Soon we were engaged in a passionate, earthy kiss—the necessary preliminary to a great fuck.
“Do you mind if I take off my clothes?” I asked coyly. He laughed. In the dim candlelight, I slowly stripped for him. When he saw my garter-belt and black stockings, he moaned with delight.
“You’re so sexy,” he murmured.
“And I want you to really give it to me,” I replied. “I want you to fuck me all night long.” I unzipped his stiff cock and took it into my mouth.
Only a wimp would refuse such a challenge. John performed admirably and has remained a lover for more than a year—one of many.
But my girlfriends are still complaining about their Mr. Wrongs.
THE PROFESSOR OF SEX
Whenever I hear stories about coeds trading sex for grades I have to laugh. I have taught for twelve years at various colleges around the country and talked to dozens of colleagues about making it with students—and guess what? Few of us would even think of risking our careers by bartering bodies for grade points. Why should we? Getting laid on campus is more a matter of selection than seduction.
A lot of good old-fashioned romance and affection springs up between a student and a teacher. With men and women both interested in the same subject and spending a lot of time together, inevitably some of them are going to fall in love. I know. I’ve been there—often.
Perhaps the odds favor those of us who teach creative writing. We have more reason than our colleagues in the sciences to sit over coffee and bare our secret hopes and deepest feelings. The kind of soul-talk that ordinarily grows out of sexual intimacy can also grow into it.
The first day of class in September or January is always special. By the end of that session I have had enough suggestive eye contact with two or three students to know that my only problem is to separate the mere teaser from the serious pleaser. The former have come on to me in class or in my office with as much subtlety as your average B-girl. Wanna buy me a Coke, professor? Wink, wink. Take them up on it and these teasers plead total innocence. Or they write nasty editorials about sexual harassment in the campus newspaper.
During my first semester at the Midwestern university where I now teach, I was sleeping with a female student from each of my three creative writing classes. In two instances I was the initiator, but in the third I was chosen. While walking back to my office after a brief, get-acquainted lecture I felt a tap on my shoulder. A tough-looking, street-wise girl from the class asked what my sun sign was. I told her. She nodded. “I thought so,” she said and gave me hers.
“Don’t you know what that means?” she asked as we continued walking. “Those signs are a dynamite sexual combination. If you and I have an affair, which I expect we’ll do before the semester ends, it’ll be fantastic.”
“I don’t really believe in astrology,” I informed her, hoping she was not as dumb as she sounded.
She smiled as I pulled out my keys to open the office door.
“But,” she inquired sweetly, “do you believe in affairs?”
What could I do? I let her in ahead of me and locked the door. I’ve had some fast approaches from students before, but this one took my breath away, it was so totally unexpected.
As soon as I got inside, she turned and I slipped my arms around her, pulling her close, running my hand down to her firm, blue-jeaned buttocks. She’d looked almost tom-boyish sitting in my classroom. But as she pressed against me in a long, hungry kiss, I knew right away she had a voluptuous figure.
I ran a hand up underneath her sweatshirt and was pleased to find she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were large and her nipples became erect as soon as I touched them. She undulated her hips against me and began pulling her jeans off.
We separated for a moment so I could drop my trousers and clear a space on the edge of my desk. In a moment she was naked from the waist down and sitting among my papers, breathing hard and staring at my stiff cock as it popped out of my shorts.
“God,” she whispered, “I’m glad we didn’t have to play games all semester. We could have wasted so much time.”
I moved close and she seized my cock in one hand, squeezing it hard.
“I want to fuck you this time,” she said, guiding me into her cunt. “But next week I’m going to give you the sincerest blowjob you’ve ever had in your life.”
Two students walked by the door, talking about a literature assignment. In the office across the way one of my colleagues was pounding on his old manual typewriter. The nineteen-year-old girl on my desk lay back among my scattered papers and wrapped her legs around my hips as I thrust into her. Here I was fucking someone, and I didn’t even know her name! But I sensed that this was not the proper time to ask.
Never before or since have I made love to a woman within half an hour of meeting her. Most students are far less aggressive, although a shy, good-looking friend of mine seems to bring out the boldness in his Texas coeds. One simply drew him a naked picture of herself, added her phone number, wrote “Would you like to see the real thing?” and included it with her short story. He even gets calls at home from amorous women.
More often I run into women students who ask to see me after my regular hours (“when you are less likely to be disturbed”) or after an evening class (“to go over my story in depth”). Or they invite me to dinner before my evening class. Not infrequently, they submit poems and short stories with characters who seem a lot like me and a lot like her. And the characters are making love in unusual places, like offices or seedy little apartments in which “she” and “I” discover unlimited sexual fulfillment.
Students who write such roman à clef stories can often cause their professors a few hair-raising moments. I will never forget the night a fellow writing professor brought a short story over to my place to read after dinner. He was agitated. It seems that a pretty student had written about a tender love affair with an older writer, presumably a teacher. And the apartment she described, although not precisely like his, was what a writer would have around him. “I think,” he confided, raising his eyebrows, “she’s trying to tell me something.”
My wife said she would like to hear the story as soon as she finished making the coffee. While she was in the kitchen I suggested to my colleague what I’d do to him with a steak knife if he read the manuscript. That “apartment” was my off-campus study. We talked football all through coffee and my wife finally said, “I guess I’m not going to hear the story, am I?” She shrugged philosophically.
“It’s about a student-teacher affair,” I shrugged. “You don’t want to hear about things like that. It makes you feel suspicious.”
“I’m suspicious about what happened when I was out in the kitchen.”
“See?” I exclaimed. “Even mentioning a story like that gets you upset. I just hate to add to the myth. Everyone thinks teachers are trying to jump in bed with their students all the time and it’s just not true.”
Not entirely true. And not entirely a matter of males chasing coeds. A female professor I knew was so angry at her husband for spending his sabbatical at a faraway writers’ colony that she systematically fucked every willing male student in three different classes. And when she finished off the kids, she started hitting on single male colleagues.
The sad thing about the story that almost got read over dinner was that the girl who wrote it had left me for another student. And getting through the rest of the semester, trying to smile and not notice the two of them leaving together, was almost unbearable.
Once I fell into a serious discussion at a conference for English teachers regarding the likeliest courses that get one laid. There was a certain amount of bragging, but we came to the same conclusions. Literature was the worst. Essay writing was okay. But the best was fiction and poetry writing. Upper division poetry seminars were absolutely tops. Several of those present immediately decided to revise their fall teaching plans.
Since then I have discovered that evening magazine writing courses do at least a
s well as poetry. Magazine writing attracts mostly women, including several divorcées and bored housewives looking for something interesting to do—and someone interesting to do it with. One such woman was Susan, a copywriter in a local advertising agency, who invited me out for a drink after class. Over a beer she complained about the difficulty of meeting men, the general horniness of women over thirty and the limited sexual opportunities available to them.
“Well,” I assured her, running my hand up the arm of her expensive silk blouse and patting her lightly on the shoulder, “maybe you’ll meet someone in class.”
She slipped off a shoe and ran her toes up the inside of my leg, softly kneading my groin as the waitress came by and picked up our empty bottles.
“How would you like a ride to your car?” she asked when the waitress went away.
Susan was tall and slender with small, sharp breasts, the kind that are visible only in certain positions so that you end up watching for that moment when they suddenly made a delicate imprint on her blouse. She had long, dark hair and was always shaking her head to make it fall in different ways over her shoulders. I loved her hair the first time she walked into class. But, as I was to discover, I was going to love it even more for what she could do with it. We went to her car, which was parked in a deserted lot high above the sidewalk.
“I can’t wait to see your cock,” she whispered, sliding the front seat back. It was a mild night and I eased out of my sports coat. She didn’t start the car, but instead asked me to take my pants off. I didn’t argue. A minute later I was squirming bare-assed on the slick vinyl seat, my trousers down around one ankle. We hadn’t even kissed. She sat behind the wheel for a moment, smiling down at my limpness.
“You’re not aroused?” she queried playfully. “What’s the matter? It doesn’t like me?”
“I think I may be too uncomfortable to have a hard-on,” I answered. After all, I told myself, we didn’t kiss, I hadn’t touched her, this was all very sudden, I was very nervous about having my pants off with her sitting there still dressed. I could have thought up more excuses, but she was suddenly on her knees with her tongue deftly licking the head of my now very interested organ.
“We’ll see about that,” she murmured, flicking her tongue over my cock tip and turning her head swiftly from side to side so that her hair began to trail over my thighs. I was boulder hard in seconds.
“Ummmm,” she sighed, kneading my ass with one hand while with her other she swirled her hair over my cock and balls. “Is this good?” she asked and I groaned. Moving her head back and forth, she brushed that wonderful dark hair up my thigh, over my cock, up my belly and back down the other leg. She whipped me with her hair three or four times in succession and then plunged her mouth down over my cock and began sucking as though she meant to draw marrow. Running her tongue crazily in and around and under with each stroke, she used her free hand to drop a cascade of hair onto my balls and slowly, deliciously, pull it away.
As I came she popped me out of her mouth and jerked me off by hand so that my come spurted over her face and the seat and—especially—into that dark mane of hair.
“I hope we can do this again sometime,” she said as we drove the three blocks to my car. We did. In her car. In my car. In her apartment and on a hillside above and, of course, in my office.
I don’t know why most students insist that we do it at least once in the office, no matter how near my apartment is. I’ve made love to maybe forty or fifty students in the last ten years, some only once, others often, but nearly every one has ended up on my desk or flat on the floor, or on top of an air mattress (which I keep in my office closet along with a pillow and blanket), sitting in the swivel chair, standing against the office door or kneeling in front of me as I sit at my desk. Office blowjobs are obviously the easiest way to have quickie sex, especially if I’m between classes.
I have no illusions about the purpose I serve for many women. I’m grist for the mill, experience, something to write about. This is not conjecture, but fact. Several have told me so.
One student, when we went to a “no-tell motel” rentable by the hour, actually brought a notepad and wrote down details. “Smell of mildew and disinfectant. Air conditioner noisy. Long blue dress, sexy bra and panties. Him: Harris tweed, blue shirt, olive tie. Leaves wristwatch on table, in ashtray. He’s done this before, you can tell.”
She showed me her notes only about the room, though. I never got to read them after dropping her off at the dorm. “Don’t worry,” she murmured. “If you turn up as a chapter in my book I’ll change your appearance and name.”
Other women just want to check off one more category of sex partner. “Sure, girls, I made it with a professor back when I was in college. Don’t tell me you didn’t?”
But one teacher’s pet stands out. She came to see me for all the reasons I list above, and for a better one. She was in love with me and, for a time, I was in love with her. But she was twenty-nine and wanted to start a family. I was nearly twice her age and wondered if I could make it through the last few years of raising my own. Ultimately, we knew our affair would have to end.
Her name was Kirsten and she was a redhead with startling green eyes and a lovely body. When she wore her glasses she looked like a librarian above the neck and a Penthouse Pet below. The first time I saw her I thought she was a teaser. She came to all of the poetry readings and flirted with most of the male teachers. One night she flirted with me and, since we were off in a side corridor, I slipped my arm around her waist, kissed her and then waited to see her reaction. I don’t know what else to do with teasers.
“Let’s go to your office,” she suggested. Classes were over for the day, the building was deserted and I looked forward to it. But all she wanted to do was kiss, which she did very sincerely and expertly. When I put her hand on my cock, she pulled away. “I don’t know you, not really, not yet,” she protested. “I have to get used to you.”
She was so incredibly attractive, she smelled and felt so good, she kissed so passionately, that I decided to give her three days. And at the end of it, I was in pain. “This is not a line,” I complained, “not a game. I have blue balls. I am too old to have blue balls. At nineteen I would make out with you for a month and not complain. Now I’m a grownup and necking has lost its charm—charming as you yourself are. So if you want to make love to me, don’t make me talk you into it or somehow seduce you. Take some responsibility. Come back here and ask like a grownup. Otherwise don’t come back at all—unless it’s for class someday as a student.”
I watched her walk away without saying a word. When she was gone, I collapsed into a groaning, miserable heap. What if she didn’t come back? I would go crazy!
Two days later she returned. “Where will we go when we make love,” she asked, “and how would you like it to be the first time? Don’t you think it should be special?”
I told her I would tie her naked to a bed, play with her breasts and cunt, kiss her, let her suck my cock, rub her everywhere until she couldn’t stand it anymore and then, only when she begged me to put it inside her, would I fuck her.
She stood for a moment, staring at me. I wondered if I had overplayed my hand, if she would run screaming down the hall or hit me. Finally she smiled. “What will you use to tie me up with?”
For a semester and a half, until her fiancé came back from his stint in the Peace Corps and married her, Kirsten and I made love all over that campus. We met in empty classrooms, lecture halls, secluded benches, the roof of the science building, between stacks in the library, the elevator of the student union and, best of all, in my office. We played out every fantasy about student and teacher that we could think of. Once Kirsten was walking down the hall and I grabbed her, dragged her into the office, shut the door and pushed her against the file cabinet.
“Why, Professor, whatever are you doing?” she cried.
“You little prickteaser.” I grabbed her face in both hands and kissed her roughly. “I’m goin
g to fuck you.”
“No,” she whimpered. I shoved her on the floor, driving my hand up under her dress, throwing my weight on top of her, covering her mouth with one hand. She struggled, but not too hard. Kirsten could probably have broken away easily, but that was another game. In this game Kirsten, the sexy little coed pricktease, was getting what she really wanted all along.
I let go of her mouth as my hand closed on her crotch and my fingers worked in under her panties.
“Oh, my God,” she exclaimed. “Oh, Professor, please don’t do this.”
I yanked her panties down and unzipped my pants, pulling out my cock and grabbing her hand, forcing her to touch it.
“I’m going to fuck you now, baby, I’m going to put my dick right up inside that hot little pussy of yours and fuck you good.”
“Please, Professor, no . . .” We fought, but a moment later I had buried my cock deep in her cunt. “Please,” she begged. I pinned her arms to the floor and fucked her deep and hard, holding both wrists with one hand and rubbing her breasts roughly with the other. I came, grunting and moaning, triumphant.
She also liked me to tell her she was flunking, and force her to give me a blowjob. Or she would love to sit beside me at my desk and seduce me.
Occasionally the phone would ring while we were fucking, and I’d move to my office chair and she’d straddle it, a leg on each arm of the chair, so she could raise and lower her pelvis on my cock, leaving my hands free for the phone and message-taking. I talked to my wife, other students, the chairman and my colleagues dozens of times while Kristen slowly fucked me in the swivel chair or sat under my desk, contentedly sucking my engorged cock.
When her boyfriend was due to come back, and with the semester at end, we had one last day together. We spent it in my office with a sign on my door that said: “No hours today, leave papers in faculty mailbox.” We lay naked on the rug as the sunlight poured through my upperfloor window, licking each other, screwing very slowly, kissing, holding each other and saying goodbye and good luck. When she left I found a card on my desk that thanked me for teaching her more than she expected about things that really mattered.
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