I Did My Professor On His Desk

I’m officially a walking cliché, and believe me, I’m well aware of that fact. It’s not everyday a young student gets to make it with her seriously smart and seriously sexy professor on his desk, but it must happen more often than you’d think. After all, clichés are clichés for a reason.

It started out innocently enough. I had a question, and so I went to see him during evening office hours. Truth be told, I had many questions. Do you roll your sleeves up just a quarter length to intentionally expose those perfectly tanned and muscly forearms of yours? Are you aware that when you smile and laugh at something somebody said, you basically make the entire female (and most of the male) population swoon at those perfectly placed dimples on your freshly shaven cheeks? Is your voice naturally deep, warm, sexy and commanding, or do you practice all that in the mirror? And, last but not least, have you got a license to make that kind of eye contact? The kind that pretty much makes me want to pass out? Because you really, really should.

Of course, I wouldn’t ask him any of that. I would ask him about my thesis instead. I waited outside his office for twenty minutes, applying my favorite cherry lip balm and clicking my heels, willing the scraggly undergrad taking up his time to get the heck outta there before Professor X’s office hours ended for the evening. While I was out there waiting, I wondered — what is it about professors that make them so incredibly hot? You could see a man pass you by on the street and not feel compelled in the slightest to give him a second look, but put him at a podium in front of two hundred eager undergrads and suddenly, he’s an Adonis in Ray Ban Optical lenses.

The unkempt undergrad eventually left, tripping over himself as he passed me by, and I heard that familiar, deep, rich voice beckoning me inside. I strutted in and smiled, as I usually do, and was met with that warm, dimply smile Professor X had become notorious for. I should tell you Professor X is young – quite young, in his early thirties – and well aware of how handsome he is. He was wearing a white button down T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up just so, and I swear, I almost jumped him right then and there. Instead, I sat in the empty armchair before his desk, and he leaned comfortably on his desk-top (a signature move of his, something I realized after the umpteenth contrived and often academically useless visits to his office – I just wanted to stare into those pretty blue eyes). We talked scholarly sources for a while, but it was well past 7 P.M., and nobody was around. We both knew it. The tension was palpable, and for a little bit, I thought it was all in my head. But then he leaned down over me and pointed something out on my messy rough draft. That was when his hand grazed mine. It had only been for a moment, but I knew he’d done it on purpose. I mustered up as much courage as I possibly could, lifted my head, and looked up into his eyes. He was looking down into mine. The rest, as they say, is history.

So, at the end of the day, what is it about teachers? Easterners call it ars erotica – roughly translated from Latin to English as “erotic art,” and otherwise known as the school (pun intended) of thought that understands sexuality as knowledge, to be passed down from educator to student. Maybe we Westerners feel the pull of that Eastern influence on a daily basis. I know we undergrads do. At the end of the day, all we really want is a little help here and there as we walk through life, accosted by unknowns at every turn. There’s something cozy about knowing somebody with experience and wisdom is beside you. A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor, and as a young twenty-something starting out, trust me — there’s nothing more seductive than a skilled sailor. We all want to know, want to think, want to believe we’re in capable hands.

And for one glorious night, I was.