But stuff with Harriet, it thrilled me. And I was taking that thrill out on the sex-starved, achy little blossom between my thighs.
As I kneaded my fingers into myself, my impending wetness lightly soaking through the front of my panties, I thought about what life could be like with Harriet. I pictured her beautiful smile, those piercing blue eyes, her long blonde rivulets of hair twisting and turning down to her shoulders. And I thought of being in her writer scene. I don’t want to make it seem like I was simply interested in her for her connections, that was more something that Minju portrayed. But I can admit that it would be a definite plus. It’s just part of the total package.
“Mmm,” I happily moaned as I pushed two fingers together up and down my slit, petting myself through the stretchy material, feeling my midsection growing hotter. I squirmed a little bit there in my sheets, tossing my head from one side to the other, wriggling in my bed as I lazily pleasured myself. I had gotten good at it. Practice makes perfect.
It wasn’t much longer before I was eager to go further. Taking hold of the waistband of my panties, I slid them down my legs and kicked them off my feet, then returning my fingers to my pussy to do a bit more petting. My fingers easily slipped between my lips, rubbing myself back and forth, feeling a little erotic spark each time my wet fingertips hit my clit. After a few of those enticing sparks, I decided to focus my attention on my clit, fingering it around in smooth, soft circles, resting my palm on my trimmed up bush.
Harriet was foremost on my mind as I masturbated, and I dreamt up all the scenarios I could to make me feel closer to her. I imagined being in class, having her talk about my story, a story that — in my dream — she had already read and edited, remarking to the class how thoughtful and true it was, how refreshing and exciting. We would then wait for the rest of the students to leave once class ended, we’d poke at each other lovingly, we’d kiss and giggle, and then we’d slip out of the classroom hand-in-hand to run off to have fun, just the two of us.
My fingers, glistening with my own wetness, continued to push through my lips, parting them, moving back and forth. Every so often I would slip my fingers inside of myself, giving myself a few firm thrusts, a couple solid tugs outward to apply pressure, before removing them with that gentle, subtle sound of wet flesh and suction, and returning them to my clit to redouble my stimulation.
“Oh my,” I buzzed. “Hmm.” I turned over to one side, my wrist clamped between my thighs, my fingers still furious in their massaging. I could feel myself going lightheaded, my lower half clenching in contractions as I felt that wonderful specter of energy building up inside of me. In the middle of all this, I heard my phone vibrate a couple of times next to me but I gave it no attention. I was intent on taking myself to the edge of that precipice and eager to leap forth.
I felt my foot begin to reflexively kick, my lungs desperate for more oxygen, my heart racing. With an open mouth, each exhale brought with it a little sigh, my breath hot, and the noises coming from me little soft whines. My butt started to squirm into the sheets, my fingertips solidly against my clit and fondling, the skin of my thighs lightly and humidly sticking together. Rather than focusing on scenes of Harriet and me doing various relationship things, I simply pictured her face now, longing to come with her on my mind. She was beautiful. I saw her blue eyes, her red lipstick, her bright blonde hair, her smiling lips. My hips bucked back and forth, my little naked lower half writhing there in the bed. I was sopping, eager, heartened.
“Fuck,” I murmured tightly, my face scrunching up, eyes squinted. Then my mouth dropped agape and felt watery. My feet, my legs, my torso, my arms, I simply started floundering there atop the sheets, stuttering out moans, my hand adoringly gripping onto myself, comforting my pink tenderness, as I no longer needed to manipulate my clit. I was there. I could feel the electricity penetrating through me, sparking into each limb in what seemed like random intervals. I was coming hard, happily, without hesitation. I groaned jubilantly as I melted into the orgasmic bliss.
After a few more judders and some gulping breaths, I emitted a long, drawn out sigh, a happy sigh, a content declaration of success. I laid there on my bed, still holding my pussy, my pubic hair feeling matted down with wetness, crumbled over to one side with my thighs squishing my hand between them. A smile slowly curled across my lips. I never felt guilty from taking time out to give myself an orgasm. I always felt intensely grateful that we were given this ability to pleasure ourselves in such a wonderful way. It’s the ultimate gift and I could never understand people who didn’t bestow it upon themselves.
Gingerly sliding my hand out from my thighs, I wiped the moisture from my fingers onto my bed sheets, released yet another joyful sigh, and then righted myself on my bed, positioned there now against the pillows wearing only my t-shirt and the glimmering wetness of my own juices coating the skin between my legs. My mind returned to the earlier vibrations from my phone and I indolently reached for it, hoisting it up, unlocking it, and browsing to the text app.
“Don’t forget about tonight,” the message said. It was from Harriet. I sighed dreamily, feeling that fulfilling throbbing between my thighs, warm and sticky and sodden. Holding my phone up above my face in one hand, I started typing with my thumb.
“Excited,” I typed. “I’ll dress fancy.”
I waited for a moment, restless for Harriet to respond immediately, and felt quick satisfaction when I saw the little ellipsis icon indicating she was typing back.
“Fancy?” she typed. “That means I’ve got to dress fancy too!”
“You always dress fancy,” I wrote. “I mean that I’ve got to match you.” I considered that it might be a prudent idea to wear some good underwear as well. Not that I anticipated that necessarily, it’s just that I was laying there in a lusty post-masturbation haze and I couldn’t help feeling rather turned on and ready to go again.
“Oh stop,” Harriet typed. “I’m blushing.”
“When you look out into the audience, look for the girl in the cocktail dress,” I texted.
“I hope you’re kidding,” Harriet responded.
“Fancy,” I wrote.
I dropped my phone and grinned, allowing myself a full and deep breath. I felt invigorated, excited, ready for the evening that would soon be upon me. I didn’t know where it would lead, how it would go, if Harriet and I would click like I think we both hoped, but I was drunk on the possibility that I saw in front of me. As my brain pondered on this prospect of an evening with Harriet, I felt that sudden and brisk pang of inspiration hit me. I leapt up from my bed, still dressed only in my t-shirt, and stumbled across my bedroom to my writing desk.
Folding one leg over, I sat atop it on my chair and flung my laptop screen open. As my computer came to life, displaying my word processing app, a page already filled with words. I furiously began typing, focused sharply on the thoughts entering my head and exiting me through my nimble fingers.
*
“And she looked up, finally, eyes trained across the room at the doorway,” said Harriet, her own eyes looking up from the podium. She was standing up straight and confident, though comfortable, dressed in a black blazer and matching black pencil skirt, a ruffled cream colored blouse underneath, her blonde hair glowing and pinned up in a bun with some wooden chopsticks. “As though she knew that the door was to open, destined to open,” continued Harriet. The audience hung on her words, attentively sitting, an errant cough making itself known in Harriet’s pausing between sentences.
I sat near the back on the small room, dressed in tights and a skirt myself, a little paper plate with a balled up napkin in my lap. I smiled as I watched Harriet, as I listened to her read from her latest novel. I was proud of her and I could only imagine what it felt like on her end. Sure, Harriet had given plenty of readings in her life as a writer and she was most certainly accustomed to it, but her readings now had a bit more potency as she was becoming well-known in the literary world. And while she maintained an air of seriousnes
s up there at the lectern, I could only think of her flirtatious advances at the bar, her cute text messages, and the dichotomy of serious writer and desirous romantic.
“But the door remained closed,” said Harriet. “No matter how hard she focused on the doorknob, it refused to turn. There was no destiny, no specific fate meant for her, regardless of how it may have seemed. She slunk down in her chair, the hopelessness setting in,” said Harriet, eyes once again addressing the audience as she came to the end of her excerpt reading. “Her invitation had gone unclaimed.”
Harriet smiled and shuffled her papers on the podium, looking down slightly as the audience began to clap for her. I could see how happy the attention made her, how much joy it brought to her soul. I, myself, had only given a few readings in my life and I knew what that applause felt like. It was acceptance. It gave all the hard work some meaning.
Once the applause died down, the host of the reading came up to the podium and announced that Harriet would be doing a short question and answer period after which the audience could socialize and drink the complimentary wine at the back. As was usual at these type of events, the questions from the audience were more about the specific audience member asking the question trying to look intelligent rather than having some sort of pressing thing they needed to ask the author. Harriet took these questions in stride, however, obviously just happy for the attention, to be able to present her work to a captive audience, and to be able to talk about herself for ten minutes.
I couldn’t help but grin as I watched her.
Soon after, the audience stood from their seats and began to mill about, snack on cheese, sip wine. A number of people approached Harriet after the reading was over, acquaintances looking to congratulate her, literary orbiters just trying to catch a glimpse at a rising star, people who probably just wanted to tell somebody else later that they had personally spoken to Harriet Drake about something hyper-literary. I hung back, remained seated, trying to catch eyes with Harriet. I wasn’t sure if I stuck out for her there in the small auditorium, perhaps just another student she was flirting with, but I didn’t want to appear too eager or too naive by rushing up to her like all the others to try to grab her attention.
And I was right to do so. After Harriet was able to break free from the mess of people, she slinked over to where I sat, grinning happily, relinquishing a “thank you” every so often to people who tried to stop her. Upon noticing Harriet, I kept my eyes locked with her and impatiently waited there in my seat as she neared.
“You came,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest, the paper of her novel excerpt rolled up and pinched in her fist.
“I told you I would,” I said. “I really enjoyed it, but you know, I know what happens next.”
“You read the book,” she said.
“Of course,” I said. “I read it months ago before enrolling in your class.”
“Ms. Drake,” said a voice. Harriet and I both looked up and saw a rotund man in an ill-fitting tweed blazer, a scraggly beard on his face, little round glasses, and an Irish wool cap. He gave a gracious smile and raised his hat in greeting.
“Yes?” said Harriet, looking over to the man.
“I just wanted to congratulate you on the National Book Award nomination,” said the man. “It’s well-deserved.” There was something about him and in the way he spoke, like he was a bit starstruck but also a bit infatuated. Harriet was, after all, a very pretty woman, and her good looks mixed with her writing skill and her budding fame was a recipe for fans to, understandably, lust after her.
“It’s not official yet,” she said. “The nominations will be announced next week. But thank you.”
“I think you’re a shoe-in,” he said. “The committee would be insane to not nominate your book.”
“Thank you,” said Harriet again with grace.
“My name is Derek,” he said, extending his hand. Harriet lightly shook his hand, lips flattening, obviously nonplussed by this encounter but knowing that she had to remain affable in front of fans.
“Nice to meet you, Derek,” she said. “If you don’t mind, Derek,” Harriet continued. “I’m having a conversation here with a student of mine.” Harriet looked down to me, nodding her head softly, smiling. “But I certainly appreciate your kind words.”
“Of course, Ms. Drake,” said Derek. “It was very nice to meet you.” Derek smiled somewhat stupidly and walked off from us and toward some of the other literary aficionados, most likely to boast about shaking Harriet’s hand and having a thoughtful literary conversation with her.
“Was I too rude?” she asked me, her face implying her uncertainty. “I’m really not used to this kind of attention.”
“No,” I said. “That was fine. He was starting to get clingy.”
“Right,” she said, nodding her head absentmindedly.
“What happens next?” I said. “I mean, at a reading like this? I’ve only ever been on this side,” I said, motioning to the audience seating.
“Well,” said Harriet, pondering. “They usually want you to go out for drinks and finger foods or something. The organizers, I mean. They like going out to a restaurant, being boisterous, commanding the other restaurant goers to look your way like you’re somebody important.”
“I see,” I said.
“Do you want to come?” she said with some trepidation.
“I don’t know,” I mused, looking away. “I’d certainly feel out of place. Wouldn’t it be weird?”
“Probably a little,” said Harriet. “I’m sure the organizers, my editor, other people from my publisher, they’d all wonder why I brought along my 20-something student.” She smiled and laughed softly. “But, I don’t know, who cares?”
“I think that might be a little weird for me,” I said. “I’m kind of an introvert.”
“I am too,” said Harriet. “But I suppose I have little choice in the matter.”
“I think I’m going to pass,” I said. I could tell Harriet was a little saddened by my decision, like she was eager to have a partner in crime accompany her to a event in which she had little interest. But being a tagalong sounded like hell to me and while I did feel interest in pleasing Harriet, I could tell she was the kind of woman who was far more pleased from being told no than getting everything she wanted.
“I want to see you, though,” said Harriet. “Maybe we could get together afterwards and talk?”
“Sure,” I said. Harriet read as complicated to me. I wasn’t quite sure what she saw in me, other than I was young and also interested in writing. Maybe I reminded her of someone. Maybe I was just a youthful conquest. I didn’t know. But I admit that I didn’t really mind it. Despite my front, which was really just a product of my introversion and uncertainty, I was rather smitten with Harriet as well. I just wasn’t sure how to convey it without seeming like an unsophisticated little admirer.
“Here,” said Harriet, digging her phone out of her blazer and beginning to type into it. After a moment and a final tap, she looked up to me and I heard my own phone buzz in my purse at my feet. “That’s my address. Why don’t you stop by later tonight? Around 10?”
“All right,” I acquiesced.
“You don’t have to,” said Harriet with caution. “It’s okay if you don’t want to.”
“Ms. Drake,” said another voice, this time a woman’s voice, interjecting into our conversation. This woman was older, probably in her late 60s or 70s, though she looked like prim, proper, put together. I could tell Harriet instantly recognized her as she looked away from me and at the woman.
“Mrs. Dalrymple,” said Harriet. “Hello.”
“Darwin Publishing would love to invite you out after the reading for drinks and discussion,” Mrs. Dalrymple said. “Would that be of interest to you?”
“Of course, Mrs. Dalrymple,” said Harriet. “I would be honored.”
“Terrific,” said Dalrymple. “We shall be assembling livery cars shortly and will let you know when we are ready.”
“Thank you,” said Harriet, offering a demure smile. Dalrymple smiled as well, bowed her head slightly and left us just as quickly as she had appeared.
“She’s an owner of Darwin,” said Harriet to me in a bit of a hushed voice. “The publishing house was started by her dead husband’s father.”
“Wow,” I said, looking after Mrs. Dalrymple as she made her way to a group of older people. They all addressed her with respect. “Isn’t Darwin based out of New York? Why is she here?” Harriet bit her lip and smiled sheepishly, looking a bit like she had done something naughty.
“Me,” she said matter-of-factly.
“You,” I said plainly. “Well look at that.”
“I don’t want to scare you away,” said Harriet. “I’m not like that world,” she admitted. “That fussy literary world. I mean, okay, I am just a little bit. But I was a punk rock girl in the 80s, I had a mohawk, I was a rebel.” I couldn’t help but snicker.
“I think it’s just… impressive,” I said. “You probably can’t tell from my face but I’m super envious.”
“So you’ll meet me at 10?” asked Harriet. She looked down to her watch. “They won’t want to stay past 9 or so at the restaurant. Just come over and we can talk in privacy.”
“Okay,” I said, picking my purse up from the floor and then standing up from my seat. Harriet watched me as I collected my things. “I’ll meet you at your place.”
“That’s great, Penny,” beamed Harriet happily.
“But I have one question,” I said with a bemused look on my face. “Why me?”
“What?” said Harriet, slightly confused. “Why you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I feel totally un-special around you, I’m a wannabe of this world you live in. Why me?”
“Just meet me, okay?” said Harriet. “I’m going to go to the Darwin people now. We can chat more later, all right?”
My Writing Professor: A Lesbian Romance Page 3