The Creative Writing Professor

The Creative Writing Professor

One Million Percent Fiction

The stairs were busy. Someone was coming up the side that had the single handrail. Why did both sides not have a handrail? That couldn't be legal.

Also, what bright piece of crap had decided that the steps should be clear and have gaps between them... She was on the fourth floor and could see all the way to the bottom.

It was such a long way down.

Elizabeth tried to put a foot onto the top step and couldn't do it.

Fuck that.

Fuck that right in the ear.

She had to move.

Someone might notice her standing like a moron unable to put her stupid foot on the stupid step.

The idea of getting anyone's attention as she struggled to do something so damn simple as go downstairs was humiliating.

Guess she was just gonna live here now.

What building was she in?

Why was the hottest professor in this building and not the languages and arts building?

That building had been like home for many years. Until they ripped out it's heart and replaced it.

Sure, it was 'better'. The door no longer had to be depressed before one could enter. It opened automatically.

But it was now lacking all her favourite spots.

The two tutorial rooms that had windows that looked into each other - over the empty space in the middle of the square building. An open space that made her think the building was castle-like.

The tutorials where she'd felt smart and brave and like she wasn't a worthless pile of shit. People had listened and paid attention.

Where she'd repeated information given to her by her high school English teacher regarding Heathcliff and how his 'come in' is quickly shown to be a polite lie by the way the horse was pushing against the gate, keeping it closed.

The high school English teacher that scared students to the point where they waited outside the classroom, and she would have to come get them.

Annoy the teacher and she'd threaten to shove a biro up your left nostril.

Elizabeth had loved that teacher.

The tutorial room was where she'd told the gorgeous, young professor that he made the room look good. Possibly sound good. Either way - who does that?

Idiot.

Memories were not going to solve her current problem.

Maybe there was an elevator. Equally terrifying contraptions but those stairs were a huge pass.

Nope on a rope.

She backed up and away from the stairs and directly into something that was most definitely not a wall.

"Are you okay?"

It was him.

Professor Stephen Donaldson from New York - a city she would never visit but would always love.

He had his arm around her middle, his hand resting just under her breasts.

"I'm not great with heights or stairs," she whispered in reply, turning her face towards him before she spoke.

He squeezed, just a little, making her sure he'd heard.

"I've got you."

Somehow they were moving and there was indeed an elevator. Tiny silver box. Looked slightly less terrifying than the stairs but his presence was very distracting. Enough that it didn't bother her.

Nobody had ever held her like he was.

The next moment, they were outside. She had no memory of the elevator ride.

He was standing in front of her now.

She had no idea where they were.

His hands were on her butt.

When did that happen?

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers.

Oh. Did she brush her teeth that morning?

Then his tongue was inside her mouth.

She didn't know what to do. It was all new.

There was a thought that this was wrong.

Their tongues sort of pushed up against each other. Like a shoving contest. Sawing type motion... in and out...

Brain said file missing - here's the closest we can find.

It was really weird. Weird and strange. Like surely this was not how this was supposed to happen... This could not be happening...

Damn.

This was a dream.

I read a series of books once about a vampire who was really tough, walked in the day, pretended to be a high school student, and had pots of money. There were something like six books, at that point. The last ended with the main character going back in time to kill the original vampire which pretty much erased the entire story. I felt cheated. I've since learned more books were written and I'm less crushed. Thanks Christopher Pike - I appreciate that you didn't leave it like that.

The point - this first part of my story was of course a dream.

I do hate heights.

I do hate the changes they made to my building that isn't mine.

The kiss with the professor I hadn't seen in over two years and was yes, completely in love with, never happened. Never could or would happen. No chance in hell.

Never. Never. Never.

I'm forty-eight and completely inexperienced.

Fat - like 150 kilos. One kilo is two point four pounds. Small hippo sized.

Medium height - 160cms. Something like five foot.

I have psoriasis and it's ugly. I also have a skin condition down there that means parts are missing. My hormones woke up, but my body is unable to achieve the high point of a short story.

Climax.

Can't do it.

Close but never arrive.

Maybe I never will.

Anyway.

I overshare.

Hi.

The building that I loved that no longer exists outside of my steadily failing memories. The one that was missing in my dream. No clue what building was included but I'm 100% sure the stairs from Hades imagination do not exist outside of hell.

In that strange period known as the 1990s/2000s (ten years - ten years ago), when I was taking the drama courses - all of the drama courses - and I'd often have a key to the entire building and then I'd spent so many nights roaming around, visiting the bathroom on the top floor... staring at the post-graduate room in awe... running around the halls. Well to be honest, we only ever spent time on the second and fourth floors. Second floor was home to the auditorium. Fourth floor was home of the drama lab. The first and third floors were for other schools - languages and history and such.

I was the organiser/control freak who would always offer to get the keys so that my groups could attend rehearsals inside the building. We were not breaking and entering. No crimes happened.

Unless you count the things dropped out of the green room that just happened to be above the front door. Sorry to any who got wet.

*cough*

When I was almost finished with my degree, the college started adding creative writing courses. I was lucky enough to be amongst the first students in many of the courses that have now been available for over ten years.

I fell completely in love with the new American who taught creative writing. He still teaches.

Which is great because most other teachers I loved have either retired or sadly died.

Rest in Peace Professor Corballis - gone but never forgotten.

Stephen is still one hundred percent single, according to Facebook.

I'd seen him a few times away from campus and managed to embarrass myself every single time.

Then, just to be super subtle, I'd taken every single class he taught, that I was able to, and he'd called me trite. My writing trite. Not me the person.

It had broken my heart. Nobody can hurt you quite as effectively as someone you completely trust and adore. No matter what, he's a damn fine teacher who goes above and beyond to provide supportive and constructive feedback.

He was also right. He's intelligent as well as talented.

I was so infatuated that I'd given him a brand-new copy, hardcover, of the Stephen King book - On Writing. I'd spent fifty dollars on this book. I hadn't even read it yet.

He mentioned that he wanted it... so yep. Gave it to him.

I'd given him a one-hundred-year-old book about New Zealand.

He was writing something, and the book would be useful.

I'd been completely enamoured.

Years later, I already had a degree in English and Psychology and wanted to complete the requirements for one in Creative Writing, so I enrolled in a class that hadn't been an option when I finally graduated. He didn't remember me, and I felt crushed. But then it had been over ten years. Thirteen years in fact.

Gosh, time is crazy.

At least he didn't remember that I was completely in love with him. I can say was. I'm allowed to lie. Thanks. He also didn't remember all the stupid shit that I'd said in front of him, to him, near him.

I went to his office. New office on the fourth floor. Near where the history department used to exist. He still has the books I gave him, and they have tabs in them.

Like he may have forgotten me - but he still has the books, and he's clearly used them.

This made me happy.

Made me realise that I have zero regrets about giving them to him.

Even though he forgot where they came from.

So why was I dreaming about randomly forking smooching him?

Like why?

And why do I keep thinking about it... and wondering what it would actually feel like...

I need a cold shower.

And to stop reading so much smut.

Damn hormones.

I cannot sleep with a teacher.

Especially since there is no way in hell that he would ever, ever, ever want someone like me.

Maybe I also need a lobotomy.

I have as much chance of having coitus with Sheldon Cooper or Rhysand or Azriel or Mor... I'm bisexual so all gender options are appealing when it's the 'right' person.

Besides, I don't actually WANT to fuck a teacher. He's like in his late fifties, possibly sixties. I want to care about that. But I do not.

I'm also attracted to Keri Russel and Deadpool. And have written fan fiction in which I am magically transmitted... teleported into Azriel's bed... and he's all wtf are you doing in my bed, woman.

Then he and I and Mor have a threesome.

Anyway.

The only difference is that I can actually talk in front of Stephen. Not well. And I tend to sound like a moron with her talk button turned to on and her brain button turned solidly to OFF.

Oh yes, he's a real person. There's also that.

The physical reality however is that there's a chance that I can't have sex. Not successfully anyway. Even if someone wanted me. Fat chance.

The truth of the matter is that I'm currently unable to achieve orgasm so I'm pretty sure I'm faulty. I know I'm ugly. I am aware that I am unlovable. I love him because he's safe - he might as well be a famous person. He's safe to love because the chance of something happening is beneath zero.

It's like being in love with a gay man who is also a drag queen and then gets so famous that he also forgot me.

I'm so easy to forget that my own mother would often confess that she had, once again, forgotten me.

Then she died.

I'm a ray of fucking sunshine.

No wonder I'm constantly alone.

I've published this online.

Like under a pen name. Lily Anne Wilkerson.

It's nothing like my real name... Elizabeth Anne Cooper.

Okay middle name is the same.

Part of me is worried he will find this. Read it and want to unalive me.

Like when a different professor noticed I'd edited the Wikipedia entry about him and given him the title of "Lord of North Umbershiresville." He'd found it funny BUT people were asking about the title... and he asked me to remove it.

The wiki page no longer exists. The man went and turned seventy and retired. That made me sad. Unreasonably sad.

Part of me sincerely hopes that he hooked up with the drama teacher.

She also retired and was a similar age.

But this is super long.

Oh, I hope he doesn't see this.

But if he does - hi.

This means nothing.

It's not about you anyway.

It's about the other one and I've just used your name...

Actually, it's about a woman who taught courses before you even started.

Like the audacity to think this is about you.

No.

It is not.

SIX MONTHS LATER

I stood grinning like an idiot. Nothing new. I'd climbed up the damn stairs and then come all the way back down without hesitation. Last time I was here, it took three times as long just to get down.

This time I'd practically bounced downstairs.

Last time, I'd put both feet on every single step on the way down.

I felt proud, like I'd achieved something.

To celebrate, I did a little twirl on the bottom step and felt myself falling face forwards heading towards the floor.

Fuck.

I couldn't afford to break my glasses - again.

But instead of hitting the floor, I hit him.

Or he managed somehow to catch me.

Was I asleep?

He smiled, "Hey, Elizabeth. You should be more careful on the stairs."

I wish I could say that I was cool, and calm and totally chill. But his arms were around me and we were face to face. My hands were on his shoulders. My left foot was still on the bottom step while my right was on the ground. My weight was on the right foot.

I'd worn the white dress that dipped lower than anything I'd usually wear, and I'd also gone with the brand-new bra that made my boobs look fantastic.

My boobs which were now pressed up against his chest.

His very warm, very manly chest.

"Are you okay?" Stephen asked.

I nodded, making a noise that was somewhere between a whimper and a moan. Someone just kill me now.

My brain was busy comparing reality to the dream that had popped up several times over the last six months in different variations. Sometimes, we went further than kissing. But it was always with a frustrating lack of detail.

Brain lacked the essential information and data to provide X-Rated details that were highly desired.

"Are you taking classes?" Stephen asked.

"Not right now," I answered, finally words! "I just wanted to prove to myself that I could go up and down the stairs without needing to set up base camp halfway." I went bright red. Who actually says shit like that?

"These stairs?" Stephen said. He looked highly sceptical.

"Yeah. This very staircase. Within this very building in which every room I loved most might be gone but the stairs remain, and the memories are sort of there. Age, am I right?" I smiled but internally groaned again. Why, why did my parents teach me to talk? Like no.

These stairs which I was fairly certain were the stairs he would chose to climb to get to his office. There were four staircases. Also, an elevator. But this was the most direct path from front door to his office. In the past, he'd used these stairs.

Uh oh, he's looked at me as if he can see that I'm overthinking things, again.

Stephen laughed.

His face looks even more delicious when he laughs. Thank goodness I manage to keep that thought to myself.

I take my hands off his shoulders, and he only lets go of me once it's clear that I'm steady on my feet. Both feet flat on the bottom step.

"I remember you."

I freeze. He almost whispered it. He's still standing incredibly close.

"Two thousand and seven you were in the first class I taught here. It's hard to forget a woman who informs an entire class that I make a room sound good."

"Oh." Kill me now.

"It's also hard to forget someone who gives such wonderful gifts such as brand new, expensive books or really old, potentially expensive books and of course, that popular soft drink that was disgusting but appreciated."

I can't talk now. I can barely think coherently. I just stand blinking. I'm now standing on the bottom step and he's on the ground so when he leans forward, his face is close to my breasts, and he breathes in. Oh my. Nobody's ever been that close to those before. I make a stupid noise.

"It's always good to see you, I never know what's going to come out your beautiful mouth, but I always enjoy it."

I don't do anything. He sidesteps and heads up stairs.

I stand there. Take a few deep breaths. Then put my hands on top of my head.

"Fuck."

I gently slap my head, "Ow. Officially not a dream. Damn."

I hear him laugh and look up. He's reached the next floor and is looking down.

"Are you coming? Office hasn't changed since last time."

He keeps going.

I have a choice. I can follow - like I want to.

Or I could leave.

I'm tired of leaving.

I turn on the spot, carefully, and head back upstairs. By the time I reach is office door, it's open and he's waiting for me. I need a moment to breathe so I look around. I would so dearly love to go to the window and check out the view. But I don't. That would be too forward.

Right?

The office is exactly as I remember it. Desk and chair in the far-left corner, by the large windows. Large 'L' shaped couch takes up the other corner. It's dark grey and gorgeous. The wall closest to the door has a very large, long bookshelf that is full. To my left, is the round table with three chairs and the two other bookcases up against the walls. They are also full of books. It's a really lovely, large room.

I take a deep breath and enter. He moves towards me, closes the door behind me and locks it.

Oh, my actual god.

Fuck.

What the actual fuck is happening and oh please please let me not be a disappointment, not again. Not now. Not for him.

Stephen

(aka the part where the narrator makes her character say all the things she wants to hear but 100% believes are lies because these things never happen outside of fiction.)

I've taught countless hundreds of students. Most just a sea of faces that are barely memorable. Some more talented than others. Some who really have no place within a writing class - not that I'd ever come right out and say that.

But this woman has been seared into my memory since the first class she ever took of mine back in two thousand and seven. She's almost taken every single course that I teach and the only ones she hasn't are the ones she'd completed before I was hired. I'd checked.

She's the type of woman who overshares without intending to. I feel I know more about her than she realises, and I know she thinks that I forgot about her. She randomly turned up in a class in twenty-twenty-two and I almost had forgotten. She'd used a different name from previous which had caught me off guard. From Elizabeth to just Beth. Not a huge difference but enough to have me unaware that the two were the same.

But after seeing her, standing awkwardly in front of the window that she'd opened and then couldn't get to close, apologising profusely - memories of her came flooding back. I remember, she had a thing for windows.

Today she is wearing a thigh length white dress that is way too big for her. The V-neck dips well below her breasts and sits just under her bra. The temptation to place my head between those fantastic boobs had just been too much. It had been risky; she could have been offended or triggered. I didn't know what she'd been through - but I knew it was something massive.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yes." She nods and I move to the middle of the room, noticing that she follows me, so we are once again standing close enough to touch.

Her face is red, and her breathing is uneven. Her breasts move with every breath.

I reach out and take hold of a boob with each hand and she makes a delightful little sound as her eyes grow wide and she moves just a little so that her boobs are pushed into my hands.

"Do you want me to stop?" I ask.

"No."

It's a very emphatic no.

"Would you like a safe word?" I ask, curious to what she will say.

"Pineapple."

I laugh, "What?"

She grins, "Can't be no. I said that already and I meant no - please, don't stop. Also, can't be stop because don't stop includes the word stop. Hence, pineapple."

"Okay, pineapple. Why pineapple?"

"It's what came to mind - just don't ask me what I like on pizza because I will go with plain cheese." She gives me another cheeky smile.

I move closer to her and run my hand up the inside of her leg from behind. I reach her panties and am delighted to find that they are soaking wet.