My eyes are nearly bleeding. I told my students to not write sex scenes, but that only stopped about half of them. Many of the sex scenes have some of the most clumsy language I’ve ever read. Some choice excerpts include:

“They then proceeded to 69 the hell out of each others’ pussies.”

“You’re so wet, Juliet, as wet as the very sea that our badass pirate ship floats upon.”

“Juliet smelled good, even though she’d never taken a shower in her life, especially not after being a pirate. Yet, somehow she smelled good, especially between her legs.”

I roll my eyes and throw the pile down on my desk. I stop reading the sex scenes and simply grade the papers based on whether or not they hit the layers of conflict. Most of them do an adequate job. It seems my students will never become romance or erotica writers, but at least they can identify and create conflict in their stories.

After taking a bit of a break, I grab the pile and look at the next submission. It’s titled, “Romeo’s Blue Tie.”

I sit up and scan the submission for a name, but there isn’t one. Either the student forgot to put their name on it, or…

I read on. It starts out with a description of the scene as if it is going to read like a script to a play, but it goes into a regular narrative structure: from Juliet’s point of view.

*Romeo and Juliet have docked in Portsmouth, England. After one too many drinks in the tavern, they find themselves in a secluded garden by moonlight.*

I lean forward. And read on.

Romeo leans forward. She’s a full head taller than me, and I find myself staring at the soft flesh of her neck. My eyes wander down, and I notice the new silk tie she’s wearing. She must have bought it in town, as I’ve never seen her wearing it on the ship.

“While we are in this garden,” Romeo says, “let us speak the truth.”

I look up at her nervously. My heart pounds so hard that I feel blood rushing through the tops of my ears. How long I’ve wanted to speak the truth to her, and now is my chance. But I’m so afraid, as if saying aloud what I truly want will make me realize I’ve been living a dream all along, and I’ll wake up cold and alone.

I muster a nod. It’s all I can do, my voice is gone.

“So speak, Juliet,” Romeo says.

I laugh to myself. Back in Oxford, it was Nicole who suggested we speak truthfully to each other, not me. Yet Romeo is the one wearing the light blue tie. Clearly, I am Romeo, but she’s changing what happened between us.

“I...I don’t care if you’re my captain.”

“Meaning you’ll disobey me?” Romeo asks, a smirk filling her face.

Romeo’s long fingers run up to the silk tie around her neck. It’s more like a scarf than a necktie, but Romeo has knotted it in a way that suggests a men’s necktie. She tugs at the knot absentmindedly as she waits for me to answer.

“No,” I say. “I want only to obey you. But not because you’re my captain. And I don’t just want to obey you when it comes to hoisting the sails or swabbing the deck—”

I laugh, harder this time. Nicole certainly didn’t do much research for this story. Those are the only two pirate things she could think up?

“But,” I say, “I want to obey you in all things, Romeo.”

“All things,” Romeo says, pulling the knot undone. She pulls on the blue scarf, and it slides around her neck, until it’s finally off her body and in her hands. She pulls it taut, then looks down at my body.

“Be careful,” Romeo says. “Once you promise me that you’ll obey, you must obey. In all things.”

“I promise I’ll obey you,” I say. “In all things.”

“Then turn around,” Romeo says.

I hesitate for the briefest moment, but then I remember what I’ve just promised. I turn around, finding myself face to face with a wooden post, around which leaves and vines have grown.

“Put your hands on the post,” Romeo’s voice orders.

I obey.

I feel Romeo’s breath on my neck, and I feel the warmth of her body, but she doesn’t touch me. Not yet.

Then I feel the silky softness of the scarf draping across my shoulder, touching the exposed skin of my neck. I want to ask him what he’s going to do to me, but that would feel like a form of disobedience.

He. Romeo has suddenly become a man. I find myself clenching my teeth, and my cock is hard. It presses uncomfortably against my pants, and I shift my position to give it more space. I suppose the Romeo in this story was always a man, it’s always been me, even if Nicole began by holding up the pretense of following the assignment.

He pulls the smooth fabric around the front of my neck, and I feel his breath move to my ear. I start to crave his touch more than anything. I need it more than the air I breathe, but still he’s denying me his touch. I have only his tie around my neck, which will have to suffice for now.

“Juliet,” he whispers, his voice deep and masculine. “I would be a fool to turn you away now. I might lose everything if I do this, but I don’t care. I need this.”

The cloth tightens around my neck. I keep thinking he’ll stop, but it only tightens more. It gets harder to breathe, and I suddenly regret thinking I wanted Romeo more than I wanted air. As I struggle for air, I feel adrenaline surging through me. I gasp, and blood rushes up to my head. It hits me almost like an orgasm, and I gasp away precious air.

“The lack of oxygen feels good,” Romeo says.

I croak in response. It’s all I can manage.

Just as I start to see the edges of my vision go dark, I feel his hand reach down. He touches my wide hips, and then his hand slides around and grabs my ass.

He lets go of the scarf just enough that I get in a good gasp of air, but he tightens it again just as his other hand sinks down my pants. His finger finds my wetness, and I realize then that his touch is better than the air I breathe. I need it more, and even as my vision goes dark, my clit swells, and the wetness between my legs flows as if a dam previously holding it back has been broken, shattered by Romeo’s touch…

I realize my cock is in my hands. I’ve taken it out, and I’ve begun to stroke myself.

There’s a knock at the door, and I quickly stuff my cock back in and zip up my fly. I turn my chair toward the door just as it swings open.

I put the papers onto my lap to hide my erection. The woman at the door, of course, is Nicole Weissman.

I lock eyes with her.

“Dr. Leeds,” she says. “Class started five minutes ago.”

I look at her neck, and I imagine squeezing it with my tie. I imagine my hand between her legs, and my fingers penetrating deep inside of her.

She must notice the look on my face, because she looks down at the paper. “What are you reading?”

“I’ll be right there,” I say. “Start class without me.”

I see her try to lean in and read the paper, but I turn my chair around, bringing my back to her. “I’ll be right there, go on.”

When she’s gone, I grab my red pen and start to mark up her paper. I laugh as I write, imagining her reaction.