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Safesex - 1
Most married people have a story about how they met their spouses.
About my
ex-wife, the story isn't so interesting. But the story of how
I met
my fiancee is a little different.
I had better start by explaining about Amy. I had noticed her
on the first
day of class. Sitting in the front row of the classroom, looking
very serious
as she took notes, she had a certain attraction that was greater
than the sum
of any parts I could analyze.
What was it about her? I generally prefer tall women, but she
was the
sort of young woman who I tended to think of in her absence as
taller
than her 5'5" frame. Her face was fresh and pretty, rather
than beautiful,
but without a single flaw in her complexion. Her figure was not
the kind
that made you do a double-take, yet when you analyzed it you
could only
conclude that it was perfectly proportioned: curvy but slim hips,
and
breasts that were medium sized or maybe just a bit smaller. Her
hands
were graceful; her eyes were bright and inquisitive; her shoulder
length
hair was straight and tidy; her teeth were white and straight.
Kind of
the girl-next-door look, not a flashy kind of beauty, but one
that would
wear well over a long period of time, I thought.
In one way, I have misled you in my description of Amy. While
her eyes may
give the impression of intelligence, in point of fact she was
not a very
successful student. I didn't feel she was actually stupid, but
it didn't
take long for it to become clear that she was not going to do
well in this
class. Maybe she didn't work as hard as she needed to. Maybe
she was missing
some of the background material the other students already had.
Maybe it was
a full-blown case of math anxiety. Who knows, maybe it was simpler
than
that and she just wasn't very smart. None of this made her any
worse in my
eyes, since there's more to a woman than just book learning.
She had plenty
going for her even if she wasn't another Cantor.
Amy was not a flirt, during class or afterward, and on that first
day there
was nothing to make me think that anything unusual would happen
during the
quarter. My thoughts that day were directed toward giving a good
introductory
lecture. Although I appreciate the decorative value of the female
students in
my classroom, I had never harbored any illusions that they were
there for my
entertainment. First, because sexual harrassment is wrong; second,
because
math is just not the greatest turn-on for most gals ("wanta
come up to my
place, have something to drink, and memorize some dynamite multiplication
tables?"); and third because I'm too afraid of getting caught
and losing my
job. I don't think I'm a prude on the subject, but I know I've
gotten some
kidding from a couple of my friends about my somewhat oldfashioned
attitude.
Maybe I've missed out on some good times along the way as a result,
but I
have to believe I've missed out on a good deal of needless trouble
as well.
Better to take the safe course, I've always thought.
A few weeks into the course I administered the quarter's first
quiz. I
graded it strictly, since that first quiz of the autumn is for
some students
the shock to their system necessary to get started working on
the course
material. I emphasized to everyone that a poor grade on the quiz
did not
mean that they couldn't get a good grade for the course, but
as expected
the looks on some of the students' faces indicated that a serious
re-evaluation of their chances had taken place.
It's at this point that usually ten percent of the class decides
to drop the
course, and a larger number decides that they had better schedule
some office
time with the instructor. That's the whole point, of course,
to shake the
sleepy ones out of their doldrums. This class was no exception,
and I found
myself overbooked with students wanting help.
Amy was one of the students who signed up for office hours. She
had never
come up to talk with me after class, as many of the other students
often
did, so this was the first time we had spoken with each other.
Based just
on her looks and manner, I had her pegged as a Political Science
major, or
American Lit. Maybe even Art. I was mildly surprised when she
told me
that she was in the pre-med program. The College Algebra course
she
was taking from me was required in her program; more than that,
she told me
she had to earn at least a B. Although I didn't say so, I was
dubious about
her chances. I gave her my usual pep talk, tried to explain some
topics she
found confusing, and gave her references for further study. But
as she left,
I didn't get the feeling that I had done her much good. Maybe
it was because
she kept calling herself dumb the whole time she was there.
Although some of the students came back for second or even third
visits
during my office hours the next two weeks, Amy did not. I didn't
think
anything about that fact, since many of the students in a given
class
aren't really that motivated, and with upwards of 80 students
in the
class I didn't have the luxury of looking after each one if they
didn't
seek out attention. Amy attended each lecture, but never asked
questions,
and her notetaking appeared to be an exercise in trying to take
down each
syllable I uttered and each symbol I wrote on the board. With
some
students, this would indicate a lack of real interest in the
material,
and a desire just to know the probable contents of the final
exam, but
looking back I now interpret Amy's methodology as sheer desperation.
I
can guess that Amy's reluctance to visit me again was more a
reflection
of her fear of failure than of a lack of motivation.
Not surprisingly, when I gave the midterm exam, Amy's score was
the
lowest in the class. Sometimes a foreign student will do poorly
in a
class for a while, solely because of the language barrier, and
will
eventually catch on to the concepts and move up in the rankings.
But
when an American student like Amy finds herself near the bottom,
it's
much rarer for progress to be made as the quarter goes along.
What's
more, she was a sophomore, whereas most of the students in this
class
were freshmen. I have seen many freshmen start out slowly, because
of
the new environment college represents, and then catch fire as
the
quarter goes along, but this is much less likely with a second-year
student. Again, with perfect hindsight, I can speculate that
Amy knew
this would be a tough course for her, and she put it off until
her
advisor insisted she take it.
I don't know a teacher who doesn't feel awful when a student
tries and
still fails. The worst part is returning the graded exam paper
to the
student, seeing her take it with low expectations in her eyes,
and
watching her face fall when she sees that she has failed to come
up to
even those low expectations. Amy didn't cry, but you could see
she wanted
to.
I rather expected that she would visit during my office hours
that day, and
wasn't sure what I should or could say to help her. Honesty may
be the best
policy, but I also don't like to discourage a student who is
willing to
try-try-again. But once again I was busy enough with the students
who did
show up that I didn't have time to dwell upon the matter when
she didn't.
The next class session two days later marked a change in Amy's
manner. It was
difficult to describe exactly, and someone watching her for the
first time
might not have thought anything of it. She was dressed the same,
in her blouse
and jeans. One odd thing was that she was taking hardly any notes,
and another
was that she had a very strange smile at times. Not a self-confident
smile,
certainly not a happy smile, one that was forced and seemed to
be directed at
me. But it was also hesitant, and anytime I really looked in
her direction she
dropped her gaze after a second. I couldn't have put the reason
into words at
the time, but I felt somewhat flustered, and found myself stumbling
in my
delivery to the class.
After class, she walked down the hallway toward my office. For
more than
an hour she lurked in the hallway, wandering away for a few minutes,
then
returning to check if I was alone. I had seen this sort of behavior
before,
when a student is too embarrassed to let classmates see how badly
she is
doing. I was sure it was killing her to have her friends know
her troubles.
Pride goething before a fall, you know. It was late in the afternoon
before
the last student left and she finally entered my cramped office.
Quietly
she said, "I need some help." I told her that I had
a few minutes, and
motioned for her to sit down with me at my desk.
She listened as I went over her exam with her, nodding her head
and murmuring
"uh huh" when I would pause to see if she was following
my explanations. But
even more than the first time she visited, I got the feeling
that I wasn't
getting through to her. Unlike earlier in the classroom, her
face was almost
expressionless when I looked at her, and she rarely looked up
from the exam
paper. A couple of lightly humorous remarks I made evidently
did not register.
She seemed distracted by something. Finally, it was almost five
o'clock,
and I told her, "I have to leave soon. Perhaps you can
come again during
my office hours next Tuesday."
She touched me lightly on the arm for a moment, and said "please,
I need a
lot of help. Could we schedule some make-up time before that?"
It was a
hesitant yet determined touch, not quite seductive and yet something
more
than just an instinctive touch on the arm. I crossed my legs,
my own
instinctive reaction to hide the possibility of her seeing the
beginnings
of the erection that was stimulated by her touch. Was I imagining
things?
Was she coming on to me? With some girls I would have been sure,
yet Amy
seemed so innocent. She had not looked me in the eye when she
spoke, which
would have given me a better way to gauge her intentions. I certainly
did
not want to embarrass her, or myself, by making an inappropriate
comment
based on what was quite possibly my own imagination. I managed
to utter,
"what do you mean, make-up? You haven't missed any lectures
or exams."
She seemed embarrassed at her miswording, and mumbled, "I
dunno, I mean
some extra help. I really need to learn this material."
I exhaled. Yeah, I guess I had read into her question something
she hadn't
meant. I hoped she hadn't noticed my reaction, or at least would
forgive me
if she had. It was an understandable mistake, after all.
Except, she continued, "it's pretty hard for me. Or maybe
I'm just making it
harder than it needs to be. Sometimes I like to, y'know, make
things hard.
That's what my boyfriend says." Was it just me, or did she
also realize the
double entendre she was making? She wasn't looking at me, and
there was
nothing else in her manner to suggest anything like that. I decided
to try
to back away from that line of conversation, just in case she
was trying to
lead me on. I replied, "well, I suppose I could come in
for a while tomorrow.
How about 10?" She continued to look at the papers in front
of her, and said,
"I've got classes most of the day tomorrow. Would you have
time sometime this
evening?"
I again wondered if I should read something between the lines
in her
request? Yet her delivery was so flat, and she seemed so introverted,
that I had to doubt the conclusion I was drawing. "No, I
have to get
to a meeting in a few minutes on the other side of town,"
I lied.
"Anyway, maybe you should be trying to find a tutor, who
could
give you what you need." I mentally winced at the choice
of phrase.
Did she understand the double meaning that could be inferred?
I was
ashamed of myself for even worrying about the way to phrase an
innocent
question. My conscience was clean, after all. "There's a
list of tutors
on the wall opposite the department office," I went on.
"I've never had much luck with those guys. They always seem
to be as
confused as I am. I'd really, really appreciate it if you could
find
some time for me. What about after your meeting tonight?"
She seemed
sincere, yet how could she not know how personal her suggestion
sounded?
On the other hand, was I getting worked up over something entirely
in my
imagination? On the third hand, if she was trying to come on
to me, couldn't
she be more original than talking about 'appreciation'? On the
fourth hand,
how many hands do I have, anyway?
I pointed out that they keep the building locked after hours.
"Maybe you
have a friend who could help?" I suggested. "My boyfriend
took Calculus,
but he just makes fun of me when I ask him questions about math.
Could I
come over to your house? What time will you get home?" she
persisted.
My hormones were working like they hadn't in a long time, not
since I met the
gal that had precipitated my divorce. I looked at Amy's face.
She had for just
a moment turned slightly toward me, but now quickly looked back
at her papers,
avoiding my eyes. I made the mistake of letting my eyes wander
below her
shoulders. Her words sounded so suggestive as to be laughable,
yet her manner
indicated that she was thinking about nothing but studying to
raise her
failing grade. How simple it would be if I would just ask her,
"are you
proposing a lay-for-an-A, or what?", and tell her to forget
it, but what if
I was wrong? Embarrassment, at the least, possibly real trouble
with the dean,
if she complained to someone. No, best to play it cool. I should
just tell
her, "no, I don't think that would be a good idea."
But she was so
attractive to me, the horny part of my brain wanted to find out
what she
intended. And so innocent, that the logical part of my brain
wanted to
believe that she was completely unaware of the impact that her
suggestions
were having on me. With the two halves of my brain pre-occupied
like that,
I had no extra brainpower for talking, so I blurted, "you
don't know where
I live." Dumb. Or, maybe the horny part of a guy's mind
will always win.
She responded to my non-sequitur with one of her own, saying,
"I've got
a bike." If there was a hint of seductiveness in her eyes,
or even humor,
I was missing it. Just a simple, factual statement, like "I've
got a
pencil", or "I've got a million bucks", or "I've
got a wet pussy just
waiting for you." There went my brain again. Gotta stop
thinking like
that.
"It's a long ride. I don't know if it'll be worth your time."
The horny
part of my mind was keeping this line of conversation going,
yet doing so
betrayed the fact that I was wavering in my resolve. If, indeed,
she was
even thinking what I was thinking. She replied, "you're
the best teacher
I know, I'm sure you'll be able to help me." Not even a
hint of a suggestion
of a trace of an improper proposal there, was there? Especially
considering
the alternative replies she could have made. ("Oh Teacher,
I'm sure it'll
be worth it for you too. Pant pant.") The conflicting sides
of my brain
came to an agreement that I was getting worked up over nothing.
Of course,
if I was such a great teacher (to take her remark at face value),
how come
she was flunking my class?
I looked at my watch. "Well, I don't think you should come
over alone. Can
you bring someone along, maybe your boyfriend?" She thought
for a moment, then
said yes. "OK, I should be home by about nine. Bring your
books," (duh, like
she was going to bring a dildo and some Crisco), "and I'll
help you for
an hour or so." I gave her directions to my apartment, glad
to have
figured out a way to defuse a touchy situation.
I found myself driving home very carefully. My mind was so woozy
from the
extra adrenalin I had been pumping, and then the letdown, that
I had to
concentrate on the road or I'd run off it. Now that she had agreed
to, I
wondered if it was really necessary to have insisted she bring
someone.
I thought, so what if she came alone, a few cheap thrills for
me, all in
my mind, and she'd never be the wiser. I can think what I want,
and as
long as I don't act on it, no harm done. She doesn't even know
for sure
that I live alone. For all she knows, I'm happily married to
my gay
lover. And anyway, I don't think she means any harm.
Soon after I walked into my apartment, the phone rang. It was
Amy. "Hi,
I'm glad I found you at home. I thought you were going to a meeting,"
she
said in her customary toneless voice. "Uh, actually, I,
uh, found out my
meeting has been cancelled at the last minute," I said,
embarrassed to be
caught in a lie, and glad that I had thought up a second falsehood
that
would cancel the first. "Would you and your boyfriend rather
come over a
little earlier?" "That's what I wanted to call about.
My boyfriend, like,
can't come. But I still, you know, want to come see you anyway."
Hoo boy. And here I thought I had it all worked out. My erection
started
to form again, and since I was alone I fingered it idly through
my pants
pocket, before deciding that that was an especially foolish thing
to be doing.
"Well, I don't know..." "Please, sir, I really
need your help. It would
mean a lot to me." There was something about the way she
called me sir that
weakened my resolve. Damn, I wished I could see her face, to
help me tell if
there was anything to my suspicions as to what she meant. I had
to go by
my assessment when I saw her earlier, which was that she was
merely naive.
"Well, OK, for a little while." "Um, can I come
now? Would that make it
hard for you?" "Uh, give me a little time to eat and
clean up, OK? How about
8?" "Um, OK. See you." Click. I wondered what
I was letting myself in for.
My attention wandered as I prepared myself dinner, and I had
a near-mishap
with a paring knife. After my sumptuous repast of spaghetti and
meatballs
(no garlic, just in case - who am I kidding?), I decided to straighten
up
the place. Chuckling to (at?) myself, I took a few minutes to
clean up the
bedroom as well. If I'm going to kid myself, I might as well
be thorough.
Cleaning up took less time than I expected, mostly because I
did such a
poor job of it, and I sat down to read a magazine. But I couldn't
concentrate on it. I decided, however, that I was really enjoying
the
adrenalin rush I was feeling. I began to mull over the possibilities.
Maybe she would arrive wearing a bikini, come through the front
door and lead
me to the bedroom, and .... Nah. I didn't know her well, but
that didn't seem
to be her style. Maybe she would play it straight for a while
and pretend
to study with me, then at some point slip her hand onto my leg
and
rub it, moving closer to my crotch until she was giving me a
handjob,
then ask if I'd like to do something more. Yeah, that would be
nice.
But again, she's coming over just to study, and anything else
is just
my hormones talking.
It was a little less than an hour and a half before she was to
be there. I
decided to do a better job of cleaning the bathroom. After all,
a gal might
need to go pee even if she's just there to study. While in the
bathroom, I
considered that maybe the wisest course would be to jerk off
now, so that
I wouldn't be tempted to actually do anything when she was here.
Funny how
those childhood associations with the bathroom continue into
adulthood. It's
just a good thing my friend Dan isn't coming over here this evening,
I
thought. He had been with me at that bar when I met Deborah,
and although
I had been definitely attracted to her, there was no doubt in
my mind that
it would never have gone beyond just playful touching and dirty
talk with
her if he hadn't been egging me on. Not that I blamed Dan for
my divorce.
Maybe I should call Dan anyway and invite him to come over while
Amy was
here. Wouldn't that put a charge in her circuits!
Maybe Mike; that might be fun for her. Or better still, my three
fishing
buddies from up north. Boy, they could be crude; I'd like to
see Amy's
reaction when one of them pinched her nipple in front of everyone.
There
I go again, I thought. Even if she is desperate for a good grade,
I don't
want to see her humiliated, do I? She is so sweet and innocent,
and here I
am thinking such thoughts. Of course, if she is coming over to
seduce her
professor, then maybe she isn't so sweet, and definitely not
so innocent.
It's not that she has anything bad coming to her, but she might
deserve to
be taught a lesson.
I sat back down in the living room and resumed reading. Still
an hour to go.
I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood to clear my
head. It was an
unseasonably warm autumn evening, and the fresh air felt good.
But the dark
thoughts continued to loom in my head. I thought of the double
entendres
she had been dropping. "My boyfriend can't come." "Would
that make it
hard for you." "I like to make things hard." Well,
if she really is
interested in trading a little hanky-panky for a grade, then
she can't
insist on being too particular about every detail of the transaction.
In fact, if she needs this grade as badly as she says she does,
she is
in no position to dictate any of the conditions of the deal.
I caught myself again at this point. Isn't that the fantasy of
a dorky
teacher, that he can get free sex in exchange for a good grade?
I felt
ashamed, but not so much so that my erection subsided any. There's
a
first time for everything, even screwing a student. But the situation
would have to be just right.
OK, so what could I expect from this young woman? Slam bam, thank
you ma'm?
She could no doubt be convinced to give a bit more. Probably
a blowjob first
if I played my cards right. Caryn had never been too keen on
that particular
activity when we were married, which had made it more of an issue
to me than
it rightfully should have. So, yeah, Amy should be made to sample
the sausage.
What about after that? I'm not really into anal sex, but maybe
just once it
might be fun, with a girl who's not in any position (ha ha) to
argue. Would
she permit herself to be tied up? I considered that, and realized
that I
didn't have the necessary equipment on hand. The ladies I date
aren't very
kinky, and anyway I don't know anything about the subject. That
kind of
activity is very tricky or someone can actually get hurt.
I realized I was getting too far from my apartment, getting near
a bad section.
I turned back. My realization that I was near our small red-light
district
caused another wave of guilt to come over me. I have never, never,
come even
close to screwing one of my students. Not that I get that many
opportunities,
but I have always been careful to not emphasize the power a teacher
has
in giving grades, and to not make comments that could be misinterpreted.
Hell, I always make it a point to say "arrive" instead
of "come", and
"difficult" instead of "hard" when talking
to a female student. It's
a form of sexism, I'm sure, but a benign sort that makes certain
that no
one gets any wrong ideas. Now here I am, thinking about the possible
sex
acts I might perform with a student who will be, er, arriving
in half
an hour. Well, I decided, if she didn't try anything I'd just
play it
cool, and if she did come on to me then maybe I'd lead her on
a bit before
telling her to forget it. Cheap thrills, I repeated.
Besides, there's lots of times professors have students over
to their
place. Usually it's a group of students, and the professor is
someone
in the Sociology department hosting a rap session (like, wow,
maaaan),
but the point is, having a student over does not automatically
mean
something is going on. It might not look good to every single
old prude
out there, but that didn't make it wrong. Then again, that analysis
was
bullshit, since the ideas going around in my mind definitely
WERE wrong.
I walked back up the steps to my apartment, went to the bathroom,
then came
back to the living room and sat down on the couch. The kidneys
sure were
working overtime tonight. Again I tried to read my magazine.
The article I
turned to was about why the U.S. educational system wasn't teaching
its
students well enough. Just what I needed. I went to the fridge
and got a
can of pop. No beer tonight. I didn't want to do something I
later would
regret and blame it on the alcohol.
I went to the bathroom again. Though I felt like I needed to
pee, just
a little bit came out. I caught myself checking whether my underwear
was
clean. Old boy, I thought, you are setting yourself up for a
big letdown.
I went back to the living room, and turned up the thermostat
a couple of
degrees. It was a nice night, but you wouldn't want her to get
too cold
in her birthday suit, I chuckled to myself.
Why was I even contemplating such a risk to my career, for just
an
evening of fun? Stupid, stupid, stupid. I asked myself what it
would
take to be worth the risk. Maybe more than just one night of
fun. What
if she could be talked into repeat performances? I felt a major
wave of
horniness come over me with that thought. Now, that would be
something
closer to being worth it. The thought of reducing this apparently
classy
girl to the level of common slut was unexpectedly stimulating.
But I would
still have to protect myself somehow, from there being the slightest
chance of word getting out. What kind of leverage could I have,
once she
had her grade?
How many of her other teachers had gone through this charade?
I should
make a righteous stand tonight, and explain to her that trying
to get
by in school by sleeping with her professors is wrong. Corny,
but the
right thing to do. Yet, when I thought of her, I couldn't bring
myself
to believe that she had done this before. If I sensed her leading
me
on, and I wasn't sure that I did, I also sensed humiliation and
pain,
certainly not what you'd expect from a girl to whom this was
old hat.
I was going to have to find out, for my own peace of mind, just
what Amy wanted. Probably she was just naive, and had no clue
what
her visit was doing to my imagination. If on the other hand she
is
already just another slut, then so be it, I don't have to get
involved.
My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. I looked
at the clock.
Ten minutes before eight. Heart pounding, I opened the door,
and was greeted
by a young girl who asked if I'd like to buy some candy for her
school's
fundraiser. Sure, kid, just don't come inside the apartment or
you'll get
molested by the pervert with the dirty thoughts. I gave her the
two dollars,
shut the door and returned to the couch.
I realized that I was disappointed that it hadn't been Amy yet.
I was really looking forward to seeing her, prepared to find
out
that she was really and truly coming over just to study, hoping
for
it to be something more, dreading that the "something more"
was her
usual M.O. for passing a course.
About the time I found my place in the magazine again, there
was another
knock at my door. It was Amy.
(continued) |