I left the office at 2:30 PM. I cut out before my office hours officially ended. It was the first Thursday in a new semester. No one is going to be looking for the new political science prof. And, I had to get home.
I knew M would be there. Her classes were all in the morning and she had planned for lunches at 1 on Thursdays. Working/writing from home would be her approach.
I was home just before 3:00. The walk had been invigorating, but had not suppressed my need.
M walked in to greet me in the front hallway and I grabbed her, hands around her waist, and kissed her. She smiled and noted that I must have had a great day.
I kissed her again. And again. Pulling her to me and ensuring she could feel my growing desire. Lips on hers, then onto her cheekbone, her neck, her collarbone. Hands on her firm ass, pulling her in. Her hands on my back, down, one hand drifting to my dark grey wool pants, wrapping around the covered shaft.
We moved near the couch and my kisses grew more intense. We still had a good love life, but nothing this intense in a long time. Definitely not since we'd moved to Oxford.
As our bodies danced, I admired her bare legs and feet, the short cotton shorts, the college t-shirt. Her beauty always stunned me.
My hands pulled her shorts down and I found her totally uncovered, bare, and as my fingers discovered, moist.
I loosened my belt, unzipped, pants falling to the floor. Her hand was on me, pulling me out. I was against her warm thigh, her flesh delighting in the throbbing, hot touch.
Inside her now as she let out a soft breath, a slight moan. Her legs around my waist, my thrusts growing deeper, impatient.
I looked into her eyes, my hands on her breasts. Our lips met again and locked and danced and played in the heat.
My body grew tense, tight, and I was moving fast. I slowed a bit, slowed and enjoyed the feel of her flesh against mine. Took in her body, her feet now on my shoulders. Told her I loved her. Told her again. Grunted, screamed, came hard.
Held her there for a moment as her hand stroked my face.
The passion was still there, still great. We smiled and stayed there for a bit, resting, relaxing, celebrating each other.
I got up and changed, she cleaned up in the bathroom. We made drinks and sat on the porch. This would be the beginning of something wonderful.
On Tuesday of that week, I'd taught my second class. 9:30 in the morning. It had been a while since I'd been in a traditional classroom. Seeing and talking with real students who could talk back was pleasant. Of course, it was mainly preliminaries those first few days.
Emily stood out from the moment she walked in. About medium height, with glasses and wearing a pair of black heels. She sat in the middle of the room and I couldn't help but focus on her. Her brown hair, blue eyes, thin frame. The way the shoe dangled off the toe of her right foot, how she'd adjust it with her hand, placing it back on. How it would end up dangling again, never falling off.
Other students were texting or recording notes on their iPads. Emily took out a spiral notebook labeled "Political Science" and began writing. She was attentive, and seemed eerily focused on me. And only me. She never looked around, never glanced at another student's desk. Just looked ahead at me or wrote in her notebook.
At my office hours that afternoon, she'd come by and told me she was looking forward to my class most of all this semester. She wanted to work in Washington, DC and she knew this class would be the start of her journey there. I told her that internship opportunities would come later, but that getting the basic courses down would certainly be to her benefit. I admired her simple attire. Gray skirt, white oxford, and those black heels.
And then, then came Thursday. Emily was back, in the middle, and focused. And so was I. I gave the opening lecture as I'd planned, but my eyes and attention kept coming back to Emily. I had to remain behind the podium during question time because I was so incredibly aroused. This is what I had missed while teaching online.
Class ended and Emily lingered. She told me she couldn't wait until next Tuesday and was there anything she could or should be doing over the weekend besides the assigned reading. I suggested a book and offered to get it for her in my office.
She dutifully followed and as she came in my office, she closed the door. I detected a sweet scent, her perfume, which matched wonderfully with her skin.
I told her I had another class, that perhaps we could set an appointment for next week if she wanted to talk about the book. She just smiled and said thanks and told me she'd see me Tuesday.
I hurried through my afternoon class, and then went back to my office for my 2 to 4 office hours. I hadn't eaten and I could only think of Emily. M and I had been together for more than 15 years now, most of those married. Sure, I'd notice a woman from time to time, but nothing like this. Infatuation, I suppose. Certainly, raw lust.
The only cure, I figured, was to go home and see M. To realize and appreciate and adore her pure beauty.
And so at 2:30 PM on a Thursday of my first week of teaching, I left my office and went home to M.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Thursday, March 7, 2013
13
The rain came down lightly on a grey, cool day just minutes from Spring, it seemed.
I drove my recently acquired mid-size luxury car down a moderately crowded street just before the lunch rush. I wore a dark suit and a wool and cashmere overcoat. I left the coffee shop minutes before. Left because my appointment never showed. A text yielded only a one-word response. A follow-up, nothing. This may have been the last chance.
A song came on the radio. A man's sorrowful voice, a soft guitar. Two months of anger and fear came up inside me. A tear came to my eye as I gripped the steering wheel tightly. My lips quivered, the tears flowed.
It had all come to this. The song about a lover who'd changed with time reminded me of the time I kissed her. The second time. And then a memory of the first. That same night. The magic and haze and leaving the elevator and walking to my room and not sleeping because I was so high.
And it had all come to this. She doesn't know that two months ago, I lost my job. That I've been driving around and writing and looking for work for two months. And I wonder if I'd made different choices, if I could have spared her. If we'd been wrong about the path we were on. And when will I tell her? Or will she find out and I'll have spared her two months or three of worry and depression.
So, I've been holding it in. And it came out.
And I stopped my car and got out and left it running and walked down the street. Polished black shoes hitting pavement. Off to a sidewalk and down a side street. I look back and notice a police officer at the car, no doubt they'll run the tags and find it belongs to me. But for now, I'm walking. Down a sidewalk and it is 15 degrees outside and windy and cold and my face is burning and red and the wind has blown away my tears.
For the third time in five jobs, I was asked to leave. I came in pretty much knowing it would happen. Just after a week-long vacation and just ahead of our busiest time of the year. I had offered to stay on, to help until a permanent replacement could be found. There was no choice, I was told. I asked for the week and was given a few hours. By lunch, I had left. By 6:00PM, I was back home. Smiling and relieved.
Truly, the days after that one were exhilarating. I forced myself to write, to pursue job leads, to have lunch meetings.
And then, the song. And the realization that either today or next week or very soon I'd have to come up with money or a story or something.
I keep hoping that there will be a new job, a transition, a source of income that will replace what I left.
Two months is not much time in a job search. Time to get letters out and get a few rejections back. Time to maybe get called for an interview (though I haven't yet).
And now I'm thinking about a tiny downtown apartment. About life apart from my family and the town where I've lived most of my adult life. Life apart from our child.
I imagine a contract and some writing money and that if I had just chosen not to follow what was the inevitable path all those years ago, I'd not even be here right now. That I'm trying to make my life dreams fit into someone else's life. And it hasn't been working out all that well. That on a Tuesday night in March 14 years ago, I could have taken a huge risk and walked away. And by now, everything would be different, fine, maybe even the same with only a different cast of characters.
I walk back to my car because I can't have the police calling my house. I explain that I just lost my job and I am distressed and I'm sorry. The officer writes a citation and tells me to get the car out of the road unless there's something wrong with it. There isn't, of course. I say "yes, sir" and get in and drive back to the small, private office space that I've claimed.
The crying is over and there is now nothing to do but persevere. Keep going. Make something happen. I will. It's what I always do. The pattern repeats itself. 2.5 years is about all anyone can take of me, it seems.
I'm back in the office. Checking emails. Writing. Tears gone and stress relieved to a point.
I'll go home and feel relaxed, not worried about the next day's work. Not sure what's next. This is the path I've chosen. I'm not getting off anytime soon.
I drove my recently acquired mid-size luxury car down a moderately crowded street just before the lunch rush. I wore a dark suit and a wool and cashmere overcoat. I left the coffee shop minutes before. Left because my appointment never showed. A text yielded only a one-word response. A follow-up, nothing. This may have been the last chance.
A song came on the radio. A man's sorrowful voice, a soft guitar. Two months of anger and fear came up inside me. A tear came to my eye as I gripped the steering wheel tightly. My lips quivered, the tears flowed.
It had all come to this. The song about a lover who'd changed with time reminded me of the time I kissed her. The second time. And then a memory of the first. That same night. The magic and haze and leaving the elevator and walking to my room and not sleeping because I was so high.
And it had all come to this. She doesn't know that two months ago, I lost my job. That I've been driving around and writing and looking for work for two months. And I wonder if I'd made different choices, if I could have spared her. If we'd been wrong about the path we were on. And when will I tell her? Or will she find out and I'll have spared her two months or three of worry and depression.
So, I've been holding it in. And it came out.
And I stopped my car and got out and left it running and walked down the street. Polished black shoes hitting pavement. Off to a sidewalk and down a side street. I look back and notice a police officer at the car, no doubt they'll run the tags and find it belongs to me. But for now, I'm walking. Down a sidewalk and it is 15 degrees outside and windy and cold and my face is burning and red and the wind has blown away my tears.
For the third time in five jobs, I was asked to leave. I came in pretty much knowing it would happen. Just after a week-long vacation and just ahead of our busiest time of the year. I had offered to stay on, to help until a permanent replacement could be found. There was no choice, I was told. I asked for the week and was given a few hours. By lunch, I had left. By 6:00PM, I was back home. Smiling and relieved.
Truly, the days after that one were exhilarating. I forced myself to write, to pursue job leads, to have lunch meetings.
And then, the song. And the realization that either today or next week or very soon I'd have to come up with money or a story or something.
I keep hoping that there will be a new job, a transition, a source of income that will replace what I left.
Two months is not much time in a job search. Time to get letters out and get a few rejections back. Time to maybe get called for an interview (though I haven't yet).
And now I'm thinking about a tiny downtown apartment. About life apart from my family and the town where I've lived most of my adult life. Life apart from our child.
I imagine a contract and some writing money and that if I had just chosen not to follow what was the inevitable path all those years ago, I'd not even be here right now. That I'm trying to make my life dreams fit into someone else's life. And it hasn't been working out all that well. That on a Tuesday night in March 14 years ago, I could have taken a huge risk and walked away. And by now, everything would be different, fine, maybe even the same with only a different cast of characters.
I walk back to my car because I can't have the police calling my house. I explain that I just lost my job and I am distressed and I'm sorry. The officer writes a citation and tells me to get the car out of the road unless there's something wrong with it. There isn't, of course. I say "yes, sir" and get in and drive back to the small, private office space that I've claimed.
The crying is over and there is now nothing to do but persevere. Keep going. Make something happen. I will. It's what I always do. The pattern repeats itself. 2.5 years is about all anyone can take of me, it seems.
I'm back in the office. Checking emails. Writing. Tears gone and stress relieved to a point.
I'll go home and feel relaxed, not worried about the next day's work. Not sure what's next. This is the path I've chosen. I'm not getting off anytime soon.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Twelve
I accepted a teaching position at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. Come August, I'll be an Assistant Professor of Political Science. And I'll be 40. M has a shot at a lecturer's position in History. My salary alone will be more than we made together at the mission. Plus, we've saved some money. And cost of living is reasonable. We want an older home. Some land. A long driveway and trees. Though, we may stay in town and walk, since we don't yet have a car. I guess we'll get one. Just one.
I relish the thought of the walks to campus. The brick-paved streets, the ivy-coated buildings, the bustling students.
We're still not sure about having a child. But, we want to be settled into a home and life before we do. The mission just makes that difficult.
It has been years since I've taught live students. I mean, I get calls from my online students, but seeing them in person. That's been a while.
This is a life I've always wanted. Time will tell if that was good instinct. An Assistant Professor at a good school in a location that is amazing. If you're not from Kentucky like M and I, maybe being a good distance outside of Cincinnati seems like bad news. A stepping stone to a "better" college. But for me, this is the dream. Like the mission. I knew the work I wanted to do. And did it. And M and I were (and are) committed to that work.
And we're committed to this new life. Teaching. Cooking our own meals. Enjoying time together.
The night I got the call, we made love in the tiny kitchen of the row house. Made love is a generous term. It was the most eager, intense sex we'd had in a while. Mostly on the small wooden table we use for the few meals we eat at home.
And then, we made love in the shower. Her back against the stone tile as hot water streamed around us.
And once more, in the bed that night. Her orgasm one of the strongest I remember.
Clearly, our bodies wanted this. A release of tension. A light.
The mission took everything. And we paid the price the next morning for our night of passion. But we could see an end. A walking out of the cave. We had both dreamed of this. And now, it would be real. In just a few short months.
I imagine putting on a pair of khaki pants, a white shirt, a simple tie. Maybe a blue blazer on cooler days. I think of the leaves turning colors as the semester finds rhythm. Students in sweatshirts and sandals. Lazy Fridays when no one makes a sound after noon. Walks in town or on campus at night.
A rebirth. A visit again to our days in our 20s. Maybe we won't have a child after all. Maybe we'll just celebrate this existence. Relish it. Discover ourselves again.
Reading. I'll be able to read again. What I want. And writing. I'll be able to write. Not just the research papers that helped me get this job. The fiction -- short stories and even a novel -- that I've wanted to get down on paper. The stories in my head begging to come loose.
We'll find a role in a church nearby, I'm sure. I could be a full professor by 50 or so. And teach 20 years after that.
I'll know that when our schedule allows, M and I can lunch in my office (or hers). I'll spot her in the library on a computer and she'll catch me staring. Always amazed at the tight lines of her muscles, developed from swimming and maintained over this time. I'll relish the running over new ground. The cool evenings and the access to fitness equipment.
I never was much for seafood, so Baltimore fare won't be too much missed.
We'll be closer to relatives. Central Kentucky is beautiful at all times. And we'll use the summers to explore our old favorite places and share childhood stories connected to a barn or street or park.
Perhaps we'll adopt a cat for our home. Though I know she likes dogs, too.
This is right. It feels right. We're going to teach and fall in love again and grow older. And we'll be doing it in Oxford, Ohio.
I relish the thought of the walks to campus. The brick-paved streets, the ivy-coated buildings, the bustling students.
We're still not sure about having a child. But, we want to be settled into a home and life before we do. The mission just makes that difficult.
It has been years since I've taught live students. I mean, I get calls from my online students, but seeing them in person. That's been a while.
This is a life I've always wanted. Time will tell if that was good instinct. An Assistant Professor at a good school in a location that is amazing. If you're not from Kentucky like M and I, maybe being a good distance outside of Cincinnati seems like bad news. A stepping stone to a "better" college. But for me, this is the dream. Like the mission. I knew the work I wanted to do. And did it. And M and I were (and are) committed to that work.
And we're committed to this new life. Teaching. Cooking our own meals. Enjoying time together.
The night I got the call, we made love in the tiny kitchen of the row house. Made love is a generous term. It was the most eager, intense sex we'd had in a while. Mostly on the small wooden table we use for the few meals we eat at home.
And then, we made love in the shower. Her back against the stone tile as hot water streamed around us.
And once more, in the bed that night. Her orgasm one of the strongest I remember.
Clearly, our bodies wanted this. A release of tension. A light.
The mission took everything. And we paid the price the next morning for our night of passion. But we could see an end. A walking out of the cave. We had both dreamed of this. And now, it would be real. In just a few short months.
I imagine putting on a pair of khaki pants, a white shirt, a simple tie. Maybe a blue blazer on cooler days. I think of the leaves turning colors as the semester finds rhythm. Students in sweatshirts and sandals. Lazy Fridays when no one makes a sound after noon. Walks in town or on campus at night.
A rebirth. A visit again to our days in our 20s. Maybe we won't have a child after all. Maybe we'll just celebrate this existence. Relish it. Discover ourselves again.
Reading. I'll be able to read again. What I want. And writing. I'll be able to write. Not just the research papers that helped me get this job. The fiction -- short stories and even a novel -- that I've wanted to get down on paper. The stories in my head begging to come loose.
We'll find a role in a church nearby, I'm sure. I could be a full professor by 50 or so. And teach 20 years after that.
I'll know that when our schedule allows, M and I can lunch in my office (or hers). I'll spot her in the library on a computer and she'll catch me staring. Always amazed at the tight lines of her muscles, developed from swimming and maintained over this time. I'll relish the running over new ground. The cool evenings and the access to fitness equipment.
I never was much for seafood, so Baltimore fare won't be too much missed.
We'll be closer to relatives. Central Kentucky is beautiful at all times. And we'll use the summers to explore our old favorite places and share childhood stories connected to a barn or street or park.
Perhaps we'll adopt a cat for our home. Though I know she likes dogs, too.
This is right. It feels right. We're going to teach and fall in love again and grow older. And we'll be doing it in Oxford, Ohio.
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