Student Body

It's difficult being a young college instructor, where many of your students are only four or five years younger than you. It's particularly difficult being a young femme lesbian college instructor in the English department at a liberal arts college in a relatively liberal, queer-oriented town.

It becomes especially complicated when you teach a class on critical theory that mainly centers around poststructualism, postmodernism and queer theory. Many of your students are lesbians, hot lesbians, roughly around your age range. Inevitably, there is a certain level of mutual fantasizing that occurs in such predicaments.

The critical theory class I teach actually doesn't have that many out lesbians; in fact, there are only a handful of lesbians, and none of them have openly acknowledged their sexuality, even though I cited queer theory as my research interest.

There are two very shy, giggling, young girls with pink triangle patches on their bags, though, who sit in the back of the room. Neither are exactly my type, but something about them…

Well, at least the one taller, butchier one – though admittedly she's more the emo/punk type than butchie – she blushes in my presence and actually followed me around campus one day, but for some reason refused to speak to me.

Something about this girl, Meg, something about her moreso than Anna (her buddy) has lent an erotic element to my classroom presentation. Even though she's not my type, even though I'm her instructor… I desperately want to show her a thing or two.

I began wearing only skirts to class. Shorter black skirts, and knee length grey wool skirts with black fishnets or with black nylons with seams up the back. I have always worn heels, but I have been sticking to my black patent leather BCBG Max Azria pumps that echo when I walk.

And I do pace, walking between my students and around them; I stop at Meg's desk when I am explaining Judith Butler's conception of the "Lesbian Phallus and the Morphological Imaginary."

"Try to deconstruct it as," I quote one of my own undergraduate professors," "an organic dildo." I click away, around the room, taking questions, looking intently at the students, pushing up my black cat-eye glasses and flipping my long brown hair. Theory is intense, and they're hungry to learn.

Meg is not hungry to learn, though. Of all the students, she and Anna participate least. I intimidate them, I know, and they never speak directly to me, but I never was good with insolence.

I demand fastidious attention of my students, and treat them with the same attentiveness, should they become active members of the class. In an upper-level English theory class, I assume my students

want

to be here.

I take a chance during the break of a Tuesday morning class, and sit down in front of Meg and Anna.

"Ladies?" I ask, slipping into the desk, only a foot from Meg.

"Do you mean us?" Meg asks.

"Yes," I tell them. "I really feel like you have some valuable opinions and insights to contribute to the class. I'd like to hear you speak up, because I think we're coming from the same place," I look Meg straight in the eye. She doesn't know what to say, and just sort of nods meekly and complaisantly.

I get up, and click away, pushing up my glasses, pulling on my skirt, and pretending to be concerned with the attendance sheet. But, Meg and Anna remain silent. They giggle to each other whenever something about lesbians is mentioned, and though their giggling disrupts me, I don't say anything.

I continue to move about the room, talk about Foucault's penchant for leather bars, about subversive sexuality, Lacan, Derrida…

The leaves fall and I can't stand the fact that Meg and Laura are silent during class, but completely talkative to each other before class, during breaks and when class lets out. They have something to say, and they look at me as though they need something, want something from me, but I don't know what it is.

After a particularly controversial Thursday morning class on Andrea Dworkin's

Pornography

, snowflakes swirl outside of my window, and I sit down in my office to enter some grades online. My email is open, and I notice an email from Anna.

Anna and Meg want me to come hang out with them, shoot some pool, later tonight. The girls who never talk to me, never participate. The girls who want something from me.

I coolly send them back a scolding letter, thanking them for thinking of me, but noting that even though I am young, I am still their instructor and cannot risk my academic integrity by associating with my students. I could easily be accused of giving them special treatment if I were to befriend them.

Foucaultian disciplinarianism excites me, though, and the next time we meet in class, Anna and particularly Meg look embarrassed and uncomfortable. I give them a rare reassuring smile (just because my class is cross-listed with Women's Studies, does not mean I am some sort of nurturing sap).

After class, Anna and Meg always go to the bathroom, (likely to talk and gossip more about whatever it is that they want from me). The hall that our class is held in is shaped like a square, but a stairwell is in the middle, meaning that there are two ways to get to the bathroom, which is on the other side of the stairwell.

After class, I make sure none of the students have any questions, and bolt in the opposite direction of Anna and Meg, reaching the bathroom just as they turn the other corner. I hurry inside, and lock myself in the stall, fixing my nylons.

"God, do you think she hates us?" I hear Anna ask as the pair enter the bathroom.

"Probably," says a dejected sounding Meg. "I told you we shouldn't have asked her. She's like, not even on the same level as us, even if she is the same age."

"Yeah well, it's probably just because she's new here and has to follow all the rules. She's not the same age as us!"

"She is; her facebook profile says she's twenty-five."

"That's…"

I step out of the stall, and raise my eyebrows at the two of them. Anna blushes a beet red, and Meg looks shocked beyond words.

"I thought," I tell them pointedly, "You guys were latching onto me because you were having a coming out experience… which I can relate to… but it seems like you want something else?"

Meg stutters. She motions to Anna to leave.

"Stay," I tell Meg. "Stay and I'll show you something."

Anna's eyes look like they're going to burst out of her head. She backs out of the bathroom door. I look back at Meg. I look her up and down. She is wearing a track jacket, baggy jeans, and Etnies skate shoes. She is about the same height as me, but I am wearing 3" heels. Her short, emo haircut is stereotypically dykey.

I push her into the last stall. She's looking at me with her huge brown eyes, clearly excited but unable to move on her own. I kiss her hard and full on. She kisses me back, tentatively, but then we start to make out passionately, desperately, messily.

I unzip her track jacket, and begin to unbutton her boyish button-down. She is more boyish than I originally thought, with her button down and white t-shirt underneath, and this turns me on. I grab her crotch through her jeans, wishing she was packing, but knowing she's still a baby dyke.

She doesn't know what to do (I feel correct about my coming-out hypothesis), so I unbutton her jeans while she kisses me and fumbles to pull off my shirt and unhook my lacy push up bra. I hear her pants fall to the ground, and smile as we desperately make out with each other.

I reach inside her disappointingly girlish panties. One finger? Hmm, probably two. Her pussy is so wet and juicy, and all I want to do is lick it, but I finger her first, and she moans softly as I fuck her. I reach up, underneath her t-shirt and sports bra, fingering her pierced nipples with my hand, fucking her hard and slow with the other.

She watches with wide eyes as I take my fingers out of her amazing pussy and put them in my mouth. Someone walks into the bathroom. I stand up quickly, and since Meg has her jeans around her ankles, I hop onto the toilet, scooching down so as not to be seen over the top of the stall.

We wait it out, looking at each other, chests heaving. I touch my breasts and look at her hungrily. She stares at my fingers, my breasts, my nipples. The bathroom door swings shut again, and the bell for the next class rings.

I hop down, and get on my knees. I bury my face in Meg's trimmed pussy, sucking her clit, licking her lips, using my tongue to the best of my ability. I slip a finger inside of her, and fuck her while I lick her clit. She rubs her pussy into my face and cups her breasts, squeezing them and writhing in pre-cum ecstasy.

I love pussy so much. I can't imagine not being a lesbian. I flip my hair over my shoulder and lap at Meg's amazingly swollen slit. She grabs my head and forces me into her, shuddering with orgasm.

After a moment, I look up at her. She looks satisfied and euphoric, but also apologetic.

"I'm sorry… I should have asked you if you wanted me to…"

I gently take my fingers out of her pussy. I put my pointer finger, lacquered in red of course, in my mouth and tell her, "Next time, I promise."