Fantasy or Nightmare?

Amateur

I’m fucked.

How I got to this point is not exactly a mystery.

I’ve made several really bad decisions over the past two months and I have no earthly idea how I’m going to get out of this.

First, a little background.

My name is Mark Mackenzie and I’m an Associate Professor in the Humanities at a reasonably well-known midwestern university. I’m 42 years old, divorced, with two teen-aged children. My ex-wife and I get along just fine, all things considered. You would call me reasonably handsome—tall, dark hair, green eyes, and I work out enough to stay toned, albeit not exactly buffed.

I’ve taught at this university since I finished graduate school 12 years ago and when my next book comes out sometime next year I’ll probably become a full professor without much difficulty. My office, where I’m sitting right now as I write this, is windowless and three of the four walls are crammed with books, books, and more books. The desk and chairs are remnants of some government surplus auction in the 1980s, the carpet industrial. Office luxury is not a good reason to become a professor. Neither is the salary. But then, no one in this department went into academia for the money.

My students rate me as one of the most popular teachers in the College of Arts and Sciences. They like my demanding nature, my passion for my subject, and the respect I show them as adults. In recent years I’ve developed a following among our MA students and my graduate seminars are consistently over-enrolled.

In short, except for the divorce, which went as well as such things can go; I’ve got nothing to complain about.

Until now.

It all started last January when Alix enrolled in my graduate seminar on gender and sexuality in contemporary American literature. She is unusual among our MA students in that she is a recent college graduate and only 23 years old. Most of our graduate students are working adults credentialing themselves for their jobs. Alix plans a career like mine—or so she tells me.

Like me Alix is tall—at least 5’10″—but you would not call her beautiful. She’s not unattractive to be sure, but just not beautiful. Her face is a little too long, her teeth a little too crooked, her skin shows a few scars from teenage acne, and her hair, highlighted blonde, hangs limply down to her shoulders in a non-descript cut. Broad shoulders and long legs compliment her height, giving her the look my ex-wife used to call “large boned,” but it is none of these things that I noticed about Alix when I met her the first time. What I noticed is her breasts.

You see, I’m a small breast man. Every man I know except me drools over the big boobs, staring down darkened cleavages, longing to bury themselves in the most massive breasts they can find. Not me. Ever since I first fell in love with the female body I’ve been drawn to women with very small breasts. I love the way they feel, the way there are almost all nipple, the way I can hold the entire thing in one hand. What can I say? I just love small breasts.

Because Alix is tall and broad shouldered, the smallness of her breasts makes them almost invisible. Or, at least they would be almost invisible if she were not so clearly proud of her body. One of the great developments in our society over the past five or six years is the way that young women have learned to be proud of their bodies—thin, curvy, large and small—and Alix is one of those young women.

She dresses more stylishly than most women her age, often wearing blouses that look expensive and that are open just as far as would be tasteful in a professional environment. Sometimes just the hint of a camisole or bra is present, floating at the edge of her blouse. She’s a bit high fashion for this sleepy midwestern town, something I couldn’t help but notice the first time I saw her.

While I try hard to maintain a professional distance from my students, as a man who still has a very active sex drive, it was impossible for me not to steal a glance at her breasts once in a while. With Alix I had more opportunity than with most of our students because she is also our departmental receptionist—her student job—so we are around one another daily.

In my seminar Alix was one of those students all teachers live for—animated, well-prepared for class, opinionated, but not just for the sake of having an opinion. From Week One in the semester she helped carry the discussion, making my life as the instructor much easier. As the weeks wore on, it became clear that one of the reasons for her animation in class was that Alix had strong feelings about the discrimination gays, lesbians, and bisexuals suffer in American society—especially bisexuals.

When one of the other students called her out on this, demanding to know why bisexuals had it worse than gays or lesbians, she laughed and pointed out that people who are bi- are discriminated against by everyone—straight, gay and lesbian. This exchange led the class into a discussion of whether people really are bisexual or if they are just gays etimesgut escort or lesbians who refuse to admit to themselves their true sexual identity. Alix and one other student became almost strident in the defense of their position. Eventually, tempers began to rise, so I gently nudged the class discussion back to the literary aspects of our topic.

Late that night Alix wrote me a long despairing email apologizing for getting so worked up in class and lamenting the conservative views of the students who opposed her. When I read the message the following morning I wrote her right back to let her know that I approved of passion in the classroom and that there was nothing wrong with defending one’s position, so long as it was a defense based on fact and not on prejudice. I hoped she understood that I meant that hers was a defense based on fact and that the other student was the one with the prejudices. I never criticize one student to another, but this particular email was pretty transparent.

When I saw her in the office later in the week she thanked me for my understanding and promised to behave better in the future. We both laughed about it and that was that.

*****

By the halfway point of every semester, I typically feel comfortable enough with my graduate students to invite them out for a beer after the seminar is over. In any given week half a dozen or so will take me up on the offer and the group is usually a shifting constellation based upon who was fired up by that evening’s discussion. Alix was a regular attendee, missing very few of these “further discussions.” I have a strict two-beer limit in these situations, because even though I have tenure, it does not do to get drunk with one’s students.

I enjoy these sessions though, because it’s over beer that we can let our hair down a bit and discuss things that are not always appropriate in the classroom environment. Alix and several others in the class often used the pub as a place to go more deeply into their opinions about sexuality and more than once I found myself a bit uncomfortable with the frankness with which they discussed sex in front of me. I’m no puritan and love to talk about sex as much as the next man, but the younger generation—God I feel old even writing that phrase—is just a lot more open about sex than we ever were at that age.

When the semester was over, Alix asked if she could stop in to talk about the next semester. Sitting there in my office chair, she looked so intense and so attractive, that when she asked if we could continue our work together in an independent tutorial I readily agreed. That won me a bright smile and a thank you and I promised to send her a more in depth reading list over the holiday break.

*****

January blew in cold as it always does here on the Great Plains. I especially hate the way it gets dark so early in the afternoon. One of my only consolations was that every other week I got to spend a very enjoyable two hours arguing with Alix about what she’d read for that tutorial session. In the one-on-one of the tutorial she proved to be an even more brilliant student. It became clear right away that despite her animation in class, she still held back a bit in front of other students. Only in my office did she put her full intelligence on display. I really looked forward to those tutorials and hoped she did as well.

After a particularly blistering debate about pornography in early April, Alix surprised me with a question. “Dr. McKenzie, would you like to continue this at the pub the way we did last semester?”

I must have blushed, because there was no way I could have stood up at that moment, since our discussion of porn had caused a slight bulging in my pants, thankfully hidden by my desk. “Uh, well, I’d like to,” I stammered, “but I’m sorry, I’ve already got plans for this evening.”

Alix looked so abashed that I felt I had to add something to my lie. “Not those kinds of plans, Alix,” I rushed to assure her. “I just have a huge pile of grading to do before tomorrow and if I drink even one beer, I’m doomed.”

She brightened right up and said, “Oh, okay. Well then, how about next time? I’m asking because, well, I really miss the more relaxed discussions we had there. It’s not that I don’t love the work we’re doing here, but, well, the pub seems like a better place to discuss some things than your office does.”

If I had been a wise man I would have cut it off right there. But, as you’ll see when you read on, I’m not a wise man. “Sure,” I agreed. “Next time it is then.”

Shit! I’d just made a date with a student. What was I thinking?

For the next two weeks I swore to myself that I would have only one beer and that I would make sure the discussion stayed on safe ground, and that I’d go home alone. Alone!

As usual, we met in my office and had another passionate discussion of the issues. Each time I had these debates with Alix I was reminded of how uninteresting so many of my students etlik escort were. If only two or three a semester could be as interested in my field as she was, I’d be a happy man. When we’d worked our way through that evening’s syllabus, it was time to go.

“Let me just gather up some papers, check my email real quick, and then I’ll meet you there, okay?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll get us a good table.”

I didn’t really need to do any of those things. I just didn’t want to walk across campus with her to the pub. I knew what was happening, but felt powerless somehow to stop it. My stall was nothing more than a pathetic attempt to prove to myself that I was still in charge of the situation.

When I stepped into O’Leary’s, she waved from a back booth, two Pilsner Urquells waiting. “I went ahead and ordered, Dr. McKenzie,” she said. “I remember this is the beer you really like.”

“Thanks Alix,” I replied. “A perfect choice.”

We clinked bottles together, smiled and each took long pulls on our beers. If this didn’t feel like a date, nothing would. Run! Run! My brain was telling me to bolt! Stay! Stay! The rest of me sounded much calmer. It was too late to run, so I stayed.

“I’m so glad you agreed to come,” Alix said, her voice a bit lower than usual, almost but not quite a purr.

“Me too,” I agreed. Not for the first time I noticed how beautiful her lips were. They were full and a deep red without needing lipstick. Kissable.

“What I really wanted to talk to you about was something that came up last semester,” she said, her voice hard now. “You remember when I got into a fight with that conservative bitch about bisexuality?”

I was a bit taken aback by the anger Alix still had over this. After all, it had been more than six months ago now. “Sure, I remember,” I replied.

“Well, what I wanted to ask you is kind of a personal question,” her voice dropped a bit lower, so I had to lean forward a bit to hear over the ambient noise surrounding us. Before I could say anything, she plowed ahead.

“You see, you seemed really in tune with my defense of bisexuals and, well, that seemed really unusual for someone of your generation.”

I was about to say something about “your generation” when she put up her hand to stop me. “I don’t mean you’re old Dr. McKenzie, I just mean that bisexuality has only been even marginally socially acceptable in the past few years, so I wondered how someone who came of age sexually more than 20 years ago could have such an enlightened view.”

“Thanks,” I said, “for thinking of me as enlightened. But I’m still not sure I like the ‘your generation’ crack.”

“No offense Dr. McKenzie,” she laughed, “but you are 20 years older than me, no?”

“Sad, but true,” I had to admit.

“So anyway, what I wanted to ask you was, well,” and at this she stared down at the table for just a few heartbeats, clearly gathering her forces, then looking up to face me, her eyes glittering, pupils dilated, “are you bisexual?”

“Uh,” was my well-considered response! I felt trapped because I had a sense that if I lied about my sexual past she would see it on my face. But if I told the truth I’d be admitting something to her that I’d never admitted even to my ex-wife.

Alix saved me from my indecision. “I knew it,” she exulted.

“But,” I protested, “I didn’t say anything one way or the other.”

“You didn’t need to, Mark,” she said, shifting to a first name basis for the first time. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“Guilty as charged,” I admitted, a surprising sense of relief washing over me as I came clean with a 23 year old student about a secret I’d held inside me for more than 20 years.

“Tell me about it,” she prompted. “It’s ok. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Well,” I took another long pull on my beer, emptying the bottle, “it was a long time ago—college actually. I had a fling with a roommate that lasted just a few months. That was really the only time.”

“You’ve never been with a man since,” she asked?

“No, never,” I said, truthfully. “Why not?” she pressed.

The waitress appeared unbidden with two more beers, and despite my promise to myself, I grabbed at the new bottle and took another large swallow. “I never really had the opportunity. I got married just about a year later and was intensely faithful to my wife. Then, after the divorce, I just never met a man I was interested in. Not a very exciting story, but a true one nonetheless.”

“Thank you for telling me Mark,” she said, her voice soft and full of sympathy. “You never told your wife, did you?”

“I’ve never told anyone Alix,” I replied, “until now.”

“I’m honored,” she said. The look in her eyes told me she really meant that.

As good as it felt to get that off my chest, I suddenly didn’t want to talk about it any more. So I turned the conversation to her. “What about you,” I asked. “As long as we’re coming clean…”

She laughed lightly, “You see, eve gelen escort that’s the difference between your generation and mine. I don’t have to ‘come clean’ about the fact that I have sex with both women and men. It’s just a natural part of my sexuality.”

To hide my embarrassment at seeming so out of touch, I took another drink of my beer. I was actually starting to feel a bit buzzed, but didn’t give a damn.

“Actually, my first sexual partner was a woman,” she said, filling up the space created by my silence. “I was 14, she was 16. She taught me what an orgasm was and how one could be shared. She also taught me how to deal with boys and how to get what I wanted from them.”

I realized that I was enthralled by her, that I hoped she wouldn’t stop talking, and that if I was silent, she would probably tell me all about her sex life. She was just open that way.

“Throughout high school I refused to go steady with guys because I was too happy with the two girlfriends I had. Sure, I’d let them fuck me once in a while because it turned out I like penises too, but it was women who really made me the happiest.” The more she talked like this, the more things were starting to stir in my crotch.

“It wasn’t until I got to college that I found a guy who could make me as happy as my girlfriends had,” she went on. “He was an excellent lover and if things had worked out differently, we’d probably still be together. But, he went to grad school on the coast and I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, because it seemed like the right thing to say at that moment. She waved me off with one hand, laughing again. I liked the way she laughed at the travails of life.

“Don’t be. I miss him sometimes, but I don’t lack for fun,” she said, looking up at me through her eyelashes. I felt a stronger twinge in my crotch. This was clearly going somewhere. I wasn’t sure if it was where I wanted to go, but I wasn’t going to stop her until I knew.

“Glad to hear it,” I said, trying to sound like a good sport.

“What about you Mark,” she asked, “anyone special in your life at the moment?”

“To be perfectly honest,” I admitted, “I’m depressingly single these days.”

“Poor baby,” she smirked.

For a minute or two, we sat in uncomfortable silence. We seemed road blocked by the fact that she had a great sex life and I had no sex life at the moment. Finally, unable to stand the silence, I tried to put a brave face on it, “Don’t worry about me, something will come along soon.”

Alix lifted her head to face me directly and said, “How about right now?”

I opened my mouth to object, but she put her hand up to stop me. “Don’t say no until you hear me out. I find you immensely attractive and I’ve wanted to fuck you for months now. I know you find me attractive, because I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not looking. I especially appreciate the way you seem to love my tits. Not many guys like small tits, you know.”

I opened my mouth again to object, to say that it would be wrong, but again she put up her hand, “I’m not talking about a relationship here Mark. I’m talking about being fuck-buddies.” I must have looked puzzled, so she explained, “it’s what people my age call a pal they just like to fuck…someone who we would never establish a permanent relationship with, but who we love to fuck.”

Finally, it was my turn to talk, “Alix, I’ll admit that I do find you very attractive and that the thought of making love to you is very, very appealing, but I just can’t. You’re my student and I’m a professor. It would be sexual harassment.”

“Fuck that,” she spit out. “What grade did I make in your class last semester? An ‘A’. What grade am I making right now? An ‘A’. I’m one of the best students you’ve had in a long time—Oh, I’m not bragging, I just know the other grad students here—and it’s only sexual harassment if you don’t give me the grade I deserve because we fuck each other. Plus, if I don’t complain, then there’s no harassment, and this is all my idea, so how could I complain?”

“Uh,” I was tongue-tied. Jesus! I wanted this woman so badly right now that her arguments made sense to me. If my cock hadn’t gotten so hard, I might have been able to think straighter. But, instead, I did something I never should have done.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll agree you have a good argument there. So where do we go from here.”

A smile lit up her face. “To my apartment of course!”

She waved energetically at the waitress for the check and before another 10 minutes had passed, we are out the door and into the cool spring evening, headed for her apartment.

The raging hard on in my pants was the only thing that was keeping me from bolting for the hills. That and the fact that she kept leaning over and whispering in my ear about the things we were going to do once we got naked. I knew she was making sure I didn’t run, and I didn’t give a shit. My brain had shut down and my crotch had taken control. What a dope!

My whole body was tingling, every nerve cell fully engaged, by the time we reached her apartment complex and started up the stairs. I wasn’t drunk on beer—I was drunk on excitement. As she walked up the steps in front of me, my face was just a few feet from her glorious ass. I wanted to take it in my hands at that moment and pull it to me, but that would have been a bit over the top.

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