lust? Still am.

The woman has a perfect ass and legs up to her arm pits, which her miniest of mini-skirts that the slenderest of four-inch heels tend to underscore. Her navy-blue eyes shine behind rimless glasses and wisps of gray streaked blond hair give her the professorial air she covets. Every bit the academic but still my goddess -- has been for three years, like I said.

Mary is about 40 now, maybe even older, but she still looks like an undergraduate. A knowing look behind a smile that's not really a smile. Full breasts hidden under billowy dresses and blouses in summer, but vaunted by sweaters in winter. Perfect. You get the idea.

Anyway, I worked this afternoon, Sunday afternoon, writing a week's worth of advance stories on high school football, and then walked to the ferry. The trip across the river usually takes ten minutes, but it is far enough and long enough to protect me from my family, from the city and from the college pseudo-intellectuals. The tree lined streets of the Point are nice, secluded and quiet. It's now about six, the sun has just about disappeared and I'm trying to get "psyched up" for an hour or so of Getman's Theoretical Chemistry, after I grab a bite to eat.

Liuzza is one of the many restaurants, bars and bookie joints facing the plaza at the ferry landing. It is the only place serving food on Sunday nights. I open the front door, and there she is, Mary Adams, Dr. Adams, Professor Adams, Hera, Athena, Aphrodite, Helen.

She is sitting near the wall of windows that runs down the Julia Street side of the restaurant. She is alone at a table for four, one wine glass, one table setting. She is looking at the cars on the plaza sparring for a spot on the ferry, and doesn't see me enter. Elsa, Pete's wife, knows me: "Buona sera, Signore Jack." I suspect that's the only Italian she knows. "You're by yourself?"

"Maybe."

Elsa doesn't know what to say. I walk toward Mary's table.

"Dr. Adams, I presume." It has just occurred to me she may not even remember who I am. The bad joke doesn't help. "What brings you to this side of the river?

"Mr. Strange." She remembers.

"I didn't mean to startle you. But I never expected to see you or Richard -- or any of my professors -- over here." She flashes that smile that's not a smile and that makes me feel good. "I went to the flea market, and ended up staying later than I expected," she replies. "I was trying to find a sideboard for the dining room."

I have never been to any flea market and I'm not sure where the one she is talking about is. I took a guess: "That's over by Eisenhower Drive? You probably should have taken the bridge."

"We live in close to downtown, you know, so the ferry's quicker." The smile that's not a smile continues. My heart races. And when she adds, "Would you care to join me?" I think I'm about to have a heart attack.

I waste no time sitting down, staring. I wonder if she knows? Knows that I have watched her from afar and up close for three years? Knows that her smile that's not a smile turns my legs into jelly and my cock into steel. Knows that I dream of that perfect ass? Knows that I ache to have those long legs wrapped around me?

She starts talking about my Milton paper of three years ago, and somehow gets the misconception that I like literature. Since you could put all my knowledge of English literature in a thimble, we naturally discuss romantic poets, Blake, Byron, Coleridge. Out of my league.

Sensing my discomfort, she asks who won the day's football games. Does she know I work in sports or just assumes that as I guy I know these things? But a lot of women like football, so I guess an English professeuse can, too. We joke about the local guys losing yet again, which seems to cut through the tension a bit. She laughs at all of my silly football stories -- half of which aren't true.

I guess I'm manic now (I was as bipolar then as I am now), as my stories expand to Southern lore and politics. I explain the politicians in my Milton paper, and tell stories of other people and events. She seems interested or at least fakes it well. I just go on and on. Manic. I wanted to call her Mary. But she continues to call me Mr. Strange, so I'll continue to call her Professor or Dr. Adams... except in my mind and the rest of my body, of course.

"Thank you oh so much, Mr. Strange," she says as she prepares to leave. "I needed to laugh. Things have not been going well for me. Thank you." I ask no questions. She had finished her sandwich even before I walked in. My lentil soup and beer had yet to arrive. That killer smile that's not a smile had taken its toll on me for three years.

I wish she would show her thanks another way instead of bursting my bubble and leaving me so soon, so alone and so hard. Actually I'm frantic that she's leaving at all. I have no idea of what to say. But Mary finds the perfect words: "We should do this again some time."

Then she leaves. And so do I. It's raining now. She opens her umbrella, invites me under and offers to drive me the two blocks home to my shotgun house on Julia Street. The gods have smiled on me, finally.

# # #

About an hour or so later, we are in the front room, finishing a joint, sipping cheap brandy and listening to Jane Birkin. She sits on the sofa and I on a chair facing her. A great spot to take in her bluest eyes, her perfect form, her longest legs, and the white panties under her denim mini skirt.

She makes a reference to her earlier attempt to get me to discuss poetry, and asks why so many of her male students seemed so hostile to it. I, of course, don't have an answer, so I take a long toke in hopes she will change the subject. She doesn't. Instead, she opines that I would be a good at poetry, then takes a hit in her turn. That's the dope. And, being stoned myself and looking ahead to other things, I agree, and go to fetch an book of E.E.Cummins poetry (e.e. if you insist) given me by an old high school girlfriend. I return, sit down on the sofa next to Mary and begin:

I like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite a new thing. muscles better and nerves more. i like your body. I like what it does, I like its hows. . .

At this point Mary closes her eyes, takes off her glasses, tosses her head back and takes over:

... I like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling -firm-smooth ness and which I will again and again and again kiss, I like kissing this and that of you, I like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes over parting flesh...And eyes big love-crumbs, and possibly I like the thrill of under me you quite so new a thing

While Mary has taken over Mr. Cummins (cummins if you insist), the pot has taken over Mary. The poem has a similar effect on me, and I lean over and kiss her, "I like kissing this and that of you." And we kiss again and again and again. She is now wrapped in my arms and I in hers. The kisses become longer and longer and more passionate and more passionate. She begins kissing my neck, running her tongue up behind my jaw till she is biting my ear lobe then probing my ear with her tongue. I put my hand on her breasts.

"Not fair, Mr. Strange," she says.

"What?" I ask, my lips now moving to her neck and my hand still lightly massaging her breasts.

"Luring me to your apartment to get me stoned, playing that erotic music and taking advantage of me." "You didn't have to come, Professor."

She sighs, "But you knew I would, you bastard you." She really is upset but she makes no move to stop my advances even as my hand reaches for the hem of her navy blue sweater -- a blue as deep as her eyes. She is obviously enjoying herself and looking forward to my "slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz of her electric fur."

She is someone who likes being in control, and now she's not. Of course, I'm not much in control of myself. And while I'd probably like being in control of Mary Adams, it probably is not going to happen. I touch her breasts again, one, then the other and move my hand toward her back to unhook her bra.

"What are you doing, Mr. Strange?" She breaks our kiss and sits up on her knees. "This is my best bra. Don't ruin this, too. You've already stretched my new sweater out of shape."

She crosses her arms and removes the sweater with a single motion. The bra comes off almost as quickly. She sits back on her heels allowing me a long look at her perfection. Her breasts are firm, large but not too, with small areolas and tiny nipples, now erect. Her tan lines are fading, summer having been over a while, but the freckles across her chest and shoulders are not going away any time soon. Her waist is thin. Her body svelte but not skinny. Like I said, perfection.

Mary sits up, puts her arms around my shoulders and draws me close. "I want you to know that I still think you're a bastard." She grabs my shoulders, and I clutch this magnificent woman in my arms as we fall to the floor, her atop me but neither in control. She devours me with the wettest of wet kisses and begins unbuttoning my gray shirt, passing her hands across my bare chest, while she rubs herself against my knee. Her tits are pressed against my now bare chest, and her mouth covers my ear, her touch sending electric waves up my spine.

I run my hands up and down her sides and feel her shivers and the goose bumps that rise with each passing. I feel those same goose bumps when I caress her tits, squeezing the nipples, and again when I pass my fingers over the spine, kneading between each disk until I find THAT spot. She jerks and sighs. We turn on our sides and I unfasten the metal buttons on her denim skirt and begin to massage her vagina through those white panties. This all feels like a dream, the feeling enhanced by the marijuana.

"I think we'll be more comfortable in the other room, Professor." As she stands, her denim skirt falls to the floor. She heads through the open door leading to the bedrooms in the back of the house. She seems to know where she's going. All shotgun houses are alike. I don't mind following. The muscles in her back outline her straight spine from her long neck to her ass, a terrific ass. Her hips are just wide enough and her legs are beautiful all the way up.

We enter my room -- I did make the bed in the morning -- and she turns and puts her arms around my neck, and gazes into my eyes: "You bastard." With that we fall on the covers holding each other's bodies tightly. Her skin feels so warm, her hands soft, her scent paradise. She massages me through my jeans. I am hard now, the excitement pulsating through my body.

I run my hands all over Mary's body, probing, stroking. I suck on her nipples, with my total concentration on her breasts. "Just enjoy," I advise as I descend down her legs to suck her toes. I concentrate on each toe, tasting, sucking and biting. I seem to be having a stoned orgasm of sorts with each digit.

Mary is sighing, even moaning. I imagine she is having a similar experience. Hell, I'm sure of it, especially when she moans loudly or invokes the gods.

I am absorbed by her toes of all things. Marijuana will do that to you. Now I move up her leg, kissing and licking as I go. I move my tongue over her wet panties and press my face into her vagina before descending.

With both hands I slip off her panties, revealing her thick, wet, blondish, perfect bush that seems to be begging for attention. I give it all the attention it needs.

The scent of her love juices grows stronger, luring me to her waiting rose bud. I place my hands under her ass and lift slightly as I bury my face in her glorious bush. And there I stay, sucking, kissing, licking, drinking. My tongue on her long stiff clitoris, as I suffocate between Mary Adams' oh so delicious perfect legs. I don't want to come up for air. I am lost in the moment and all I can think of and concentrate on is this woman's pussy.

Electricity shoots all through my body, but for some reason, I feel no urge to ejaculate. I am just in a relaxed dream, with Mary's thighs tightly holding my head prisoner so I cannot escape. But I don't want to escape. She is ambrosia. And, when she lets out with another moan or squeal, my satisfaction is off the charts. For a few minutes I find myself hallucinating that I can press my face deeper and deeper into Mary and drown forever in her juices. And I don't mind one bit.

I am still hard and have yet to have an orgasm -- though I have been feeling ripples of passion all night -- when she pulls away from me and turns over, pushing away the sheets and burying her face in the pillows. Kneeling at the end of the bed and staring at that delicious ass, the passion arrives. I enter her for the first time, backdoor, and I am on fire. So tight. So warm. So exciting. So mine. I want to go slowly, but I just can't. I begin moaning, groaning in an effort to hold on just a little longer. Then, I drive soft, hard, quick, slow. I withdraw for an instant to regain control.

Without a word, she turns on her back and we begin again. A slow, hesitant entry and a deep plunge inside again and again and again, we are one, rolling across the bed, hips moving to and fro, mouths devouring necks and shoulders, hands touching everywhere, my finger probing her rosebud, her claws drawing bloody streaks across my back. We are one together and with the marijuana.

Mary screams an "Oh My God" and begins trembling and breathing even harder. Spasms shoot through her body, tightly wrapping my cock in her muscles. I now drive and stroke, my body filled with electricity. Her eyes are closed and that smile that's not a smile is now real, a divine smile of pleasure. Her eyes are still dilated and little beads of sweat cross her brow. Another "Oh My God" is followed by more spasms, and she is lightly struggling to raise her arms, her wrists now held by my hands. The thrills, the sensations, the hallucinations, the images racing through my mind again and again and again are as indescribable as they were continuous. Sight, sound, touch, taste, smell have become a single entity. Time has ceased to exist.

"Oh, god. Come. Just come, god. Come." And she begins to shake. Soon we are both screaming quietly as we erupt in tremors of love and cries of yes, yes, yes awash in rushing rivers of perspiration, cum and love.

And then it is over.

We roll on our backs, pull up the sheets and lie, each alone, staring at the ceiling. I pull a fresh pack of Camels from the carton in the nightstand, and light two, passing one to Mary. We're both still a bit high.

"You're still a bastard, Mr. Strange. But god, that was terrific."

"You're still terrific, Professor Adams. But god, you are beautiful."

"OK . . . JACK."

"MARY."