The Professor's Indifference

"Could you repeat the question?"

Icy fingers of dread prickled up my arms the moment the words left my lips and headed towards Professor Z. Here's the thing about Professor Z: He doesn't like repeating himself. After only two years at my small liberal arts college, he'd gained a reputation: Professor Z wouldn't repeat himself, didn't give third chances, and didn't honor office hours unless explicitly asked for help. Through the grapevine, I'd heard about him. He'd begrudgingly accepted this position as a favor to his sister, who fought a losing battle with lung cancer at our local hospital. Both siblings were only a minute apart in age but pursued the same passion: mathematics. But unlike his sister who chose to teach math at a small liberal arts college, Professor Z strived to only associate himself with the elite: Harvard undergrad, Oxford PhD, then worked at some fancy oil and gas firm in Switzerland until he found out his sister was ill. And all she wanted during her intense chemotherapy sessions was for her brother to cover her classes, so here he was.

After a few seconds of blankly staring at whoever dared ask that question (me), his gaze slid to the seat beside mine. "Mr. Chris, your answer?"

"Well, there are obviously alternative answers. The derivatives of inverse sine and inverse cosine are similar."

Without acknowledging his answer as correct or incorrect, he continued his lesson. That was another thing about Professor Z: he never offered feedback. He wanted students to come prepared or to bring questions. Showing up unprepared wasn't an option, and he never coddled his students. With any other professor so demanding and sometimes harsh, the normal reaction would be to drop the class or report his unorthodox teaching methods to the department. But for me, dropping his class was the furthest thing from my mind. I wanted to fuck him with an intensity that distracted me throughout class.

Here's the thing: I knew I was beautiful. The world constantly told me so, until I began to see it myself. Curls for days, golden-honey eyes that lightened in the sunlight, a button nose with a tiny piercing, and the smoothest skin that I made sure to accentuate with dry body oil every single day—even in the heat of summer. I never had to work for attention; my presence was always enough to have people talking, drooling, or hating. But for this very reason, no man ever excited me. When you have too much of something, it inevitably gets boring. And I was bored. Bored until the most handsome nerd I'd ever seen walked into my classroom but wouldn't give me even the slightest hint of attention. It didn't matter what I did, nothing ever worked. I never once saw the spark of attraction I'd seen time and time again from men.

My frustration fueled multiple sprees at Maison Francis Kurkdjian and Frédéric Malle. I also tried the sweet innocence of various milkmaid dresses - nothing. I tried a sexy look with short leather skirts, exposed legs, and flowing, unbound hair - nothing. Maybe he preferred an edgier style? I revealed my upper back, where a bluebird tattoo rested comfortably below my neck - still nothing. Yet, as I listened to his deep, even voice confidently explain a subject as dry and tedious as math, I found myself wanting him, wanting to affect him in a way that would shatter his stupid fucking indifference towards me.

Interrupting my thoughts was a huff, and looking up immediately (because there was no way in hell he was laughing, right?) I was shocked to find the remnants of a smile on his ridiculously beautiful face. What the actual fuck? I glanced around, spotting Mary-Ellen and a few others chuckling. Mary-Ellen cracked a math joke?

Seriously?

I scanned the room, noticing for the first time that people were smiling. How could I have missed something so important? Something that could even slightly thaw the ice king? And why the fuck did it have to be Mary-Ellen who made him smile? Fuck Mary-Ellen and her nerdy charm. Why is she even in this school? She could've just gone to a regular university like everyone else.

My pen snapped in two, startling those seated beside me. I hadn't realized how tightly I'd been gripping it. I couldn't shake the image - Mary-Ellen making him laugh while he barely acknowledged me. As soon as class ended, I gathered my belongings and practically sprinted to the bathroom. I always brought a spare pair of panties to change into after his class because like clockwork, I was soaked through. Professor Z was an unhealthy obsession and if I didn't focus soon, I would inevitably fail his class.

In the public bathroom, heavy with pre-class traffic, I peeled off my damp panties. I resisted the urge to touch myself, knowing that once I started, I would not be able to keep my voice down. Blushing in shame, I recalled my roommate's hesitant knocks on my door the night before. She'd heard my pleas and was unsure if I were under attack. I mean, I was being attacked by an onslaught of need that only Professor Z could pull from me. His indifference in stark contrast to my knowledge that men fantasize about me was a strange but powerful aphrodisiac that fueled an intoxicating blend of frustration and desire. It spurred me on, as I'd rocked against my fingers, my voice trembling as I pleaded for his attention while finding a desperate release.

But why does he look through me?

Scooping up my bag, I stormed out of the bathroom, almost colliding with someone. Of course, it had to be Mary-Ellen clad in a drab gray sweater (in May of all months!) and black slacks like the bore she is.

"Oh hey Aerien," she said, smiling and waving somewhat maniacally. We weren't friends. Why would she wave at me with such vigor? Returning something I hoped was at least half as cheerful, I escaped to catch the 5:30pm shuttle home. Tomorrow, I will confront him. I will get into his office hours and find a way to get through to him. Doesn't he want to know what I feel like? The warmth of my body? The feel of my nipples behind my sheer bralette? Doesn't he want to know the taste of my tongue, my sweat, my core? As I ride the bus, I fantasize about what my victory would feel like, the moment he yields and his control crumbles, the moment he comes into my body just the way I've pictured it time and time again. It would be unplanned and desperate, he would need me just as I need him, and he will stop this fucking charade that he doesn't desire me.