MY HOT TEACHER: (Volume 5 of the "My Hot..." series; a stand-alone, New Adult novel) (13 page)

“Not really.  But you made me hot.  As usual.”

“Good.”

“Tell me the truth, do you outline actual lesson plans for our nights together?”

He laughs.

I laugh.

“
Not really
,” he responds, imitating my tone.  “Maybe a little pre-planning.  I don’t want you to get bored.”

“That’s as likely as Miley Cyrus reprising Hannah Montana.”

He stands, expression neutral.  I’m not sure he caught the reference. 

He says, “You never know.” 

He turns away.

Bathroom, yeah, of course, shower, too.

The sense of suddenly being alone sinks in almost immediately.  It’s not just being alone, it’s being separated.  He’s just yards from me, yet so far away.  I rise from his bed and go to his desk.  There’s something that’s been on my mind since I denuded him online.  I’ve been trying to remember the exact words his old girlfriend Monica used in the note he saved in the desk drawer.  Something like
sorry you couldn’t love me
, something that could provide reassurance that it’s not simply me who inspires his emotional limitations.

I pull back the drawer.  I find the note, but before reading it, pick up another card that’s on top of it, a cream colored one that was not here the last time I checked.  I bring the card up to my nose and inhale a sweet lavender perfume.  I open it, notice first the flowery feminine handwriting...then my eyes widen, vision fully in play now as I read

Last night was lovely...

P

CHAPTER TWENTY

P
?

P
is for
pissed-off
.  Certainly how I feel as I toss and turn all night, unable to fall asleep after discovering the new love note in the Professor’s desk drawer.

I know I have no right to be.  There was never a mention of exclusivity in our relationship.  He made it clear from the start what the limitations are.  He warned me to temper my feelings.  He encouraged me to see other people.  Randy Sawyer sure counts!

But if the beginning-of-the-semester break up brought me down, and the one night dictum kept me off balance, now the distinct possibility that he’s seeing someone else triggers the very core of what I’ve been trying to bury since coming to college: an unsettling sense of
unworthiness
.

But I refuse to cry about it.

If I was smart I would end it now. 

Or simply dial it down as low as possible, settle for my fix on Tuesday nights, chalk it up to experience, and hope that graduate school provides the backdrop for the break through I’m so desperately looking for.

But I so want to believe that someone can’t possibly make love to me the way he does while possessing only two hours of feelings a week.

I so want to believe that his true heart will somehow emerge if I only remain patient, don’t overreact or ask for too much, and get past the boundaries of his emotional scars.

So I just have to know.

I have to know for sure if there’s someone else and what she means to him so I can give up the ridiculous notion that he will someday love me the way I love him.

I have to know what
P
has that I don’t.

On Saturday there’s an admissions open house for high school seniors who have already been accepted to Walls for next fall but are still undecided.  The entire faculty is required to attend, which means Professor Beard will be there.  I volunteer to help.

The event is in the gym, the floor covered with a heavy tarp.  One side has a brunch buffet and round tables and chairs.  The other side has rectangular tables for each academic department.  Faculty members huddle in their appropriate area.  Parents and their children crowd the space.  I’m stationed at the entrance, handing out one page itineraries for the day with specific times and locations for the financial aid seminar, campus tour, and alum meet and greet.  It seems almost a lifetime ago when I was immersed in the same intimidating search for the right school, but only a few days ago when I fought off some of the same insecurities.

Professor Beard enters the gym, walks in my direction.  I don’t run up to him and give him a big kiss or ask him to tell me who the hell
P
is, though both thoughts cross my mind.  I need to be patient, discreetly observe him in places outside the classroom and bedroom.

“Good morning, Professor Beard.”

“Same to you, Celine.   So nice to see you.”

He strolls past me toward the English table.

After most of the guests arrive and busy themselves with eating or chatting up the faculty I have a free moment to take a seat.  My eyes wander toward the English department.  Three male professors, along with Professor Beard and the one English female faculty member form a circle and chat lightheartedly.  I had all of the males as teachers and most bored me to death with Chaucer, Restoration Drama, and Old Norse Sagas, courses I needed to fulfill my major requirements.  Professor Beard is a tornado of fresh air in more ways than one.

The female professor is new this past fall as well.  She and Professor Beard are actually just outside the circle, seemingly having their own conversation.  He says something and her head rears back with laughter.  At the same time she touches the sleeve of his sport jacket.

I scramble for my smartphone, go right to the Walls website, then
English Department
, then
Faculty
.  It’s Dr.
P
aula
Withers!

Of course it’s a faculty member, someone womanly, sophisticated, probably well-published with a couple of PhDs who can read his fiction and give him solid feedback, who has been around the block a few times and knows not to be so needy after a little campus drama.

I wander over to the academic tables for a closer look. 

She’s beautiful, in her early thirties, in that Sylvia Plath pale petite features, shoulder length wavy hair, mysterious smile, vacant
I don’t have long to live
sort of way.

Someone hot who probably has a shitload of sex tricks of her own. 

I may have good instincts but I haven’t really brought one new sexual item to the bedroom.  What personal history can I bring: whip out a porn mag, give the Professor a hickey, wave my pussy at him?

As I near the English table I strain to hear the conversation, something about the new season of
American Idol
.  What a scholarly crew!  Professor Beard is quiet.  He doesn’t even own a TV. 

Just as I pass I notice the wedding band on Professor
P
’s finger.

Just because her first name is Paula and she’s gorgeous doesn’t mean she’s sleeping with my man.

But maybe the Professor likes all of his sex taboo, from a student to a married colleague.

Professor Beard waves as I walk by. 

I flutter a few fingers in his direction.

Professor
P
smiles a friendly hello, as if she knows me.

On Monday I look forward to my Advanced Yoga class.  My shoulders have gotten broader, distinct lines form my triceps, and the best are the abs.  I’ve always been skinny, but before yoga my belly was definitely going soft.  Now it’s hard flat with lined muscle.  When in class I can forget about the break up, the back together, the one night, OCD, and now Paula Withers...who can’t possibly be this toned!

Except shortly into this evening’s class Professor Beard walks into the cardio room and guess who trails behind him?

I’m forced to sit in the yoga room, torture myself into pretzel-like positions, and watch the two of them on adjacent bikes pedaling and giggling away.  He looks so much more relaxed with her: Professor Beard relaxed, as he is in class, but with his guard down.  In his bedroom there always seems to be an energy expended to stay in character. 

He’s human, right?

It must take significant effort to reel in his passion when our two hours are up.

Now he pedals on his bike, laughs, smiles at his training partner without any effort at all.

I feel like the stationary bike.  I have a rider who works me furiously, but I’m not going anywhere.

Tuesday night is certainly an Echo Lane aberration.  For the first time it’s not earth shattering.  The Professor tries to engage me with a variety of dominant dialogue.  And I do my best to respond as an obedient Sub should.  He’s patient as always, paying great attention to detail.  But it’s difficult to put my whole heart into it knowing he’s probably sleeping with someone else.

He doesn’t question me.  I know I should just come right out and ask.  But then I’ll probably have to mention the note and he’ll know I was snooping again.  I have to be totally sure before making a move.  He could have just gotten friendlier with Professor Withers over the break; they were both hired at the same time. 
Last night
doesn’t have to mean sex.  She could’ve been thanking him for inviting her and her husband over for dinner.

Wasn’t I wrong about him as The Hairslasher?  My adolescent insecurities led to our break up in the first place!  They lead to all of my issues.

I don’t want to step backwards.

But I really need to know!

I don’t need him to love me.

Yet.

I just need more.

Studying at UNH next fall, unrestricted by the taboo of teacher/student, we could go on actual dates.

How cool it would be just to take a walk with him along the trail circling the nearby reservoir.

How awful it would be to lose even our wonderful Tuesday nights because someone else got in the way.

Every Friday afternoon, the English department hosts a wine and cheese party at the English House.  I stopped going freshman year.  It’s mostly English majors sucking up to their current professors and faculty relishing yet another opportunity to be fawned upon.

I can’t help going.  I’m definitely a masochist.  But I need to confirm the Beard/Withers connection.

What a joke that the bartender cards every student.  Not that it matters since I’m twenty-one.  Not that I drink anyway.  Every student at Walls under twenty-one has a fake ID.  I heard one lacrosse player actually has an Hawaiian driver’s license that simply reads
McLovin
and never runs into a problem.

I stick to carrots and celery, try to mingle, pretend to study the glass case housing faculty published books.  Professors Beard and Withers are at different ends of the small oak paneled room. 

There are less than a dozen students.  Of course Sharon’s here.  She probably hasn’t missed an English House wine and cheese since she enrolled.  She’s surely bucking for valedictorian.  She looks gorgeous: short skirt, not tight, but it seems that if there’s any wrong move or a sudden wind her panties would be on full display.  But it’ll never happen.  She’s too smooth.  Her elegant top is cut low, plump breasts revealed in full glory.  Her make-up is perfect and one can’t help focus on her beautiful eyes which seem highlighted in such a deep, dark way they almost seem animated.

Sharon approaches me, half-filled wine glass in hand, gives me a friendly
hi
. 

I say
hi
back.

“It’s almost over,” she adds.

“Seems like we were just at orientation.”

“What are your plans?”

“Waiting to hear from grad schools.”

“Me, too.”

She asks where I’ve applied.  I tell her.  She then lists almost every Ivy League institution.

All the attention Sharon has given her teachers, the revealing outfits have certainly paid off. 

No, I’m just being a cynical bitch again, as Katia would say. 

The times I listened to Sharon’s papers read aloud in class it was plain to see she’s a smart and brilliant writer.  I heard she has published several short stories as well.

A freshman geek heads toward the bar, already sloshed, or pretending to be, and bumps into Sharon from behind as he squeezes between her and the professor standing nearby.  This causes Sharon to lurch forward and spill her wine on my top.

“Oh, my God!” cries Sharon.  “I’m so sorry.  Let me get some napkins.”

She hurries to the cheese buffet.

The adjacent groups of attendees look at me with sympathy.  No one else seems to notice.  It’s embarrassing but the least of my worries as my faces turns crimson with emotion.

When Sharon was nudged forward I got a whiff of a very distinctive, familiar, lavender perfume.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Everything sucks since I’ve been back at school,” I say to Katia over the phone the night of the English House wine and cheese party.  Fortunately, my roommate is at her boyfriend’s again.  Several balls of moist tissues litter the floor.  “Sorry to be so self-pitying.”

“Time to cut this guy loose.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Is great sex really worth it?”

“Yes.”

Katia laughs and I can’t help joining her.

I add, “I just don’t like feeling so insecure.”

“When have we ever not?”

“I don’t think I did these past few months.  It’s awesome to have such a hot lover.  If I wasn’t secure I probably would’ve kept Randy around for back up.”

“Randy Sawyer as back up,” echoes Katia.  “I’d like to be in that world.”

“I’m sorry to burden you with this.  I know you have your own shit.”

“Celine, my love, this is what nerd BFFs do!” 

I laugh again.

Katia can always make me laugh.

“Do you think our kids will be nerdy?” I ask.

“Decent chance, but at least we’ll be able to give them advice backed up by experience.”

“I love you so much.”

There’s a pause.  Is Katia tearing up as well?

“So let me get this straight,” Katia finally interjects.  “You saw a note thanking him for last night signed by
P
.  No date, so you’re not sure it’s current.  You saw him cozying up with a professor whose first name is
Paula
and she’s married.  But now you smell the exact same perfume from the note on Sharon the grade whore.”

“She’s incredibly hot, has way bigger boobs, and is a much better writer.”

“So now you think the Professor might simply have a fetish for dominating students and this makes you feel like just another on the list while you think you really love him.”

“I think I do.”

“How do you think it started with Sharon?”

“She’s from Thailand.  I’m guessing she didn’t go home over break and made her move.”

“Okay,” says Katia.  “A definite possibility.  But her name is Sharon.  Duh!  Why would she write
P
?”

“I’ve thought about that.”  I reach for another tissue and wipe my nose.  “There are a number of foreign Asian students at Walls.  A lot of them use western names instead of their real Asian names.”

“So you think she could be Phnom Penh or something like that?”

“Stop!”  I’m giggling, despite not wanting to.

“When you laugh you don’t cry.”

There’s a longer pause.

Finally, with resurging emotion I say, “Ever since I hooked up with the Professor I felt I was getting closer to the person I want to be.  The petty side of college life stopped fazing me as much.  I didn’t care what others thought about me.  And I guess that made me close to happy.  But now....Am I someone who inspired a very sexy intelligent man, someone to be valued for who she is, or at least for her own sexiness?  Or am I just a play thing for an emotionally handicapped human being who can easily be tossed aside when someone hotter comes along?”

I’m on the border of losing it.

“Smush, stop, please.  You’re one amazing babe.  Hot, smart, with so much passion to give that a guy is lucky just to have you glance his way.”

“He could be fucking someone else!  It makes me feel almost as shitty as following a drunk guy to his room minutes after we just met, being rejected by someone who had just given me a half-dozen hickies, letting a hairslasher be my friend even after he waved his dick at me!”

“Wait,” says Katia.  “You never told me Slasho waved his dick at you.”

But Katia has no luck this time changing my tears to laughter.

My voice cracks as I say, “Why am I, a senior in college, still letting what goes on with men bring me to my knees?”

There’s another long silence.

Until Katia says, “You know what?  I was planning on just chillin’ at home for spring break.  But there’s a change of plans.  I always wanted to see Walls.  And this is probably my last chance.  So I’m going to get on a bus to New Hampshire on Sunday and hang with my girl while both of us get to the bottom of this one way or the other!”