True Confessions
If you can imagine for a moment a final exam in a university upper-level English course, picture about 12 students in a small room vigorously scribbling away, answering discussion questions for 90 minutes about authors and themes, each of their chairs parked against a long, wooden table where we've spent hours during the semester discussing and reading poetry out loud. The room is old with large windows looming down from high on the wall. We are perched on the second floor. Paint is peeling off the cinderblock interior with water stains on the ceiling and the flicker of florescent lights.
The professor is middle-aged with thinning, blonde hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He smokes two packs a day and drinks at least a pot of coffee, but somehow his teeth remain white. His thin lips and narrow face seem to complement his sharp hazel eyes, so clear you can almost see through them. He's lanky and agitated and pacing around the table in dark socks, having removed his penny loafers. He's making everyone nervous -- except for me.
I've got an 'A' in this class. No question. He doesn't give shit one about the answers on my paper. He only cares about my notes and my poems and the fact that I've come to his final wearing a spaghetti strap tank without a bra. I look disheveled in the typical exam week sort of way, brown hair in a bird's nest, wild tendrils streaming down across my face, not the slightest sign of makeup for days.
He likes the look... that 'I just woke up in your bed after you fucked me last night' appearance that he's never had the privilege of seeing in person but dreams about every night because I've sent him some selfies.
I'm taking my time, drawing lewd pictures to punctuate my sentences... watching the clock. I've got a chemistry exam to prepare for when I leave, and I'm going to be the last student to exit. I haven't had much sleep, and it shows.
Once the room has emptied, he closes the door behind the last student. There's a 'Testing: Do Not Disturb' sign taped to the narrow rectangular strip of glass that hovers over the doorknob. The door has no lock. Footsteps are passing in the hallway. Urgent voices are echoing. The building is a flurry of activity.
He approaches me wistfully in our isolated concrete cubicle. We've only kissed once when I briefly followed him to his office. His pale trousers are loose on his legs. I can't tell if he's hard.
"I have another class I'd like for you to attend next semester." He's mumbling on a mint because he knows I can't stand the taste of cigarettes. I'm standing by my chair, and I kiss him -- this time much longer, more passionately than before. He crumbles my test paper, but I stop him.
"You'll want to look at that later," I smirk. I fold it up neatly and stuff in down deep in his front pocket. Yes, he is definitely hard. I graze him softly as I remove my hand.
"You know you have an 'A' in the course, right?"
"I know," I chortle. "Do you think I deserve it?"
"No," he says gruffly, but he can't hide his mischievous smile. He's such a nerd. Such a dork. Putty in my hand. Not at all in my league on a barstool downtown, yet mysteriously desirable in this room... in this moment. "You're the best student I've ever had. Seriously."
I run my finger down the front of his light blue oxford and loosen a button. "You haven't had me yet, Larry."
I've never called him Larry before... always by his last name. Always a doctor of poetic philosophy. But today, in his mind, he's in a bar shooting pool. One of his braless students who has graduated from his class is leaning over to knock down a combo. He looks down her blouse at her plump, perky tits. He's got her test paper in his pocket. She's drawn a dick on the back followed by a personal erotic poem. It's about sucking his cock until he comes in her mouth. He's going to get hard when he reads it -- but not harder than he is right now.
Larry's never been with a girl like me. I don't have to ask. He lives with his mother. She's a prude whom I suspect still buys all his clothes.
My professor coughs nervously. He loves it when I say naughty things. At the beginning of the semester, he lustfully demanded that I read raunchy poetry aloud and in front of his class. I never knew erotic poetry existed. I was shy and embarrassed at first, blushing and stuttering as I enunciated the words. He made me read several passages repeatedly.
"Speak the words clearly, Megan."
