Carol
I don't know what it is about him that turns me on so much. He's not really great looking ... frankly, he's not even good looking. He wears a corny goatee but if he shaved it off, he'd have a skinny, geeky face, I think. And he's certainly not a young ripped athletic kinda guy. He's older than I am, and I'm nearly thirty. And he's bookish and looks it - body lank and eyes squinty from maybe too much reading in the library's dim light. Not at all like my husband, who's a big bear of a man and much more "my type."
I guess it's because he's smart that he's so attractive. My husband's smart, too, I guess, but in an engineering sort of way. John can figure out how anything works, can design clever machines and knows about computers and so on. But Carl is smart in a different way ... he's smart about people, and feelings, and he's subtle and somehow maybe dangerous. When Carl talks with me, it's not about how things work and why the car is making a funny noise, like with John. Carl never seems to tell me anything. He guides me through things, through stories, through poems, through plays. He makes me figure out what it is that's in them, he whispers just a word or two that reveal some inner truth about the work, about the poet, about himself, about me. And over and over, that thrills me.
Last night was alarming and exciting. Carl took me to a campus production of a play we have been reading in his class. It seemed so natural; I always was asking the most questions in class, and I often stayed after class to talk with him - not because I didn't know the material, but because I did know the material and wanted to share my knowledge and my intellectual pleasure with someone who I felt was my equal. Carl's attention was so supportive, and his manner so flattering - leaving it to me, guiding me to make the insightful comment, the witty observation. And after talking with Carl for a few minutes, I would often realize that he had opened up another whole layer of insight for me.
Soon enough, we would just drift away from class to the coffee lounge in the student center in a very matter of fact way after class each night. It wasn't a date, or even spoken agreement, it just seemed natural to walk together while we talked and somehow we always ended up at the coffee lounge. We somehow were just always there together after class twice a week, talking about everything ... not just the play or poem or story we were discussing in class, but everything - life, love, art, war, death - everything. Every class night, I would have to tear myself away from it and from him, from Carl, my professor, and get back home to my husband and our little daughter and my "real" life. Although increasingly, my real life seemed to be when I was at the University in class or talking with Carl afterwards.
So when Carl mentioned that there was to be a live production by the drama department of one of the plays from our syllabus, it seemed only natural that we should go to one of the performances that fell on a night when we didn't have class. Of course we should go. Of course we should go together. It certainly never occurred to me that I should maybe go to this play with John. I really couldn't picture John sitting through an amateur play on campus.
It only occurred to me when I spoke about it to John the next day that John would be using the car that night to go to a meeting of his professional society. We had originally planned my class schedule and his obligations so that we could share our only car. I called my mom about baby sitting, and she said that she would be happy to do it, and I asked Carl after class the next night if he would be willing to pick me up and drive me to the play. I was flattered when he said "I'd be delighted!" as if he meant it.
I was unaccountably nervous while I was waiting for Carl to pick me up the night of the play. John was all dressed for his meeting, and we were waiting for my mom to get there to take care of our little girl when the doorbell rang. John answered, and there was Carl, dressed up nice and carrying a little posey of flowers as if he was picking me up for the prom. Suddenly, I was self-conscious, because I too had dressed up a little for that night, maybe a little too much for just a casual evening amateur play. It must have looked suspicious to John, the two of us all nervous and chatty like high-school kids, dressed up as if we were headed off to the big dance.
After I kissed our daughter one last time, John, in his "manly" way, shook hands with Carl, and gave me a little peck on the cheek. As we went down the front steps to Carl's old Plymouth, John called out "have fun ... see you in the morning!" And a little thrill ran up my spine; I knew he meant that whoever got home first would probably be asleep when the other one got in, not that I was going to spend the whole night with this man, my college professor, but for a second it sounded as if he was sending me off to an over-night assignation. I had no such thoughts. Did I?
The play was excellent, challenging material well produced and well acted. Afterwards, the coffee lounge was closed, so we hopped in Carl's car and drove downtown to a little cafe he knew of. It was both intimate and noisy, crowded and busy even this late in this otherwise hick little town we lived in. It was thrilling to be here among other people like myself, active people with active social lives, buzzing with creative ideas and energy (and caffeine!) So unlike my usual evenings of quietly grading papers on the dining room table while John stared at his computer or watched tevee. I felt so alive.
We were drinking wine instead of coffee. Carl transfixed me with his insights into the play, and our discussion plumbed depths we hadn't even glimpsed in our classroom discussions with the other students. From time to time, Carl would rest his hand on my bare forearm, or lightly grasp my fingers to emphasize a point. I started to tingle. Carl would set up a question and allow me to make the revealing connection. He would mention another character or a tie to another work or social trend, leaving it to me to flesh out his glimmer of an idea, and I realized he was doing it on purpose, to let me in, to let me grow closer to his level of understanding. To let me grow closer to him.
It was so sexy, I could have died.
Finally, I realized that it was almost two in the morning, and in a panic, I told Carl that he really had to get me home right away. I never dreamed we'd be out so late, but time had seemed suspended while we were sitting there in that stimulating soup of ideas and feelings. We plunged out into the cold, and Carl wrapped his arm around me to keep me warm and to steady me as I tried to navigate through the snowy morning darkness to his old car. Still like a gentleman on a date, he opened and held the door for me, then walked around and slid in behind the steering wheel to start the car. I slid over next to him on the old-fashioned bench seat, commenting on how cold and stiff the vinyl was.
After we had been underway for a few minutes, Carl turned the heater up on high, and welcome warmth flooded the passenger compartment. I began to relax, but remained snuggled next to Carl as he concentrated on driving on the slippery roads. After an evening of non-stop talk, the trip to my house was silent. Each of us was thinking hard about what might come next.
Carl pulled up to the curb along side our old house on the corner. He located his car in the darkness under a tree, shaded by the bare branches from the glare of the corner streetlight. He put his arm around me again, and pulled me tight toward him. Carl kept the car running, the heater blasting blessed warmth onto our laps and knees.
"I had a wonderful time, tonight, Carol. As always, you've been delightful!"
I turned my head to smile at him, and he timed it perfectly to lean forward and kiss me lightly. I startled at first, but then just melted into his kiss.
I don't know if I opened my mouth first or if it was Carl, but soon our tongues were sliding along one another. This wasn't just a polite good-night kiss, and I felt it all the way down to my toes. As we prolonged our kiss, I realized Carl's hand was lying lighly on my breast, over my coat, and he was massaging me gently. I broke off the kiss, and Carl looked at me in concern, but I just looked down long enough to unzip my coat and slip my dress straps off my shoulders.
Carl smiled, and pulled me back into a new, deep kiss. I had forgotten how sensual, how sexual, a deep kiss can be ... John and I seldom bothered with them any more. Again, I felt Carl's hand on my breast, first pushing my dress down, then lifting my brassierre out and up, allowing my breasts to slip out. He gently embraced each breast, then more assertively squeezed first one then the other, and finally lightly pinching my nipples between his thumb and finger and rolling them back and forth in rhythm with the motions of his tongue in my mouth.
Almost as if it had a mind of its own, my hand slid down to Carl's lap, and there I felt the mound of his hardness under his trousers. I slid my hand up and down along its length over the fabric a few times before I realized where we were and what we were doing.
"Oh Carl!" I said as I sat up quickly. "I've had a great time, but I've got to get in the house!" I quickly reassembled my clothing and fastened my coat. "Thank you so much!" I slid across the seat, and opened the door. The dome light seemed like a spot light, so I quickly pulled the door in - not completely closed, but far enough that the light went out again. I leaned over and gave my professor a chaste little peck on the cheek. "I'll see you in class on Tuesday, okay?"
When I fully opened the door again, Carl grinned at me in the harsh light and said, "Of course! And don't forget to read the Miller!" both of us acting as if nothing unusual had just happened.
"G'night!" I said, pushing the door to shut. "G'night," Carl answered as it slammed. I walked to the porch steps, and turned to see him driving slowly away, the long, old Plymouth emerging into the cold blue-green light of the streetlight while the tires made that crunching sound that old snow makes when it is very, very cold.
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Carl
It's the same thing every year. In the summer, the campus is flooded with teachers trying to fulfill their re-certification training requirements, and we try to balance the undergraduates in each class with returning public school teachers who are here for a much different reason. None of them cares much for English Literature. The undergrads, even the English majors, are just filling in boxes in the degree-requirements checklist. The classroom teachers are just picking up credit hours to keep their teaching certificates.
So most classes are full of unmotivated teeneagers and over-eager middle-aged women. Oh, there's the occassional male secondary English teacher, just as there is the occassional hen's tooth. But most English Lit classes are long slogs through the syllabus, punctuated with stacks of uninspired term papers to grade and piles of hourly exams with grammar and spelling so bad, one wonders how these people ever graduated high school ... and the undergraduates are worse!
But there are rewards for these trials. Scattered among these students are a few who rise above the many for one reason or another.
There are, of course, the stunningly beautiful bimbos, girls who squeaked by high school with grades just good enough to gain admission to the local campus of their state university, and settled on teaching as a major because they thought they already knew what teaching was, having just witnessed it performed for twelve years. And anyway, they didn't really expect to have to actually use a teaching degree ... these were the days when a good-looking girl went to college to find a good-looking boy with good prospects to save her from all that. So these girls were on the prowl for a husband: very good to look at, but generally wise to keep a distance from.
Then there are those girls who were shy wallflowers in high school, but who were suddenly finding themselves while at college. These are a delight to watch. Out from under the control of their mothers and fathers, away from the oppressive peer pressures of public school, these young women often have excellent minds and are sometimes truly interested in the art of our language, but more importantly, they are soaking in for the first time what it means to be a healthy young woman in the era of easy birth control and casual relationships, and they suddenly find themselves surrounded by many, many interesting and interested men. It is amazing to think that these ripe women were only a few months earlier so suppressed and unattractive ... they practically radiate sexuality and readiness, and they often seem to blossom into very attractive young women. These young ladies often made excellent companions, and have the virtue of being interested in trying out everything without getting bogged down before trying out everything with somebody else. Perfect.
