Everyone has a goal in life.

Some of my classmates want to be doctors. Lawyers. Teachers.

The “respectable professions,” as I like to call them.

Mine, on the other hand, is to be the best sex therapist of all time. There isn’t exactly a ‘major’ for that. I just take a lot of psychology classes and hope my grad school degree will get me there.

In order to hit my goal, every day I ask myself another question and test it out. Biting on my pen, I stare at the question scribbled at the top of my journal.

How do guys respond to tomboys?

I like experiments, and I’m a person of action. Ipso facto, I do a lot of strange things. Like the experiment I’m doing right now, for example. It’s proving my hypothesis to a T.

As my classmates file into our nine a.m. class, I sit in the back row with my hair up in a pony tail. I’m wearing my baggy jeans, black-framed glasses, and my Blackwell University hoodie. My attire is the opposite of flashy, just as I intend. My feminine assets are well hidden underneath a sea of cloth.

It’s unseasonably cool today, which has given me this golden opportunity to get to the bottom of my question. I think I know the answer, but I want to observe it in action.

Underneath my core question, I scribble another: Does a man respond differently to me when I’ve got my boobs stealthily hidden, no makeup on, and big glasses?

Every guy who walks into class proves my theory right. Each one enters, glances at me, sizes me up, and then joins one of the waify blonde girls in one of the middle rows. Soon all four of the guys who entered are chatting it up and flirting with those girls.

I scribble down the observation in my journal.

My roommate Liz files in, sees me and joins me in the back row.

“Hey there stranger. You left early today,” she says, tossing her hair as she puts her backpack down.

I turn toward her. “I know. I’m running another experiment today.”

She rolls her eyes playfully. “And what did you find out? Guys don’t stare at you as much when you don’t have your tits out? Shocking.”

“Shhh,” I whisper. “We can’t talk about that here.”

“Why not? Isn’t this Psychology of Sexuality senior capstone course? Taught by Professor Kaela Yeager. She’s like, the most liberal of all the teachers here.”

“Liberal?”

“Yeah, she just hands out A’s like they are candy.”

I sigh. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Uh, yeah. Senior year is for partying. I don’t need to be weighed down with actual work. Duh.”

I give her a mean squint. I love Liz, but sometimes she makes me feel like all my hard work is for nothing. She’s a pretty blonde who has coasted by for most of her college career--she even slept with a professor.

A female professor. It was exploratory, she said.

Still, she’s been my roommate since freshman year and I love her through thick and thin. I’ve always been a little jealous of the attention she gets from guys. She’s the one they take to the dances. I’m the one guys call up at two a.m. for a try at a drunk hookup. I still haven’t said yes to anyone though.

“What about you?” Liz quips. “Are you going to, you know, have actual sex at some point this year?”

“Hey! Not fair. I’ve had actual sex. Or close.”

She exhales loudly. “Giving head to Brandon Morrissey does not constitute…”

Her voice trails off and she looks toward the front of the room.

“Hello! Earth to Liz! Finish telling me whatever insult you were about to give me,” I say.

She’s right. I haven’t had sex--technically speaking. I just haven’t found a guy worth my time. Then suddenly I’m in my senior year, and I still haven’t done it, it’s like the pressure is mounting. I don’t need the perfect man, but I don’t want to do it with just any old guy.

And definitely not Brandon Morrissey. I shudder a little about that whole mistake.

I scribble down another note in my journal. Have sex soon.

Because if I don’t have it this year, who knows when it will happen. How am I supposed to be the best sex therapist of all time if I haven’t even had sex myself?

Liz stares at the front of the room. She still hasn’t said anything since she trailed off. I’m an overly polite type of person, but even I have my limits. “Cat got your tongue? What the hell are you staring at?”

Her lips are parted as she stares ahead, gawking at the front of the room. “Professor McHottie,” she says, pointing.

I scrunch my brow and glance at him.

When I do, I nearly lose my shit.

A man stands at the front of the room wearing black rimmed glasses like mine. Through them I can clearly see his sea-blue eyes and long eyelashes. He wears a collared black shirt tucked into jeans and stylish black boots. The first few buttons of his shirt hang open. It’s not that the shirt is tight, it’s that this man is ripped. My mouth hangs open and I lose myself in the same daze that Liz had fallen into.

My heart pounds as I examine the man up and down. He squints, focusing his eyes out into the twenty or so students in the class. His gaze is so hard it give me butterflies. His jaw is strong and his chin sharp.

I swallow.

“Where the hell is Professor Yeager?” I whisper to Liz.

“Maybe we have a substitute.” she answers.

I work my eyes down his jeans and I find myself staring firmly at the exact place I shouldn’t be staring at on a teacher--his crotch. I can see the bulge, even from all the way in the back of the classroom. No way that thing’s real. He must be stuffed with socks or something.

He clears his throat. “Thanks for being here today everyone. It’s five minutes past nine already, I’ve given the stragglers a few minutes to arrive, so I’m going to go ahead and get started. Welcome to the Psychology of Sexuality. I’m Professor Hanks. I did my undergraduate studies at Blackwell before getting my Ph.D. at Harvard. Today is syllabus day, so we’ll make it quick.”

I lick my lips. Liz feels it. Every girl in my class feels it. We are in a sea of boys, and there is a man standing in front of the class.

I scribble in my journal. I have no idea what he’s saying for the next thirty minutes. He sounds like the Charlie Brown guy mumbling under his blanket. I watch his mouth move, but I don’t hear a word he’s saying.

He strolls up and down the aisles leisurely. I think he tells us to write something down, but I’m not listening. He stops his stroll right in front of my desk. I can see his shadow over me, blocking out some of the fluorescent light.

My breath catches, I start to feel like I can’t breathe. I glance to my right slightly, and when I do I notice something. For the love of Christ, the outline of his cock is at my eye level right now, and my God, that is a huge fucking bulge.

He crosses his arms.

“Blank page?” he says, staring down at my notebook.

The deep timbre of his voice strikes me.

“Are we supposed to be writing something?”

He smiles broadly and tilts his head.

Why does it feel like he’s looking through me? He narrows his eyes like he can see what all the boys who walked past me in the classroom didn’t. His expression is merciless, but his face is perfection. When he examines me, goosebumps grow all over my body. It’s like he has x-ray vision and can see right through my plan.

It’s then that I realize I’ve left my journal open next to my class notebook, and he can read the pages I’ve written.

My dumb experiment.

He smirks. “Interesting,” is all he says before walking away.

I watch his ass with interest as he slowly meanders down the aisle.

I scribble something down in my notebook.

Possible to lose my virginity to a professor?

Class ends shortly after that incident. Thankfully, the rest of my classes are without fanfare. Add in the fact that I can’t think about much aside from “Professor McHottie,” as Liz has already dubbed him, and I have a gargantuan case of ADHD on my hands for the rest of the week.

I’m doodling in my journal, trying to come up with ways to accomplish my latest experiment.

I’ve got to lose my virginity this year and I’ve got to lose it to someone who knows what they’re doing, but won’t make it into this outrageous ordeal that I’m a twenty-two year old woman who still hasn’t had sex.

Professor Hanks is the perfect specimen. With his serious demeanor, hot body, and apparent equipment (though I’m still convinced I’m somehow being deceived), he’d make the perfect man to teach me how to run therapy on a client.