When It's Love (8 page)

I grab a glass of water from the kitchen and take a deep breath. I’m finally alone and now I can read Professor Sparling’s email over and over again. I take off my parka and sit down at my little table with my laptop. I reread the email twice, lingering over every word. The line,
“Your firm, round breasts are in my palms and I’m running my thumbs over your nipples”
undoes me. I’m as aroused as I’ve ever been and that’s what Professor Sparling wants to hear.
“Tell me how much you want me.”
I read those words time and again and I think of Henry telling me to give this all I’ve got. OK, Professor, I’ll tell you how much I want you. That is exactly what I’m going to do right now.

Professor Sparling,

This is how much I want you: present tense and unfettered

I hear an unexpected knock on my apartment door. I open it and you’re standing there in a deep blue fitted t-shirt and light, distressed jeans. Your pitch-black hair is mussed – perfectly imperfect. Your eyes are sleepy in a very sexy way. Stubble covers your chin and strong, square jaw. You’re holding a dozen long-stem red roses in your hand and you offer them to me as I stare at you, my mouth agape with surprise. “These are for you,” you say.

“Thank you,” I say. “Please come in.”

You look around my apartment and pet the cats while I arrange the roses in a vase.

“Cute place,” you say.

I fill the vase with water and turn around to face you, leaning back against the sink. You check me out, from my bare feet, to my tight black yoga pants, to my thin white t-shirt through which you can see the outline and texture of my black, lacy bra.

We’re a few feet from each other and neither of us is moving. We’re staring into each other’s eyes, both breathing heavily. I’m afraid to move. You’re my professor, and you’re standing before me in my apartment. I’ve dreamed of this for so long.

Thankfully, you’re not afraid to approach me and you saunter over, your eyes never leaving mine, your head cocked slightly to the left. Your lips are parted. You are now face to face with me. Your hands reach up to hold my face titling it upward, making sure my eyes never leave yours. “Don’t take your eyes off me,” you whisper sternly. “And remember you have to do as I say if you want to keep that A+ you got in my class.”

My desire grows with every syllable you murmur. You run your hands down my cheeks, and then trace my lips with one finger. My knees feel weak and my eyes are on the verge of closing, my lips now tingling and begging to meet yours. “I want my A+, Prof,” I whisper in reply.

You bring your face to mine. We’re almost nose to nose, our lips less than an inch apart. Your breath is warm. I’m desperate for your kiss. “Can I close my eyes?” I whisper.

“Not yet,” you say. You take a half step back, slide your hands down my sides until you reach the hem of my t-shirt. In one swift movement you pull it up and over my head. You toss the shirt on the floor and your face is right back in front of mine.

Your dark green eyes are full of passion as you tug on the waist of my yoga pants, pulling them just low enough to expose my pelvic bones. “Kiss me,” I say.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” you whisper as you kneel, all the while still looking up at my eyes. I reach down and run my fingers through your hair. You finally break eye contact when you place a small kiss just above my hips. Then another kiss just above that and another until you’ve crossed my navel and kissed your way all the way up to my breasts. You stand up tall again and slide the straps of my bra down. As the bra slips lower my nipples are partly exposed. You place a tiny kiss on the rim of each dark pink circle and then lift your head so we’re eye to eye again.

I’m lost in your touch and I need more of it. I think you’re finally going to kiss me. Your lips are so close to mine again and I feel the heat of your body as it nears me. I want you, Professor Sparling. I want you so badly. Do you know what you do to me? Stop teasing me like this.

You pull away from me and take a few steps back. You look me up and down, and a sultry half-smile appears on your face.

“Take off your pants, Sydney,” you say.

I don’t hesitate for a minute. I simply do as I’m told and you watch me push the pants just low enough to expose the triangle of my white satin thong. You let out a quiet groan that tells me you like what you see and you want me as much as I want you.

So my bra is falling off and my pants are on their way down. It’s your turn now, Professor. I may not get to make the rules, here, but if you want this to keep going, you’ll have to tell me you what happens next.

I click send without rereading a word since I’m afraid of cringing at what I’ve written. I really don’t want to lose my nerve at this point. Distraction is now seriously necessary so I make a quick transition to the Zappos website and try to stave off my passion with images of shoes. It’s the virtual equivalent of having a bucket of cold water dumped on my head. Staring at shoes certainly does the trick, and as I’m cooling off, a pair of pricey Steve Maddens catches my eyes – black with a four-inch spike heel and Mary Jane style strap. All I can think is that these shoes are worth a splurge because they’d be perfect for a sexy schoolgirl outfit. My wanton thoughts start to take over my brain again (so much for cooling off), and one of them surprises me: Those shoes are exactly what I’ll need when I’m alone with my professor. How can I be thinking ‘when’ I’m alone with my professor instead of ‘if’ I’m alone with my professor? Am I becoming confident that something is really going to happen?

Confidence doesn’t come easily to someone who grew up never feeling loved or wanted. For some reason, though, these email exchanges with Professor Sparling – loaded as they are with uncertainty – make me feel stronger, more secure, and even powerful. Logically, they should make me feel nothing but anxious: What if he doesn’t get my message and thinks I didn’t reply to him? What if he doesn’t reply at all? What if this is all one big joke to him and he’s sitting around with his friends laughing at my messages? Has he done this with lots of his students? If he has, do I care? Do I care about feeling special, or is it enough to just get laid by the man of my dreams? That’s not exactly a fairytale ending, but it is some version of getting what I want.

I take a deep breath and remind myself that it’s been fewer than 24 hours since this whole thing began.
Slow down, Syd
, I tell myself. A call from Henry startles me.

“So what did you write to the old man?” he asks.

“Just the usual stuff students say to their professors: When are your office hours? Can I turn in my paper late? Do you want to see me naked?”

“Atta girl,” Henry says. “You get naked for him.”

“I don’t think we’re quite there yet,” I say. “It’s only been one day.”

“One day,” Henry snorts, “is the longest relationship I’ve ever had.”

“Some of us take it a tad bit slower, Henry,” I say.

“Well don’t take it too slow,” Henry says. “Who knows how long the old dude will be around.”

“Henry!” I shriek. “He’s not that old. He’s like 43.”

“Exactly,” Henry says. “Someone that age probably grew up playing pinball and watching the only three TV channels that existed.”

“Now are you also going to claim he only watched black-and-white TV?”

“Yes! Only black-and-white. Professor Sparling is so ancient he had a pet dinosaur growing up and if you told him you’re into anal, he’d think you were talking about a colonoscopy.”

“That’s too gross,” I squeal.

“That’s what you’re in for if you get involved with a granddaddy,” Henry teases.

“He’ll be going on and on about his prostate issues before you know it.”

“Hennnrrryy, stop! You’ve gotten carried away. I have to ask you something serious. Can we talk for real now without ridiculing my taste in old dudes?”

“Of course,” Henry says. I can tell he’s suppressing a chuckle.

“Is it weird that these email exchanges are really turning me on?” I ask bashfully.

“What’s weird about it? We live in the era of sexting. This is how it’s done, baby!”

“Yes, but this feels much bigger than that. I don’t know how to explain it, but something about Professor Sparling’s emails feels familiar. It’s almost like he knows me. How does he know exactly what to say to turn me on?”

“Maybe the same lines work on all chicks,” Henry says smugly.

“You would know,” I retort.

“Or you might be feeling something that’s really there.”

“But all Professor Sparling knows about me is what I wrote in my personal essay.”

“Speaking of that essay, as your best friend, don’t you think I find it insulting that you’ve shared your secrets with an elderly professor instead of with me? Are you ever going to let me read it?”

“Sure,” I say, though I have no intention of doing so. “I’ll send it later.”

“Don’t forget,” Henry says.

“Don’t be insulted,” I reply, and I quickly change the subject. “What should I bring to Christmas dinner? Flowers? Wine? Dessert?”

“Just your beautiful self,” Henry says. “Though my mother invited you to stay overnight, so maybe you bring a change of clothes.”

“She’s so sweet. I’d love to,” I say. I slept at Ottawa Estate twice last year, once on Christmas and then again on New Year’s. I know my cats are lonely for a night when I’m away, but other than those two kitties there’s nothing keeping me at home. And a night at Ottawa Estate is like a vacation in a five star hotel. The rooms are decorated in a palatial-style, with four-poster beds, crisp white sheets with gold trim, chairs upholstered in velvet, and hand painted vanity tables. Each guest room has a full bathroom with a claw-foot tub, marble floors, and linen hand towels beside the sink with Ottawa embroidered on their edges in navy blue cursive letters.

“Did you buy shoes?” Henry asks.

“Almost,” I say.

“Do it,” Henry demands. “If you show up to Christmas dinner in hot, new clothes and those hiking boots of yours, I don’t know what I’ll do with you.”

“OK,” I say giggling. “I’m on it.”

I hang up the phone and order the Steve Maddens, feeling guilty for spending so much money on shoes. But since I never buy anything for myself, I figure this one purchase is justified. There’s free express shipping, and the shoes should arrive tomorrow, just before Christmas. Then with a racing heart I click open my email. Nothing but junk mail. Not even an hour has passed since I sent my message to Professor Sparling. I inhale slowly, a few good, deep breaths to calm myself, take a shower, eat some peanut butter out of the jar, and get ready for bed. Just before joining the cats on the futon I take one more peek at my computer. (Because just one more peek wouldn’t mean I’m obsessive or anything.)

Sometimes obsessiveness pays off.

There’s a message from P.Sparling! Seeing his name gives me Jell-O knees. I open it to find only one little line.

Are you naked?

It was sent one minute ago, so if I reply now, Professor Sparling might see it right away. I summon up that sassy slut inside of me and tell her to get to work. When her voice takes over me, I think I play this game well.

Should I be?

Before I have a chance to process what I’ve written, and what I’m getting myself into, I get a reply.

In my humble opinion, you should always be naked.

I might get cold.

I don’t think thirty seconds pass before I get a message that says:

We’ll get you some fluffy white earmuffs like Kate Upton wore in her Sports Illustrated Antarctica photo shoot.

All of a sudden I’m laughing out loud. I never imagined Professor Sparling to be a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue type. He’s such an uber-intellectual. The image of him flipping through that magazine is completely incongruous with the image of him in my mind. I would have pictured him lying in bed reading Aristotle, not Sports Illustrated. Ha! Who would have thought he’s even heard of Kate Upton? I hit reply:
Earmuffs should do the trick. Now what about how much you want me? Last I recall you’d just told me to take off my pants.

We’re sending emails back and forth so quickly it feels like a live chat, which I’m tempted to suggest. I’m afraid, though, that Professor Sparling might be one of those old guys who doesn’t get fast technology. (At least he’s not faxing his messages to me!) And the truth is that I don’t want the pressure of having to reply instantly. This flirtation has spun so far so fast. I don’t need it to be ultra rapid. Two days ago I was Professor Sparling’s student pining away for his attention, and look where I am now. I feel out of control … and I love it. It’s like being awake after a three-and-a-half year hibernation. There are sensations coursing through my body that I haven’t felt since I was eighteen. For the first time since that awful day at Lake Pleasant, I truly want to be part of the world again. I want to be the cute and sexy young woman I have the potential to be. Even if nothing more happens with Professor Sparling, I will always love him for making me feel this way. If he hadn’t sparked my interest, I could have spent the rest of my life in a gray hoodie surrounded by cats. Who knows, maybe as I aged I’d replace the hoodie with a thick terry cloth robe and become the classic spinster cat lady.