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 as 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 30 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 40 or 50 students in the last 10 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 29 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 19 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 going 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.
Teachers learn from students and students from teachers. And often we end up making love. And it has damn little to do with grades. I have 25 years of teaching ahead of me and I'm looking forward to every golden year of it. As they say in the profession, all you need is one good student in each class to make the job worthwhile. And I've sure as hell had that.
THE DEFLOWERING OF A LESBIAN STRIPPER
By Clark Gristus
Terri, a delicate, attractive 24-year-old woman, straddled me and guided my penis into her vagina. Then she rocked mechanically back .and forth on her hips. From the beginning of foreplay her lovemaking had been passive almost to the point of disinterest. I was incredulous. The last place I had expected to find prosaic sex was in a stripper's bed.
I was a rock musician on tour. Earlier that evening a mutual friend had introduced me to Terri in the Houston nightclub where I was playing.
“I'm not an exotic dancer,” Terri informed me. ‘’I'm a stripper.” She affected a world-weary, matter-of-fact monotone. But occasionally when recounting a bizarre detail in her life story—how her agent doublecrossed her or how a girlfriend had been murdered—she would suddenly burst into a giggle. And I would smile back to show that I sympathized with her often harrowing line of work.
Naturally, I found her lovemaking later that night not only lackluster but incongruous. Terri made her living as sexbomb April Magnolia. Yet she was a bad fuck. While performing she was ogled by sleazy businessmen and horny truckdrivers. Afterward she circulated among the crowd, inviting men to share a bottle of champagne with her in a back room for $50. I naively assumed that Terri would welcome uninhibited recreational sex as a change of pace.
Tern's place was off limits. Whenever she was in town a middle-aged man put her up for a few weeks so long as she occasionally slept with him. So we went to bed at her girlfriend's apartment.
Drawing Terri toward me, I nipped at a breast while reaching down to play with her clitoris. Her body was lithe and athletic, though uncannily white, as if untouched by sunlight. Delicately pink, hard nipples crowned her small breasts. My erection reasserted itself as my fingers ran through her tuft of pubic hair. I wanted her even more when I realized she shaved the edges of her cunt to make it look attractive on stage. I was sucking on a breast that thousands of men paid just to look at.
Yet her vagina was not wet. Her dry labia bunched up as I ran my finger along them. Cupping some saliva with my fingers, I slid a finger into her, then gently rubbed her clitoris with my thumb. But I observed no twitch of excitement and heard no soft moan of pleasurable enjoyment.
Terri's unresponsiveness was confusing. She had suggested that we spend the night together. She had also smiled mischievously and grabbed my erect penis while I was undressing. Now she seemed to be only enduring what she had precipitated. I felt both seduced and unwanted at the same time.
I mounted her and we screwed almost cursorily. Terri clung to me, but her fingernails did not dig. She moved her hips in rhythm with mine, but her head barely moved. Her snug vagina remained fairly dry thoughout. Mercifully, I came before long. “This isn't exotic,” I thought. “This is like being married.”