Stay After Class, page 2
I directed my eyes back to his package. It now seemed imperative that I get an accurate rendition of his appendage on paper. Tentatively, I brought my charcoal down and began to sketch.
As I worked diligently with the sharper piece, mouth pursed in concentration, I totally forgot the teacher’s instructions that we go for “shape, not details.” In my sudden penile zest for detail I began to graphically elaborate on this guy’s equipment as if I were drawing for a porn comic book. I labored over the details, right down to the tiny slit at the tip.
Bent over my masterpiece, I suddenly realized that I’d made his organ way too big for his body. Somewhere along the line it became way out of proportion and when I tried to use an eraser to slim it down to more accurate dimensions, the charcoal smeared and his manhood became a huge, dark dimension between his legs.
I was already committed, having sketched everything else, so I didn’t want to toss it and start again. Suddenly, I sensed a presence over my shoulder and the air around me buzzed with a familiar scent and energy. It was Professor Nichols, observing my work. He was chuckling slightly as he watched me struggle with my artistic dilemma.
“What have we here?” he said, bringing a hand up to cup his chin in a professorial fashion.
Shyly, I explained that I’d gotten carried away with, well, the penis.
“I may have drawn his, um, you know, thing too big,” I sputtered out. “And with too much detail, maybe? And the charcoal is smeared.” I was a bit exasperated.
“I see,” he said, his large hand stroking his chin as he listened. I suspected the smile that reached his dark eyes was one of amusement. I guess it was his turn to laugh.
“I am afraid I may have created a bit of a caricature.” Tiny beads of sweat broke out on the back of my neck as I awkwardly explained my failed art approach. But even though the sketch wasn’t so great, I could feel a smile tugging at my lips, excited to be speaking to my professor.
“Well,” he said, folding his arms over his wide chest, still looking down at the drawing. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do with detail here, but remember, this is an exercise in essence. You understand essence, right?”
“Yes.”
When he said the word, all I could think of was Essence of Professor Jem Nichols, and how the scent of his skin always wafted to my nostrils and made me a little high.
“Looks like you were aiming for the essence of Aubrey Beardsley,” he said with a grin, referring to the artist known for a collection of giant phalluses attached to normal sized men, who we’d studied earlier in the semester. His glance rose from the page to me. A flush traveled from my chest, through my neck, and to my face. His gaze trailed it, from my bust line to my eyes. My sense of humor surfaced to save me.
“It seemed such a shame to not seize on the detail of such an object d’art.” The moment the words slipped out, my mouth went dry. Oh man, that was flirty. But he was right. I may have been under the influence of Beardsley’s dick drawings.
He laughed. A deep, soulful, sincere laugh that vibrated through the air and through my body. And then he smiled, revealing a perfect set of white teeth surrounded by beautiful, sexy lips. While a part of me knew it was wrong to think about my teacher that way, a deeper part of me could not resist.
“You really do have an eye for detail,” he said, moving closer, his muscular arms bulging from a navy blue Polo shirt. “And a flare for translating it on paper.”
“I do?” My mouth dropped open. He made me feel like my little first-time nude drawing mattered.
“I think you do. And you’re making the effort to learn, and that’s what counts.”
“I guess I am a little inexperienced with this kind of thing,” I said, passing my hand over the model’s lower body. “I mean—”
“Well, you’ll get more experienced the more you do it,” he said, with a smile that shot right through my body, meandered down to my underwear, and ended in a delicious tickle between my legs.
Coming closer to try to rescue my artwork, he bent over my shoulder and ran a finger along the length of the murky-looking manhood in my drawing. I felt the slight puff of breath on the back of my neck as he hovered, making me sweat even more. Very gently, he used his adept digit to smooth the details and blend them more with the overall image.
“There,” he said, pulling himself away from his perch over my shoulder. “Why don’t you pick it up from there?”
There was some sort of electricity between us and his close proximity caused a physical reaction. I sensed he felt it too because he stayed there and was looking at me as if I were the only other student on the planet, his eyes penetrating mine. If this was a movie there would be music playing and I would leap out of my seat and into his arms for a slow dance. Suddenly it’s hot in here. I almost completely forgot we were in class until one of the other pupils called for him.
“Professor Nichols!” Her voice was like nails against the blackboard and abruptly ended our moment. “We have a challenge here.”
He lingered for a few seconds before moving on to help her.
“I’d like to talk to you about this a bit more,” he said, smiling warmly. “Can you stay after class?” My heart leapt when he touched my shoulder lightly as he walked away.
“Sure.” I was barely able to get the word out as my upper lip began quivering, the way it did when I got nervous.
Damn. I was supposed to be at work by four p.m. My part time job with the college security department was flexible, and I usually did not work on Mondays and Wednesdays because I had a full day of classes, the last being art, which ended at 3:50 p.m. But I promised to cover for Tara, who was also my work colleague. The Security Office was in the same building, on the main floor, so I would have to fly down the stairs.
I texted her, even though she was sitting next to me working on her sketch.
I wrote, pounding on the tiny keyboard of my phone as fast as my fingers would go:
Me: Last minute teacher-student conference. Can u go down to work for 15 minutes? Will scoot down asap.
Tara: Roger that.
Then she looked over at me with raised eyebrows and smiled.
Chapter Three
I was floating, and for the next fifteen minutes I could barely concentrate. When I finally got myself under control and turned back to the nude model, class was almost over and he was looking right at me. He apparently overhead the entire conversation between Professor Nichols and me because he winked, followed by a thumbs-up.
I winked back and then, out of my newly formed habit of the day, stared directly at his flaccid manhood and wondered how it was he felt free enough to show it to a room full of strangers, yet grateful that he did because it led to taking my secret crush to the next level.
Fighting off the temptation to draw the model’s pubic hair in my own, inimitable, detailed way, I focused on completing the assignment the best I could, filling in shading with charcoal and closing all the loops and lines of the sketch. Finally, class was over and everyone bailed out of the room. The professor walked a few paces to the front on the room, and positioned himself between his chair and the blackboard, where he usually stood during lectures. The model got up to leave.
“Great work, James,” said the professor. “You can grab your check in the Art Department office. Thanks again.” So the model had a name!
“Any time, man,” said the still-nude James. Then he casually slipped on his robe and headed to the door with his duffle bag in tow. He tipped his head to me, as if to say, “Good day,” and left the room.
As soon as the door closed, the professor’s eyes met mine. I walked toward him.
“Look, I didn’t mean to come down so hard on you in front of the class.”
“We shouldn’t have laughed.” I sucked in a deep breath and blew out just as quickly.
“I just had no idea that you were not familiar with … nude models. I honestly thought you were cracking a joke.” He paused, and seemed to be observing my reaction. “Regardless, what I said was out of line. I apologize if I embarrassed you.”
“I’m not upset, professor,” I said, curling a long strand of hair around my finger. “I think you were saying it in the spirit of, ‘Hey, haven’t you ever seen a naked man before? This is art. Why are you laughing like childish idiots?’”
“That’s one way of putting it.” He laughed. “Teaching Basic Art is tricky. You have a handful of serious artists and then a group of students who take it as an elective. They get silly sometimes. Keeping order is a little bit like herding cats. I got exasperated.”
“Sorry to be one of those cats.” I smiled nervously.
“Actually, you’ve proven that you take your projects seriously, with gusto in fact.” His lips curled into a wry smile. “It’s admirable.”
“Thank you. I wouldn’t want you to think that this class isn’t important to me.”
He looked into my eyes, saying nothing for a moment. I struggled not to turn away from his intense gaze. My lips were on the edge of quivering, waiting to see what he would do next, wondering what I should say.
“Miss Slade, I just want to make sure,” he said, pushing his chair out of the way so that there was nothing between us, “that I did not offend you.”
The chair squealed slightly, making me turn my eyes from his. I was glad for a moment of distraction as I watched it slide sideways. Suddenly the room was warmer.
“I’m actually a little relieved,” I said, returning my gaze to his, and flipping my hair off of my neck as a rush of heat ran through me.
“Relieved?” An inquisitive look crossed his face.
“Yes.” I smiled. “It’s one less secret to worry about.”
There was already a short distance between his body and mine. He made a small step forward and suddenly we were standing inside a vortex of energy that was pushing us closer. My heart pounded, hard.
“Ms. Slade,” he said, looking into my eyes, into me. I stared, waiting for him to finish his sentence, knees trembling.
He took one step closer. The electricity between us was so strong I expected to see sparks if he touched me.
Just then the door to his classroom flew open. He stepped back while I stood there, still reeling from the vibrant energy that had pulsated between us. It was the model, James.
“Forgot my shoes,” he said, poking his head into the room.
“Please, go ahead and grab them,” said the professor. “We were just wrapping up.”
James, now clothed, walked back to the platform where his shoes sat undetected on the floor. He sat down to put them on.
The professor broke eye contact with me completely, moved to the desk, and packed up his messenger-style shoulder bag briefcase. I eyed his hands as he inserted some papers, closed the latch and threw the strap over his shoulder. They reminded me of a Da Vinci sculpture—large, strong, and sexy—but looked warm and enticing. I wanted those hands on my skin.
“See you next week, in class.” He stared over at me briefly as he headed to the door.
“Have a good rest of the week, professor.”
That was it? Where was the big kiss and groping at one another? Where was my fantasy scene of the professor professing his admiration and attraction? He was gone, down the empty hallway. Suddenly I felt empty too. I wished I could follow him home or wherever he was going.
Instead, I rushed down the corridor in the opposite direction to get to work.
Tara had her coat on, ready to leave, when I arrived. It was 4:13 p.m.
“I logged you into work at four p.m.,” she said.
“Thanks, Tara,” I said, scurrying into the Security Office locker room to change into my uniform. “I owe you.”
In addition to sometimes taking the same classes, we shared the position of Assistant to the Director of the Security Department on alternate days. We basically ran the office, kept the boss organized, and made sure the guards were where they were supposed to be stationed. But we had to dress like the rest of the security team.
“You owe me an ice cream,” she said with a laugh. “And an update.”
“Your wish is my command,” I called out, as I quickly tossed off my jeans.
“Hope you didn’t get in trouble with Professor Handsome Pants,” she said, poking her head into the dressing room with a mischievous smile. “Or maybe you were hoping you would?”
“I might have gotten into a little trouble,” I said, pulling up my dark blue uniform slacks, tucking in my blue shirt, and closing my belt. “But I finally made some progress and got to talk to him without a room full of students present.”
“Well it’s been a long time coming,” she said, slipping her shoulder book bag on, as she got ready to leave. “Did he remember?”
“I don’t think so.” I grabbed my walkie-talkie from the charger and clipped it to the belt.
“You’ll have to jog his memory.”
Tara was the only person on earth who knew about my crush on the professor, and only because she was there when we first met.
Chapter Four
September 8
Fall Semester
Seven months earlier
Campus Security Office
Although he didn’t seem to recall when I showed up in his Basic Art class the following January, I first met Jem Nichols last year, at the start of the fall semester. It was September 8—the day he began as a full time professor.
His temporary ID had expired and he came in to get a new one. It was my job to take the photos, and then print and laminate the card.
“I was directed here by a large and imposing uniformed gentleman to get my ID card,” he said, entering the office. “Apparently it is a key tool if one wants to enter the building to teach every day.”
“True, they come in handy if you want to get past our tenacious security guards,” I joked. As he got closer to my desk, it was hard not to stare.
“Is it possible to take care of it now?” His dark eyes implored mine and I felt an unfamiliar flutter in my stomach.
“Yes. I will take care of you, it, right now.” I tried not to sound flustered but my insides were dancing around. “If you sit down against that blue wall I’ll take your face. I mean, your photo.”
He grinned. “Of course.”
As he sauntered over I couldn’t help noticing how well put together he was—neat jeans, tucked in white shirt, ankle high leather boots. And when he turned to face me his good looks were almost distracting. I paused to study the distinct line of his square jaw and dark layered hair that stopped just above the collar. His features came together to create a perfectly handsome face.
It wasn’t like me to fall for good looks, but I was mesmerized. Just as I was about to snap his photo, his eyes found mine. My breath hitched. It was like he was looking into me. I’d come to ignore most men over the years, from looking in the other direction to flat out telling them to buzz off. But suddenly my heart beat faster than I knew it could.
“Smile,” I said, managing to get back to the reason he was here. “That’s if you want to, of course. Scowls are permitted too.”
He laughed.
“I’m going for the smile,” he said, showing his teeth. “Not difficult to do at all, with you as a muse.”
I usually shut down vaguely flirty comments immediately, but suddenly, I could barely breathe. As soon as he smiled, I snapped the shutter three times, even though I only needed to do it twice. One photo went on his card, one went in his file, and one was going into my psychology textbook, so I could look at him at my leisure without him seeing me gawk. What had come over me?
In casual conversation he mentioned his work was showing in a faculty art show opening that evening.
“We’re raising money for art scholarships,” he said.
“They’ve been sadly cut from the college budget,” I sympathized. The conversation was helping me breathe normally.
“They sadly have. Stop by if you can.” He reached into his back pocket and handed me a folded up flyer. “And, of course, bring your friends.”
When he looked at me again with those eyes I wished he was asking me out on a date. The feeling threw me off, so when his card came out of the laminating machine I picked it up prematurely, while it was still too hot.
“Ouch.” I should have dropped it like a hot potato but instead I lifted it toward my mouth and blew on it, hard. It burned like hell.
“Let me,” he said, gripping the card on the edges between two fingers, slowly removing it from my hand. My whole arm tingled when his fingers accidently brushed against my wrist.
“Thank you,” he said, fanning the card through the air to cool it down. “For risking your life to make me an ID card.”
I laughed out loud. “All in a day’s work.”
“Hope you stop by the show,” he reiterated, heading out the door.
“Sure.” I smiled shyly, eyelashes fluttering involuntarily. “It’s for a good cause.”
As he left, Tara stepped out of the adjacent room. She’d been quietly listening to me unravel.
“You suddenly don’t know how to use the laminating machine properly?” She laughed hysterically and then looked at his photo on the screen. “Ah, I see. Professor Handsome Pants was here. He’s a hunk, even in ID photo size.”
“He distracted me.” I ran my fingers along my arm, feeling the spot he’d touched. “My skin tingled. Is that normal?”
“Those of us who have happily experienced the world of campus lust would call it a sign of being turned-on,” she said, big grin on her face. “But in your case, I’d say someone has finally gotten your attention.”
“I don’t know if I am ready.” I shook my head. “You know, for that kind of attention.”
“I know you’re holding out for a hero.” Tara had a way of ribbing me in a good-natured way. “And waiting until your moon is conjunct with Venus in the Seventh House, or whatever the hell it is. But you can’t keep your V-card forever.”
“I know.” I nodded in agreement. “Just waiting ’til the right time, and right person, to swipe it.”
