TWO
DEREK
Dropping onto my black leather couch, I propped my feet up on the coffee table and grabbed my glass of Syrah. I opened the manila folder which contained all the essays from my Shakespeare class. Yes, it would be another long, tedious night of grading mostly below-average papers. I wasn’t sure why, but the sophomore class for this quarter seemed totally unmotivated.
“Someday soon you’ll get yourself a T.A., old man,” I assured myself before diving into the first paper, which was already weak by way of its opening line. “I feel that Shakespeare is in love with a woman and wants the world to know how beautiful she is in Sonnet 18: Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?” I read out loud before shaking my head. “You,” I started as I glanced up at the top of the paper in order to retrieve the student’s name. “Lucinda Grant, quite clearly must have missed class on Friday or you would have remembered that Sonnet 18 was written about a young man.” Taking a sip of my wine, I instantly wished I’d been more generous in pouring it. “Off to a great start.”
The next three papers were equally uninspiring. They were just the tip of the iceberg, though. I still had another sixty to read and evaluate. These were the kinds of days when I regretted my decision to enter academia. I was beyond sure I could be just as miserable wearing a suit to the office every day, or maybe the best choice was not being employed at all. Maybe the homeless had it right. Living off the grid, answering to no one and avoiding the IRS altogether. Sounded pretty good to me.
Of course, there were some students who actually listened during my lecture, and truthfully gave a shit about what they were learning. Some even saw the eternal beauty of the written word. They were the reason I’d chosen to become a professor to begin with. And also the reason I was busting my ass for a less-than-impressive salary. Let’s not even mention that I still hadn’t gotten my teaching assistant even though John Bishop already had. And my tenure outranked his. But the problem wasn’t tenure, or the fact that at age thirty-eight, I was ten years his junior. No, I was the problem.
Being incorrigibly opinionated made me a misfit. In fact, I couldn’t remember the number of times the dean had visited me personally to tell me to toe the line. Truthfully, it was probably just a matter of months before they let me go. And even that wouldn’t be the worst thing to go wrong in the world, or, more specifically, my world. Maybe it would be a sign that I should just go into the police academy and become just like my father.
I downed the last few drops of wine and dropped the folder with the less-than-stellar essays on the couch beside me. Then I stood up and stretched, intending to pour myself another glass. That was when my cell phone rang.
Reaching for it, I glanced at the caller ID and read Rebecca’s name. Rebecca was a graduate student of English Literature who was currently trying her damnedest to become my teaching assistant. She was also a stage-five clinger, and, on a side note, completely bat-shit crazy. But, yes, I was guilty of screwing her. Sometimes you have to make concessions, especially when the sex is that good …
“Rebecca,” I said in greeting.
“What are you doing?” she asked. She always had a winded, breathy way of speaking. The first time I met her, her husky voice along with her dark, Italian sensuousness sent me into a tailspin. However, that was before I learned about the clingy, bat-shit crazy stuff. Now she sent me into another sort of tailspin, this one of the escapism variety.
“I’m grading papers,” I answered as I eyed the intimidating pile and sighed. “What are you doing?”
“Well,” she started, and I knew she was curling a tendril of hair around her finger like she always did when she was trying to be sexy. It was beyond fake, and bordered on downright annoying. “I was thinking about that huge monster you have hidden beneath your pants.”
“That huge monster I have hidden beneath my pants?” I repeated with a chuckle because she sounded ridiculous.
“Yes!” she hissed, again trying too hard to sound sexy. I had to ask myself why I even put up with her obvious antics. Oh, yes, that’s right. For the crazy-screams-and-nails-that-rake-my-back sex. I really couldn’t think of one man I knew who wouldn’t put up with a little cray-cray to get a wild romp in the hay-hay.
“So are you asking if you can come over?” I asked, figuring the papers could wait a few hours.
“Yep, you read my mind,” she answered. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you today.”
“Is that so?” I asked, not really sure what else to say on the subject. I only thought about her when she called me or when I was horny.
“Yep, I overheard a group of girls in the student union who were all giggling about ‘how hot Professor Anderson is.’ I had to smile secretly because they don’t have the slightest clue how hot you are in bed or how gorgeous your dick is.”
I laughed. “Well, thanks for that. And, as it happens, I have a brief break in my schedule. Why don’t you come over to the house and amuse me for a few hours?”
“Mmm, I would love nothing more,” she cooed back, and I wondered how hard it would be to get rid of her after I’d had my fill of her services.