Her Favorite Professor Always

It had been more than 10 years since I'd stood in front of this door.

Prof. Mark Colbert

I wondered if he'd recognize me. I was dressed differently. My hair was dark brown instead of jet black and a bit shorter than it had been when I was 18.

I suddenly started second guessing my decision. Why would he remember me? So many years had passed. And here I was--almost a stranger now--showing up at his office hours out of the blue. My throat felt dry and I swallowed. I wasn't sure why I was so nervous. I'd wanted to stop by so many times and hadn't. I wondered if it was too late now. Part of me wished I hadn't decided to do this, but the other part of me knew I would kick myself if I didn't. All I had to do was say hello.

I took a deep breath, straightened my shirt, and poked my head around his open door. "Excuse me, Professor Colbert." I stepped into the doorway and he looked up from his computer. He looked almost the same as I remembered. His glasses were different--now with a black square rim, but he still took them off and set them on the desk when he looked up from his computer. His hair was made to look a bit lighter with the presence of a touch more grey. Otherwise, he looked much the same, I thought.

He looked at me blankly, though not unfriendly, just confused. He didn't remember me, I knew it. My cheeks felt hot but I kept my composure. "Hi, um, you probably don't remember me... it's been a while--ten years but--"

"I do remember you," he smiled, shaking his confusion as he placed me, "Alice."

"Yeah," I nodded, relief flooding me, "that's me." I think I'd only been nervous of the possibility I'd have to introduce myself basically as a stranger because now that I was in his office, it felt like every other time I'd been there.

"To what do I owe this very unexpected pleasure?" he asked. "Please come in."

"I always wanted to stop by but I haven't lived in the area for a while. I figured since I was on campus today, I had to see if you were around." I added, "Believe it or not, I'm back as a student."

"That is a surprise. You left for Parson's, didn't you?"

I nodded. This was the part I'd not been looking forward to. He was looking at me curiously; I was always looking at me as a failure. "I left after two years," I admitted. "I realized I really didn't like photography once that was all I was allowed to do all day every day. I ended up going to a coding boot camp and I've worked as a freelance developer ever since."

"That's certainly a huge change. Sounds like there's a story there."

"Probably," I chuckled.

"And you're here now...?"

"I have some time off before my next project and I thought it was time to finally check this off my list of unfinished business. Which is a couple more classes."

"Good for you!"

I smiled. It was nice to have my shit together and sounded rather successful, all things considered, but none of that was what I came to talk about. "It probably sounds like I stopped writing, but I didn't. It's part of why I wanted to do freelance work, so I could spend time writing."

"I'm happy to hear that. You were always an extremely talented writer."

"Thank you. Thanks to you," I added. "That's really why I'm here. To say thank you for everything. Thank you for teaching me that words on a page is art too. Thank you for teaching me how to break rules. Thank you for showing me that there is more to writing than just novels and non-fiction." I stopped to take a breath. I could probably keep going but I didn't want to overdo it. "You changed my writing forever."

"

You

changed your writing," he said gently. "I just gave you a few tips along the way."

"If you say so..." I said modestly. "Well, however it happened, I actually just got an agent."

"Oh, Alice, that's incredible," he said, giving me a genuine and proud looking smile that warmed me from the inside out. "What have you been writing?"

"Children's Fiction. And Erotica. Very separately."

He raised his brows and chuckled, "Those are quite the opposites."

I nodded. "My agent is interested in my children's books. The erotica is just online."

"If you're comfortable with it, I'd love to read some of your more recent writing," he said, casually adding, "of any genre."

"Sure," I gave him an easy smile that did not at all match how I felt inside. The nerves were back tenfold. There was nothing I wanted more than to show him what I'd done. Up until recently, I'd have been comfortable with this request. Even though that meant it was the erotica since that was the only the work I could easily share. But now, after the last story I posted... Fuck. "I can write down where to find it, if you'd like."

He pushed a pen and sticky note to me. I was painfully aware of each letter I wrote while I wrote it. Carefully. Legibly. Committing myself to what I was doing. Every time I revealed my online adult identity to someone I knew, I felt a surge of adrenaline. This was ten times more than that.

"Thank you, Alice," he said, when I gave him the paper and pen back.

His eyes shifted slightly over my shoulder. Hearing movement behind me, I glanced back. A student stood in the doorway. One who actually appeared to be a current student of his.

"Thanks for your time today, Professor. I'll let you go." I stood up.

"Good to see you, Alice," he waved. "Feel free to stop by anytime."

"My class is online so I won't be on campus much, but I will swing by if I am. Bye," I waved as I left his office.

I realized my heart was beating quickly as I walked back to my car. I felt good for finally having done that. I'd had an opportunity to stop by before. Twice. And I didn't. I didn't want to tell him how much he affected me when I had nothing to show for it. When I was just a drop out who ended up succeeding at things that I had no interest in and failing at each goal I had for my passions. Now, at least, I had an agent. I felt like I had actually accomplished something I cared about.

I wondered if he would actually read the work I had posted online. Maybe he wouldn't. Hopefully he wouldn't. He was a busy man. Surely he had more important things to do than read smut an ex-student wrote. Like grading. Right?

I swallowed, knowing there was just as good a possibility he would at least take a look out of curiosity if nothing else. And if he did look at my stories, one title might stand out to him more than the others.

Her Favorite Professor

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I hadn't written it about him. Not really. The setup was inspired by real circumstances, as was much of my writing, but not necessarily reflecting reality. Of course, I had never gone to his office with the intent to seduce him when I had been 18. The thought had never even crossed my mind. I had said thank you and goodbye, much as I had this time.

If he read it, would he think that had been my fantasy back then? Or would he think it was my fantasy now? Worse yet, what if he thought that was why I'd given him the information he needed to read it? It wasn't. It wasn't at all. What if he thought I was stalking him? That's why I'd come back to school. I hadn't even considered that possibility. But I wasn't sure how to stop him from reading it now without making it even more obvious there was something I was trying to hide.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I was a writer. A writer of adult fiction.

Fiction

. He knew that.

I wondered if he would tell me if he read it. Any of them. Of course, I had other stories too. Maybe he would read those instead. Maybe he would simply never speak to me again.

I was starting to wonder if I'd made a foolish mistake.

The following week, I saw an email from mark.colbert in my school email inbox. My heart had doubled its speed by the time I had the message open.

Alice,

Very nice to see you last week. I'd be interested in hearing more about your recent literary ventures. Perhaps we could catch up over coffee?

Mark

It was vague. I didn't know what it meant. What it implied. He wanted to hear more about my recent literary ventures. Was that just a school email appropriate way of saying,

I read your erotica, and we need to talk

? Or was I reading too much into it?

Hi there,

I'd love to catch up. I'm free anytime next week.

Thanks - Alice

I reread the next email I received several times over to make sure I was reading it correctly.

The Grind. Next Thursday, 2 PM?

Thursday at 2 PM. It was too familiar. But I had to go back to my own story to read the last lines again before I was convinced I wasn't mistaken.

"Megan," the sound of her name stopped her from turning the handle as her hand rested on the cool knob, "next Thursday, 2 PM."

She couldn't hide her smile as she said, "Sure, Professor, see you then."

It had to be a coincidence. It had to be. Thursday at 2 PM.

Yet, there was only one reply that seemed appropriate.

Sure, Professor, see you then.

I started second guessing myself as soon as I hit send. If he really had chosen it coincidentally, he probably wouldn't think anything of what I said. But if he'd said that as a way to indicate he read my story. Was the way I replied signaling a certain level of interest or admission of the truth? Or what he may have thought was the truth anyway.

There were too many maybes going through my mind. There was only one way I would get my answer. And I'd have to wait until next week to get it.

*

I saw him seated at a table by the window when I entered the coffee shop. I waved at him and ordered my latte at the counter before going to join him.

"Hi, Alice," he said, smiling as I sat down across from him. He was wearing a plain, light blue, button down shirt with the top button undone and blue jeans.

"Hi," I returned his smile. "How are you doing?"

"Well, thanks. I'm glad you could meet me today."

He was actually kind of handsome, I realized, making myself blush. More so than I remembered. I couldn't really recall thinking about him as attractive one way or another before. Maybe I hadn't noticed back then? I also realized he was younger than I'd thought before. I supposed when I was 18 I'd simply seen him as generically older than me and not put much thought into it. If I had to guess now, I'd say he was early fifties.

Remembering to reply, I said, "I was happy to see your email the other day."

"How's your class going?" he asked. It was the first week of the semester.

"It's going well so far," I said brightly. "I mean, not much can go wrong in four days."

"No, I guess not," he said, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

Absently, I noted his eyes were blue. Beautiful, light, crystal blue, almost matching his shirt. I hadn't remembered that. While I'd found it easy to work with many real details, many things had been made up. I had winged it on eye color. I wasn't sure if I had forgotten or simply never made a habit of gazing into his eyes quite so intently. I thought the former must be true because I'd sat across from him many years ago in the same coffee shop, gazing into his eyes as I clung to his every word. I had looked up to him so much. I'm not sure I even realized the extent at the time.

We both knew we were there for more than just small talk. "I read some of your work, Alice," he said, meeting my gaze steadily. Fuck. This was it. "It made me happy to see how well received they are. I understand why your stories are popular."

"Thank you," I said, smiling carefully. "It's not exactly quality literature but it's fun."

His eyes were still on mine, silent for a moment before he said, "There's one question I think all writers hate hearing... If your stories are real." He quickly added, "I'm not asking you that. I know the answer."

"You do?" I asked cautiously, not sure what conclusion he had drawn.

"It's fiction," he said simply. "I assume, like many writers, you draw from your experiences as a place to start stories."

"Yes," I said, relieved.

"Even so," he paused; I held my breath, "I'll admit to feeling somewhat flattered even though I know I shouldn't." He paused and gave me a look I couldn't quite read. "I did read that right, didn't I?"

I wondered if he meant he had drawn the parallels to himself correctly, or if he was checking to make sure the fantasy had just been fiction. Either way, I nodded.

"Let me be upfront with you, Alice. When I read your story, I suspected you might have had some reservations about showing it to me. That I might draw conclusions that weren't meant to be drawn."

"Yeah," I said, looking down at the foam design on my coffee; it vaguely resembled a leaf. "I didn't know what you'd think. I'm sorry. That was probably really weird to see."

"It surprised me," he admitted, "but I wouldn't say I found it weird. Please don't worry about that. I saw the publish date was sometime ago. I'm sure you didn't write this for me, despite some obvious similarities," he said with a meaningful look.

"Thanks, I appreciate that. It's just so easy to twist the truth sometimes. I'm working on a really horrible story that was based on my own nightmare, and yet, I've decided to turn it into erotic fiction."

"Intriguing. Perhaps a way of coping with or processing past trauma?" he suggested.

"Oh no--I mean, I guess I have used it as that sometimes--but the one I'm working on wasn't a real situation that happened, but was inspired by a situation I didn't want to have happen. I'm not trying to be mysterious," I added, noticing I was skirting around specifics. "It's just beyond what should ever be talked about in a coffee shop."

"Fair enough," he nodded. "Would you like my unsolicited opinion?"

"Please," I said, though my cheeks were hot and I was terrified by what he might say.

He spoke low enough so his voice didn't carry, but it was still easy for me to hear. "Don't rush through your blowjobs."

My jaw dropped. That was the last kind of feedback I expected. I know I had invited feedback about my erotica, but somehow I had never expected to hear my former professor say the word

blowjob

. In public no less, though I was sure no one else heard.

"The sex too," he added. "Your descriptions were vivid and alluring. Let your readers enjoy it for longer."

"Oh, okay. Thank you," I said, getting past my shock from the words and taking in the critique. It was not the first time I had been told that.

"I am curious, though you don't need to share with me if you don't want to, what inspired the timing of your writing this? I suppose I should ask when you wrote it actually."

"It was one of the more recent things I've written. My inspiration... I happened to drive by the campus earlier this year. I came up with the idea while I was sitting in traffic on my way home." It was true. There was more to it than that but not every source of inspiration in my life needed to be shared. "The timing of me deciding to go back to school was coincidental, if that's what you were wondering."

"I see. I couldn't help wondering. It would make sense too," he said, looking thoughtful. "Well, nicely done, Alice."

"You... liked it then?" I asked tentatively.

"From a technical perspective or... my personal opinion?" he raised a brow.

"Both," I said nervously.

"You're an excellent writer, Alice. You were back when you were in my classes, and you still are. Better now. I recognize your writing--your voice and style. While being short and light on plot, it still felt like there was a good amount of substance for what it was. You painted a tantalizing scene in a short period of time."

"And personally?" I prompted.

"Personally..." he hesitated. I could have sworn his cheeks had grown just a little pink. "I'm probably a bit biased."

I wondered if he meant he was biased because he liked my writing already, or if it was because of the general theme, or if it was because of some of the specific similarities that were obvious. I didn't want to ask that.

"And so, I did like it quite a lot," he said, not quite meeting my eyes. Maybe he liked it more than he was comfortable saying. "As I said, I thought it ended too soon. I would have enjoyed reading more. And I don't think I'm alone in that."

"How about a sequel," I said lightly.

"Do you plan to?" he asked.

"Originally, no. I thought it would be a standalone piece. But it did well, so yes, I had considered it."

"Any ideas what that will look like? The next week they meet, perhaps? You did leave it open for that."

"Maybe that. Maybe this," I shrugged casually. "Who knows."

"Oh really?" he chuckled.

"I meant," my stomach flipped uncomfortably, and I mumbled, "a 10 years later type story. I actually started drafting a bit of it a while ago."

"That's a nice idea," he said, not noticing--or at least, politely pretending not to notice--my embarrassment. "If you'd ever like help brainstorming..." he seemed to realize the possible implications of what he said and added, "in a professional way, of course. Writer to writer."

"I appreciate the offer," I smiled. I did genuinely appreciate it. But I was unable to even begin to fathom how awkward that would be. "I usually keep my brainstorming to more private settings. I don't think I can be as, uh,

creative

when I'm in public when I have to watch my volume and edit my word choice as I speak."

"Understandable," he said, looking amused. It was several seconds before he said, "My home is only a few minutes away, if you'd feel more comfortable having this conversation elsewhere. Or we could call it a day... I've already taken quite a bit of your time."

My mouth felt very dry suddenly. He'd invited me to his home. To talk. About erotica. That had loose parallels to us. When I looked at it like that, I wondered what the implications were and if I was really considering it. But he had also said

professionally

. He'd already made it clear he hadn't taken it personally or as a sign of desire in real life.

Feeling brave and also a little impulsive, I asked, "Do you want to? I have nothing else on my schedule today."

I thought I saw a flash of surprise cross his face, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. "Sure," he agreed. "Shall we?" He stood up and I quickly followed him out the door. "My home is quite close, so you should be able to follow me easily."

"Sounds good. See you there."

I got into my car, put my purse down, and fastened my seatbelt. I took a long, deep breath and then put my car in reverse and followed him out of the parking lot and the five minutes it took to get to his house.

As I drove there, I tried to logically assess the situation. My heart rate was elevated, and I felt a little nervous about what I was doing. It felt kind of wrong, but not necessarily in a bad way. More like... naughty. I didn't think it was really that wrong. I tried to imagine the same situation, but going over to discuss my children's books. That wouldn't be that weird, would it? I was no longer his student, and I was very much an adult now. Two writers talking professionally about writing wasn't inappropriate.

At the stop light, I couldn't help checking my appearance in the mirror. I wasn't wearing much makeup and I'd worn my hair down. I smoothed my hair a little bit.

I parked on the street in front of his house. Two stories. Painted light blue. A small but neatly trimmed patch of grass in the front yard. He parked in the garage and then met me outside. He had one of those older houses in the city that was lucky enough to have a garage but did not have an entrance directly into the house from it. I followed him up the short steps and path lined with tidy rose bushes to his front door. White like the rest of the trim on the house with panes of glass in the upper portion.