We met during my sophomore year of college on a dating website. He didn’t have a face pic — just a body pic — so it wasn’t clear who I was talking to when I sent him a message. Maybe he knew who I was or maybe he didn’t, since most professors in large lecture courses don’t engage with their students, leaving the real work for the T.A.s.
I sent him a message because I liked his stats: 35 years old (way older than I was at the time); 9 inches, cut; said he enjoyed the finer things in life, like classical music and stuff. I am always turned off by profiles that are too explicit, too much to the point, too much too fast. Even if we’re just going to hook up once and only once, I still want to know that you’re a human being and not some sex robot with no other interests.
When he showed me his face I immediately knew who he was. I kind of freaked out a little. First because I had no idea my professor was gay, and second because I didn’t know that professors trolled around on gay dating sites. Like I said, at the time I thought 35 was really old (I was 19) but there was something erotic about it.
The first time we had sex he picked me up outside of my dorm in a dark blue BMW. I was really scared. Would I get in trouble if anyone found out? We drove for 15-20 minutes, farther and farther away from campus. Ordinarily I would have been terrified, getting into the fancy car of a stranger I met online. But because I know where he works, I feel pretty confident that he’s not going to harm me.
We drive through the woods, down dark corners and tiny roads before we arrive at his house, a beautiful brown minimalist place with lots of space, windows and that probably cost a fortune. I didn’t know professors could be so wealthy.
We go inside and he puts on some Brahms, offers me a glass of Scotch. I don’t take it.
After a few pleasantries I’m picked up and carried down a long hallway and into a bedroom. We start making out and before I know it we are having the most passionate sex I have ever known. Most of the guys I’ve hooked up with on campus either don’t know what they’re doing or are just bad in bed. I guess you can chalk it up to our age difference, that he has very probably had many more sexual partners than I have and knows what to do.
I stay the night. In the morning he offers me breakfast and he’s shifting into professor mode and away from sex mode, grabbing his things, preparing lecture notes or whatever it is professors do. He knows I can’t walk back to campus from here, but says he probably shouldn’t drop me off at my dorm. He’ll drop me off downtown and I’ll walk to campus. Tells me he had fun and wants to do it again. And we do continue, a dozen times throughout the semester.
Every day I went to lecture, and every time I went to section taught by a severely jaded T.A., all I could think about was my professor’s huge house, with a fireplace overlooking the lake. I thought about his huge cock and how he caressed my head when I blew him. I thought about the new car smell of his BMW.
When my friend group got together to talk about college, life, boys and everything else, this is the one thing I never talked about. I never told a soul about my semester long affair, not even my best friend. It’s a bit of a cliché, I know, but having a secret affair no one knows about is one of the most exciting things.