Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 111(@200wpm)___ 89(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 111(@200wpm)___ 89(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
Heart thumping, I try to remain totally still for the rest of the class session, breathing shallowly through my nose. Because what will happen come Thursday? Will Professor Moore have a surprise for me? Will the handsome man ask me to discuss our coursework in detail, or does he have something else in mind? Now, there’s only one way to find out.
2
Roland
I sit in my office, getting a few last things done. My office is a homey little nook. After all, I’m an assistant professor at the University of Rhode Island, and while the English building is a marvel of gothic architecture, the space inside hasn’t been remodeled for decades. As a result, my office is a tiny cranny with a sixties-era metal desk, a rolling chair that is most-definitely not ergonomic, and a dark red wool rug on the floor leftover from my graduate student years of eating ramen by candlelight.
Not that I hated being a graduate student. If anything, I loved those years because they provided total freedom of the mind. I was given room to explore novels and literary fiction to my heart’s content, and I went crazy. Most Ph.D. students complete only one dissertation, but I actually finished two. Insane, right? There was so much material and academic freedom that I was able to publish like an animal. It served me well because I landed an academic job after graduating, which was no easy feat in this job market.
After all, getting a professorship is like winning the lottery. There may be many English departments in the country, but a slot generally only opens after an existing professor dies. It’s morbid, but the truth. Teaching positions are difficult to come by, and I’m lucky to have landed in Rhode Island among the leafy forests and breathtaking scenery of New England.
But the problem with this beautiful college campus is its lack of dateable women. I admit, I’ve never been a monk of any sort. My good looks make it easy to attract the ladies, and if anything, they throw themselves at me. I’ve never had to put myself out there, nor have I ever had to market myself the way a lot of guys do.
But here, in this tiny college town, the situation is different. For one, there aren’t many women my age, period. The University of Rhode Island focuses on undergraduate education, so most of the women are in their teens and twenties.
Second, I’m forbidden from dating a large proportion of the graduate student population because they’re students, and not faculty. Okay, maybe not forbidden altogether, but it would certainly not reflect well on me if I took up with someone enrolled in a degree program. You don’t want to shit where you eat, after all.
But if I don’t date graduate students, then who’s left? There are only the other professors, most of whom appear to be sixty plus. Like I said, vacancies only come up after someone passes on, and as a result, most of my colleagues are senior citizens already.
Of course, there’s also the forbidden fruit: undergraduate girls. But it’s fucking terrifying because these girls are young and so innocent, with nary a care in the world. I see them prancing around campus with their clear skin, long hair, and lush bodies, and I know I shouldn’t touch. Yet, in this college town, who am I supposed to date then? My choices are restricted, and I don’t want to die celibate.
I let out a gust of air and force myself to try and concentrate. My eyes blur as I stare at the papers in front of me, but I’m getting desperate here. I’ve been at the University of Rhode Island for a while now, and haven’t been with a woman in ages. I haven’t touched a lush female form in what feels like eons, nor heard the sweet moans of a female in heat. How is a man supposed to live like this? I’m almost considering paying a professional, considering the desperate state of things.
Suddenly, a knock sounds on my door, and I jolt upright. It’s Aria Nelson, the beautiful blonde from my class. If ever there was tantalizing fruit, it’s Aria. I saw her the first day when she walked in, and my pants went stiff immediately. She’s golden, curvy, and so sweet with an innocent smile and hips that sway. She wears the bulkiest sweatshirts and pulls her hair in a ponytail most days, but it can’t hide the fact that she’s lush and ready for a man.
The problem is: am I that man? Am I willing to go beyond the bounds of a student/professor relationship? When I asked Aria to come to office hours, it was with every intention of discussing our latest course materials. I want to hear her thoughts and opinions, as well as her keen analysis and insightful commentary. And the truth is that I do want these things. Aria is smart, sharp and intelligent. For example, she’s the only one who mentioned the sexual nuances of the female character in our latest reading.