I was 25, and I had developed my first ever schoolgirl crush.
I was a first year law student and he was my professor. He had attracted my attention slowly – there was nothing particularly extraordinary about him, but I'd always been the type to be more attracted to someone once I had a sense of his personality. Professor Smith was in his early fifties, with graying brown hair, blue eyes, and academic looking glasses. Your average middle-aged law professor, for the most part. But after a few days watching him lecture, I found that there was just something about him that compelled me. I had taken a place in the front row because it was one of the few left by the time I got to class on the first day, but I soon became glad for my position as I sensed his eyes on me a little more often than they should be.
I started to fantasize about him constantly, in and out of class. Every time he made a gesture or spoke, I was mesmerized by his hands and lips, imagining how they'd feel on my body, whether he'd be rough or gentle. I imagined the taste of his breath and skin, wondered whether the hair on his body was brown or gray.
For the first time in my academic life, I started going to office hours on a regular basis. It felt pathetically transparent – some of the questions I invented bordered on the inane. Yet it had become a sort of ritual. Twice a week I would show up, ask him about some tangential point he'd made in class. We'd talk about it for a few minutes, and then go on to talk about anything and everything else until someone else showed up to talk to him. Once, when nobody else did show up, I stayed there talking to him for three hours.
The excuse that I thought of that day was a book that I "needed" to write a paper. Actually, the book was from 1970 or so and I doubted it would be useful, but it had the advantage of being unavailable at the law library, so I thought I would ask Professor Smith if I could borrow his copy.
When I arrived at his office door, it was closed. I took a deep breath and knocked, twirling the end of my long, wavy dark hair around my finger. Even though I did this often, I got nervous every time. That day I was wearing my favorite perfectly broken in jeans, and a white t shirt with a deep v-neck that made my skin look tawny and showed a hint of cleavage. My breasts weren't very big, but they were being assisted that day by the only push up demi bra that I owned.
I never wore anything outright seductive, to his class or to office hours. I didn't want to be obvious – even though I knew how ridiculous that was. Not even the densest person could fail to see that I was seriously infatuated with him after watching me eat up his every move with my eyes in class. But I wanted him to think of me as intelligent, interesting maybe funny – not some stereotypical bimbo who wanted to fuck her professor. I was too old for that sort of thing, and it was undignified.
"Come in," Professor Smith called out after I knocked on the door. I opened the door and stepped inside his office.
I thought that his eyes lit up a bit when he saw me, but was I imagining things? "Hi," I greeted him.
"Katherine, come in," he said, gesturing with his hand and smiling. His smile was what I loved the most about him – how it was so genuine, and made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "What's on your mind?"
"Well, I've been working a bit on the paper," I said. "I was thinking of using that book – the one by Shaw? that you mentioned in class the other day, but the library doesn't seem to have a copy of it."
"Really? I suppose it's gotten outdated," he said. "But I have a copy here – should be on the top shelf -- you're welcome to borrow it."
"Actually, I don't see it," I said, stepping over to his bookshelf and scanning the titles. The shelf was filled with old, worn casebooks that probably came from his own days in law school twenty some years ago. "What did you say it was called again?"
"That's odd, it should be there," he said, getting up from behind his desk and coming to look at the shelf himself.
I had never stood this close to him before, close enough to touch him. He was just about a foot away from me, and I could smell him – just the faintest, clean soapy scent, as if he'd stepped out of the shower minutes ago. I did my best not to inhale audibly. I thought to myself that I would love to bury my face in his armpit and just breathe in the smell of him. God, what was wrong with me?
"Ah, here it is," he exclaimed, reaching out and pulling a thick volume off the top shelf. "This is the one I was thinking of. Sorry, I think I told you guys the wrong author in class. It happens with old age," he smiled and shrugged, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling.
"Oh, don't be silly, it looks like you've got a few good years left in you," I teased, then wondered if I'd gone too far. A flush spread over my cheeks, but the professor chuckled nervously.
"I appreciate your confidence in me," he said.
"No problem," I smiled nervously, holding his gaze even as I felt my blush deepen. It was like a train wreck – I couldn't look away even though I wanted to. For a moment, he seemed flustered, but he gathered himself, cleared his throat and glanced sideways.
"Well, I hope the book is helpful – even if it's a bit dated, there are some interesting ideas in there."
"Yeah... I'm sure it will help," I said, feeling vaguely disappointed. He seemed to want to end the conversation – one of our long talks was not about to ensue. I worried that I had overstepped some line. "Well, thanks," I smiled with false brightness, and slipped the book into my messenger bag, preparing to leave.
