MY HOT TEACHER: (Volume 5 of the "My Hot..." series; a stand-alone, New Adult novel) (10 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Does anyone at Walls really know what the fuck
love
is?

I read this first line of a post in the student run Walls Social Blog.  The website runs the gamut from rants about sex, hook-ups, love, to relationship status updates, party announcements, and classified ads searching for either a relationship or one night stand.  I used to read it religiously, haven’t logged on since my first visit to Echo Lane, but lately have started reading it again.  I never had the nerve to post something, even though I can remain anonymous.  I continue reading this rant by a senior boy who goes by the moniker LoveBrat:

A lot of you think you know what
love
is, but if that is true then why are so many of you unhappy?  Does this mean you can’t find love?  Or are you looking for the wrong thing?  Does this mean our generation is too immature to understand this complex emotion?  Or are we too wired into the passivity of the internet, smartphones, texting, blogging, posting, tweeting, instagramming, facebooking, tumblring and thus miss all the possibilities of emotional growth through direct physical encounters and conversation, organic real life success and failure?  I know what
love
is. 
Love
is when you take the time to understand what is really inside a person, not their many internet personas, by physically interacting with them on a daily basis...and I’m not just talking about a quick fuck on a dorm bed too small for even one person! 
Love
is when you really don’t give a shit what a person looks like: whether it’s their physical features, their haircut, they’re short, fat, too skinny, not your type, complexion, eye color, religion, or ethnicity. 
Love
is when you rejoice in someone’s inner beauty and all that goes with it and find complete satisfaction from being in that person’s presence. 
Love
is when you find someone who makes your life better simply because of who he or she is. 
Love
is when you slow down enough to find out who someone really is.   Well I am totally ready!  I want to discover who you are and share who I am with complete openness that includes all of my life tics and acne and less-than-perfect teeth.  Fuck that!  Inside is a very thoughtful, passionate, amorous, intelligent man.  Are you the womanly
yin
to my
yang
?  If you are then don’t post me back, simply show up tomorrow at 12noon on the library steps.  Sit on the third step from the bottom, in the extreme left corner.  I will meet you there.  I will know who you are.  You are someone with
courage
.  You are someone who can shut off the electronic devices, open her eyes, and be exposed enough to experience someone else fully.  See you there!   

All right I know I’m in a particularly vulnerable place.  I’m smart enough to understand the dangers of making an impulsive decision while on the rebound.  But I can’t help liking what LoveBrat has to say.  I’m most impressed that he doesn’t care what someone looks like and is so in favor of complete openness.  How I long for that with the Professor.  If there was complete openness between us he would know all that is me and would not be so eager to drop me just like that.  If there was complete openness I would understand fully my emotions and know for sure that I feel deep love.

I know I have a better shot with someone my age, but maybe it’s Walls or maybe it’s just my generation, but it’s so damn hard to find a mature boy, to find someone who’s a man at twenty-one.  LoveBrat seems grown up, if he isn’t catfishing.  He seems to have the very same
courage
he’s looking for in someone else.

Why not?

At least it will take my obsessive thoughts away from the Professor and perhaps quell my great desire to be with him again.

The next day I deliberately dress without any particular plan or care.  I probably should’ve gone with my tall brown leather boots over the new skinny jeans, but I simply reach for some sneakers and the first pair of pants that catch my eye.  My hair would look fuller if I blew it out after my shower, but who the fuck cares?  My hair is my hair!  Make-up, hah!  I still don’t know the first thing about it.  I do use mouthwash and brush my teeth thoroughly, always a stickler for hygiene.  I head over to the library after my morning class lets me out at 11:45am.

I arrive at 11:55.  The building is a large colonial style brick structure with big white pillars and steps wide enough to accommodate a small crowd.  No one’s around, as most students are on their way to the Caf, snack bar, or some off-campus eatery.  There’s a temptation to keep walking, to grab my own lunch, but...it’s senior year!  I’m the one who blew off Randy Sawyer!  I need something to help me move on.

I sit on the far left corner of the third step, survey carefully the campus green to the right, the academic buildings to the left.  In front of me is a statue of General Walls on his horse in the midst of a fountain that only spouts water in the warmer months.

I wait.

Occasionally a girl comes along, slows down, refuses to make eye contact, then shuffles quickly past the library.  I wrap my arms around my body, trying to stay warm on this cold winter day.  My feet started out resting on the bottom step, but are now on the third step.  The full effect of crossed arms, tucked up knees, makes me look like a small bundled ball. 

That’s when I see different pockets of students forming. 

A boy and girl sit on the edge of the fountain, stare in my direction.  A boy sits on the far right corner of the top step.  I see a group of boys and girls eyeing me through the ground floor library window.  A pack of lacrosse players face me from the campus green.  A couple of random boys stroll by, hesitate, but continue walking.  To make it even worse, the fountain couple produces a bag of popcorn and begins a steady munching, the boy on the top step dives into his lunch, and the lacrosse boys drink what’s probably beer in brown paper bags.

They’re
pre-gaming
my rendezvous!

Even the library crew shares snacks.

I wait until 12:10 then take off back to my room, eyes straight down, not knowing what reaction I’m getting but sure it’s a steady round of smirks, sarcastic smiles, and belly laughs.

The old me might have begun a silent weeping as the icy New England wind slaps me across the face.  But...fuck it!  I’m graduating in a few months.  Very few people on campus know who I am.  And, despite all of the insecurity from being dumped, my experiences this past semester have shown me that I’m better than all that, that I do have a lot to offer and fuck off to anyone who can’t handle it.

I never know if this
assignation
was some kind of twisted joke, if LoveBrat got sidetracked or detained, if he was one of the boys who walked by, or even the guy on the top step, and took one look at me and decided
no thanks.
  There may be an answer on the Walls Social Blog, a clue if there was some unavoidable delay, or if I’m simply the laughingstock of the entire campus, but I’ll never find out.  I’ll never log onto the site again.

Fuck the immature boys at Walls.

I need to fight for my
man
!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

If Rihanna had her own clothing website I would shop online. 

But she doesn’t. 

And Walls is a two-street town.

So over the weekend I take a bus into Concord to find a lingerie store and purchase a full matching set of black: garter belt, stockings with a lace pattern at the top, frilly, strapless Wonderbra, and G-string black panties so sheer I wonder how I can slide them on without tearing the fabric.

At another shop I buy the shortest, hip-hugging, black leather skirt I’ve ever worn and a black, tight, low-cut, spaghetti-strapped, corset-like top that makes it difficult to breathe but sure shapes my body in full kick-ass fashion. 

I can’t afford new shoes and after this shopping spree I don’t think I’ll be going to any movies or eating out for the rest of the semester.  My roommate’s a shoe freak and nearly the same size.  I’m sure she’ll lend me a pair.

Which she does, that night, a shiny black pair.  She urges me to go with four inch heels but I’m sure I’ll twist an ankle so I settle for three.  As it is I have to practice walking in them, just as I would’ve done for my high school prom.

If I had gone.

On Tuesday morning the whole outfit’s in place, my breasts and cleavage quite ample thanks to the miracle of underwire.  My roommate does my make-up: dark around the eyes, skin covered to look perfectly smooth and unblemished, eyelashes thick and long.  The only color on me is the pink streaks in my hair and my full glossy red lips.

Done, she looks me over with unabashed joy at finally seeing me make some kind of
seductive
presentation.  I swivel a few times in front of the full length dorm mirror that has so often reflected back an abundance of unfortunate news at the most inopportune times...and I smile back at her. 

I thank her for her help.

I head to class.

I enter Modern British Fiction and strut to my seat in the back.  How else can one walk in shoes like these?  Some girls smirk, most of the boys check me out, one whistles under his breath. 

Many probably wonder if this is actually the same loser who got stood up by a geek named LoveBrat.

I can barely move one leg in front of the other, the skirt’s so tight.  But the heels and form fitting taut leather make my ass arch up and out and I feel as if I finally have a real bootie.  My calves already ache from the heels but they look so sharp and sultry.  My boobs, supported by the bra and corset top, look fully ripe, exposed, available.  The thin spaghetti straps add a bit of lined grace to my sturdy smooth shoulders.  My whole appearance feels and appears so strange that I’m not sure if I look like a pop star or a hooker. 

Either way it’s just the next level of this year’s reincarnation, this one even more daring than the girl who just walked up to her English professor and kissed him: bold, unpredictable...sexy!

Professor Beard appears briefly dumbfounded but quickly recovers and begins his lecture on
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
, followed by a lively discussion...one where I remain mute.  This does not stop me from delivering my own silent lecture, with the hope of inspiring further discussion.

It starts with a very grand crossing of my nyloned legs, the tip of my black shoe pointing toward Professor Beard as the heel dangles provocatively from my foot.  I don’t need to hike up the skirt.  The hem barely makes it to mid-thigh.  I angle my legs out to the side of the desk so they’re fully visible. 

I’m the only one sitting in the last row so unless someone turns around only he can see.

A catch in his voice reveals he has gotten a full glance.

Deliberately, under the guise of absentmindedness, I stroke my finger along my legs, caressing the nylon, starting below the knee, then up over the thigh, only to begin again.

He plows on with the discussion, tries focusing on the students in the front row.

I shift in my seat and the skirt hikes up even more and the garter straps, extending from under the skirt to the top of the stockings, become visible.  Somehow in heels, stockings, and a mini that has as much material as a baby blanket, my legs seem endless.

His eyes return to me for a second but the sight of my sexy exposed legs turns him immediately toward the blackboard as he begins writing about how Lady Chatterley cannot live only within the mind but yearns to be more physically alive.  Sharon glances back at me.  I smile; quite sure she doesn’t like someone else playing her game.

I lean forward and the tips of my breasts rub against the desk, enlarging the nipples so they jut fully, clearly defined against the lacy fabric of my bra and top.  They have already swelled on their own from the thought that Professor Beard doesn’t want to take full notice but can’t help himself. 

With his back to me now I take my turn to look, boldly, his clothes shredded away by my sight, leaving before me only the vision I know so well of his perfect sturdy legs, powerfully curved ass, muscled back V-ing as my eyes climb to his broad shoulders.

As I wait for his inevitable about face toward the class, I sit up firmly, reaching my full height, one arm falling behind the chair rest, breasts on full display.

This is fun playing a part.  Is that what all glamorous women do?  Are they one person in flannel PJs on the couch, remote in hand, bowl of chips on their laps?  Then another when they style their hair, go heavy on the make-up, don expensive clothes that hide irregularities and highlight assets?

At this moment I feel transformed from a plain girl into an alluring woman.

When Professor Beard puts the chalk down and turns around I lightly run my tongue along my ruby red lips, moisten them, and with my fingertips trace the edge of my top that half-moons below my ample cleavage.  Professor Beard asks if anyone has anything more to say.  His stare meets mine. 

I take a finger off my breast, place it delicately in my mouth...and suck.

After class, I, of course, am the last one to rise from my chair and make my way toward the exit.  He looks up from the papers he just collected and says, “Tonight, usual time, we need to talk.”

He goes back to his papers. 

I depart.

His tone was flat, perhaps a bit harsh.  He seemed very sure of himself, very Professor Beard-like, as if forewarning me that’s all I’m going to be greeted by tonight as he sets me straight on what’s proper behavior in his classroom.

But I’m so elated I nearly tip over in my heels.

I’ll be alone with the man I love.

We’ll be in the place that has levitated us both.

And just maybe we’ll get to continue this very powerful
discussion
.