by S. L. Finlay
Table of Contents
Galway Baby Girl
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Contents
Galway Baby Girl
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Galway Baby Girl
S. L. Finlay
Copyright © 2018 S. L. Finlay
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental. All characters portrayed are consenting adults over the age of eighteen and are biologically unrelated.
CHAPTER ONE
"I'm in Ireland and I'm not even Irish!" I cried to my rapt audience during one of my spoken word performances. Everyone cheered and clapped, harder I'm sure than they did for any of the musicians who performed during open mic that evening in everyone's favorite Galway pub.
I was here on a semester abroad program from my university in the states when I performed a spoken word poem - far from my first! - about how I had been checking my ex's social media and had come across pictures of his new girlfriend. The girl had been beautiful and successful and I was still at university. But, I was living here in this beautiful country doing some of my university, so I really had nothing to complain about.
Since I had arrived in Ireland, I had been on the receiving end of a fair amount of Irish humor about Americans.
Because so many Irish left here for America and they had plenty of children (like any good Catholic), there are plenty of Irish-Americans who are seeking their roots. Most come here on holiday, fall in love with the place then don't realize how silly it sounds to the Irish ear when an American accent cries, "I'm Irish! My father..." Or grandfather, or mother, or grandmother, or whatever the relation is.
Irish people are the only Irish people in Ireland, everyone else, including me, is just a visitor and that's okay. In America we can be as Irish as we want. It carries a different meaning state-side.
When I came over here, too, I chose a university in Galway because I couldn't get in anywhere else and after I arrived, I realized how fantastic this place was for an artist like myself. I am a poet, and a writer, and a hopeless dreamer.
Actually, I am mostly the last one.
Galway is a fantastic place to be an artist and a dreamer. With a small town feel and a flow of tourists you always feel like you're at home, but then you've always got new and interesting people to talk to and never get bored. I wish I had more than a semester here.
The poetry reading was a month after I had arrived and I was already friends with most of the people in the room. I bring that night up for a very special reason though.
It's the night I spoke to him properly for the first time. Yes, the all-important him you were all waiting to hear about.
I had given up the mic stand after my poem to someone playing the guitar – they did end up playing Galway Girl the traditional Irish song, in case you were wondering – and I stepped into the audience to watch.
My friends all patted me on the back as I came back from the mic, telling me how great they had thought that was. I laughed and took their compliments. Of course they thought it was great, they were my friends. It's hard to get a real critical opinion from someone who is not your friend in this friendly small town after all.
While I was watching the guitarist perform Galway Girl I felt someone tapping me on the shoulder. Thinking it was one of my friends there to congratulate me, I didn't think twice before turning with a smile on my face, ready to take their praise.
But it wasn't a friend of mine at all.
"You should change your major." Spoke my professor, his voice ringing with that clear 'posh' Dublin accent.
I couldn't help the smile from spreading across my face, he was so good-looking and that natural Irish charm? Well, what could I say? That makes a girl smile, whether she means to or not.
My professor was a good looking guy, and one who I hadn't thought had noticed me before. I was one of many students, even if I did have a funny accent. Plus, I was sure a guy like that wouldn't notice a girl like me any day of the week, let alone see me preform and know what I had been thinking for ages.
"How did you know I was thinking of changing it?" I asked him, a little confused by the situation, but trying to hold my ground and not look like an idiot, which is how I felt when I talked to men this attractive.
He winked as he answered, "I didn't!"
"David!" Called a female voice from behind him. My professor turned at the sound of his name and saw a woman standing there, looking put-out.
"Yes honey?" He asked.
The girl came closer so I could see her better inside the dark bar. She would have been a few years older than me, with flaming Irish red hair and freckles. This woman though wore her freckles like a model wares contour. In direct contrast to my own freckles and mousy blond hair, this girl could be a model.
Standing beside him with his black hair speckled with grey and deep blue eyes, they looked like the perfect couple, even if there was a few years between them. A few too many, I thought uncharitably, jealously.
They were talking in hushed whispers now, I was sure it was about how she didn't want to be here, as he seemed perfectly comfortable and she was telling him all the reasons she didn't want to be here in rapid-fire tones. Her accent making it difficult for me to make anything out, but I could tell she was unhappy.
In the end, she stomped off and he stood up straight having just leaned over to hear her better. "Sorry." He told me, "I have to go. Will I see you in class on Monday Lana?"
I nodded, "Of course."
The professor smiled and bid me good evening before walking off.
My friends, who I hadn't been paying the slightest bit of attention to until that moment were all jostling me as he walked away.
"What did he say?" One of the girls, Sammy, was asking me, a bit too excitedly.
I giggled, "Nothing, he said nothing!"
"Are you sure?" She asked, "That's not what I heard!"
"What did you hear then?" I asked her in challenging tones.
The guitarist had moved onto another traditional Irish song now and people around us were singing loudly. I knew this one, hell, I had been in Galway a month and of course I knew them all! Because he was playing though, I couldn't be heard by anyone outside our circle of friends. That was good, since we went to university with everyone here and I didn't want them to know I had been checking out my professor. It didn't seem like a good idea for that to be public knowledge.
Sammy cleared her throat then teased, "I heard him asking you out!"
Typical Irish humor, making shit up for a laugh.
I laughed along with her, "Maybe it was..." I teased.
"Well, maybe he was..." She went along with it and
my friends all laughed. Irish humor was odd, but I did like it. It was different enough to American humor to be funny and quirky without being too foreign to me.
"No, really, he was just giving me study advice." I told her.
"Oh? What was that?" Sammy's tone was higher than normal, teasing. But I was ignoring it.
"He was telling me that I should change my major." I told her earnestly.
"Was he?" She asked, the wind from her sails gone now I wasn't playing along with the joke.
I cleared my throat and looked up at the guitar player, "Yeah. He told me I should really change it."
Beside me Sammy took a moment before asking, "But hadn't you been thinking about changing you major already?"
I nodded my head, "Yeah, I had."
"Then why don't you? Seems like any advice from him could be good advice, he knows what he's talking about." She asked.
"Good question." Was all I managed to say.
CHAPTER TWO
Monday rolled around in the way it only can when you're a student, suddenly a rudely after a long weekend spend drinking and clowning around with your friends. Even though I had had a fairly busy weekend, my professors comments were still on my mind. I had been excited to see him in class, despite his already obviously dating someone. I could have a crush still, I reasoned. There was nothing wrong with that.
I sat through the whole lecture, one on creative writing, although I couldn't tell you exactly what we were learning that day as I was pretty focused on our professor. I waited patiently after class for the room to empty out a bit before approaching my professor.
Even though I had waited for the room to empty a little, I still had to wait for a few of the other students – all female of course – to leave after asking him questions and flipping their hair a lot. It was frustrating having to wait my turn before I could approach him with my own question, but I tried to not let that show on my face.
"You said I should change my major." I managed before realizing I hadn't said hello first, oh well, too late, "Why did you say that?" I asked, pushing on.
The professor smiled and told me, "Because, you are an artist. You should invest in that."
I raised my eyebrows at him, "How am I an artist? I am not like you, with your best sellers and famous name." I told him, feeling a little frustrated. What did he know about me anyway? Aside from how to make himself look sexy to young women like me.
"No." He told me, "Because you have not committed to it yet. You have not invested in yourself yet. You think this is a hobby, not the calling that it obviously is for you."
I let out a sound of derision and he simply shook his head, "I didn't get best selling novels by working on my law degree." He told me before picking up his things, "But it's up to you. It is your life." He told me.
I felt frustrated, "Yes, yes it is." I told him.
"Good." He told me, turning to leave, "I am glad you realize that."
Standing there, I felt frustrated. I wanted to fight with him. I wanted to tell him how stupid he was being. He didn't know me. He didn't know anything about me or even understand why I was studying what I was studying. What an idiot!
I shook my head and walked out of the lecture theater, determined to forget about the conversation and get on with my studies. My studies and drinking (of course), but I would only allow myself to think about the studies I was getting on with.
Because I was studying law in the US I couldn't study any of my subjects here, because the laws were different and I wouldn't have those subjects count towards my degree. Instead, I was studying a range of 'fun' subjects, which made plenty of space for the student life I wanted to lead. They were subjects that in the US would be considered cake classes.
It was good I had chosen a range of creative subjects because Ireland is known as it isle of saints and scholars (something I only found out when I got here) and there are plenty of incredibly talented writers, poets and artists here leading the lives of artists, something I hadn't known much about before I got here, that is, what the life of an artist is actually like.
I was taking creative writing with that lecturer, a best selling author. His name was David, and he was a gorgeous writer type who all the girls were in love with. If this were a movie, he would be played by a devastatingly good looking middle-aged actor, his character dripping with charm and confidence.
There was also a poetry class I was taking, a literature class where we studied the classics and a class on Irish history that I was taking because it sounded interesting.
Because of my choices (I could have chosen anything I wanted) I had started to ask myself the question about what major I should take long before David showed up in the pub. I had wondered to myself even before I got to Ireland if I was doing the right thing studying law in the first place.
As I walked to my next class, I reflected on my family situation: The only reason I was here was because I came from a long line of lawyers and my family could afford to send me on a semester abroad. Even with scholarships, these programs were not cheap.
My family would be devastated if I threw away all that schooling (I was a second year student) to do something as frivolous as become an artist, especially if I only did so because some hot Irish professor told me to.
I tried to shake the thought from my head as I entered the room for my Irish history class and sat beside Sammy.
It was cool having a local friend, especially when I had a class like this that was full of deep-rooted history topics and that I really shouldn't have taken without a background in Irish, or at least European, history.
Irish children seem to learn Irish history from birth and as such, it's assumed that everyone in the room knows important dates off by heart, as well as important events, important players in Irish history and even the names of every single Irish politician who ever lived.
Our professor for this class was a stern Irish woman from the west coast who spoke English and Irish (Gaelic) as first languages. Sometimes she would ask Irish students questions in Irish when she realized they weren't paying attention. Most of the students were not very good at Irish even though they learned it in school and had to know it in order to pass their exams to graduate high school. I wouldn't be able to answer her in Irish, or even at all if they didn't understand the question which was often the case.
When a student made this mistake, they would regret it.
Our professor was good to me though, because she recognized I wasn't local and obviously couldn't speak Irish. Sammy said this helped me get out of trouble more than it got me into trouble, but in Ireland, I doubted her words were true.
Often in the pubs when you'd meet new people, they'd want to tell you about Irish history which for most young drunks consists of 'how the English raped Ireland'. It's dark, but taking this class, even though I didn't know much already did give me something to talk about when these drunken ramblings took place.
Mostly though, they were best avoided.
Today the professor was talking about the 1916 Easter uprising and most of the Irish kids in the class were sitting there with glazed eyes. Mine were wide-open though as our professor painted stories, making history a little less dull with her wonderful accent (I love Irish accents more since moving here!) and her passion for the subject.
While she talked, Sammy who was next to me passed me a note, "You had professor sexy-pants?" It read.
I shook my head, rolling my eyes a little but unable to stop the smile from appearing on my face. I Then checked to see if this professor had noticed the note being passed. When my eyes met hers she was smiling at me, naming names that I thought I should be writing down. Perfect. I took those notes and quickly wrote, "Yes." On the paper before handing it back to Sammy.
Her answer was swift. She didn't mind if the professor knew she was passing notes. This gossip was evidently more important than having your poor language skills shown off apparently.
That was, until the professor saw her pass me this note and
yelled at her, "Just what do you think you're doing?"
The whole class stopped scribbling and turned to see what the professor was looking at. Sammy and I sat stock-still not even breathing.
"Do you care to read that out to the whole class?" the professor asked, her voice fierce.
Sammy was shaking her head vigorously. There was no way she wanted to read anything to anyone.
"Good. Then you wouldn't mind saving your private conversations until after class then?" The professor asked, even as it wasn't a real question.
Sammy's eyes were wide as she told the professor, "No, it's okay. I will."
The professor nodded then turned back to her own notes. She hardly used notes, they were more like a prop, something to turn back to when she had yelled at a student, to turn back to in instances like this.
Her prop took her attention for a few moments before she bounded off onto another part of this topic.
Sammy sunk a little lower in the chair beside me. She would drop the sexy professor questions after that.
CHAPTER THREE
In the week between creative writing classes, I kept myself distracted from thoughts of David by throwing myself into my homework for different classes, spending time with my friends here and writing letters (yes, hand-written letters) to my family back home.
Whenever I would actively distract myself from thoughts of my professor, I would find myself bought back to even naughtier thoughts of him than I had had before. It was like my mind was protesting, as if my mind thought I needed these thoughts so the thoughts got naughtier so I couldn't ignore them.
I would imagine him requiring a blow job to pass me in the subject, or even just demanding one after class because he knew I would give him a no-strings blow job, just so I could taste him. I imagined he would taste amazing, the thought made my mouth water.
The whole thing felt naughty and bad, but I couldn't help it. I wanted him. I wanted every bit of him, but if I couldn't have it, I would at least get to fuck him. I had to do it. Everyone had to have an affair with a professor while they were at college, and since I was studying in another country, I felt this more keenly than ever. Of course I should have an affair. Of course I should do something naughty. I was in Ireland, for fucks sake.