On asking.

The Professor came to my hotel last night. Her story is a little tragic, as she came into my life at a point that made our relationship less conducive as it could have been. And to be frank, I like her as a person and as a sexual partner.

The nitty-gritty: she was the first person outside of my relationship that I fucked while still in the relationship, and the one sole sample for me to decide that nonmonogamy wasn’t for me, at least while E was still in the picture. We had a lot of hot textual conversation, we Skyped, and ended up renting a room at a Howard Johnson for the night, went out for Mexican, and fucked like rabbits. I came four times and she fisted me, my tie balled up in one hand and her fingers around my neck.

She was an absolutely incredible top, but I didn’t fulfill my duties as a bottom, at least in retrospect, that’s how I interpret it. I didn’t communicate my desires outside of sex—desires like needing to process shit as a 21-year old and not knowing how to then go back to my girlfriend reeking of sex. After that, I dropped off the face of the earth and she got a girlfriend and is happily monogamous.

Still, that didn’t stop her from coming over last night. Now that I’m single, I felt better about saying hello and trying things again. I was in her area on business, remembered that she lived there part-time, and sent her a short message that I figured would either be promptly attended to or promptly ignored:

Professor –

This is Cam, I’m in your area, and I’d love to buy you a drink if you’re around, too. Here’s my number, text me if you’re inclined. Hope your work is going well!

I sent it in the taxi on the way over to the hotel. As I was stripping my shirt off after checking into my room, there it was: “Cam?” in text form, and there it started. I didn’t expect much, but she got down to brass tacks. A few drinks later, I was feeling bold and caffeinated enough to ask her by. As soon as she sat down, she looked at me, slowly, from my spit-polished red dress shoes to my blushing face.

“I’m not going to fuck you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have some fun with you.” Christ, her hands were still as capable and perfectly manicured as I recalled them to be, and her grin spread across my face. She knew the power she had over me, despite my bravado and smug fever at the delight of such socialization after touching down in a new state for eight hours.

So we talked. We talked for a while – I got a better sense of her, and I think I met her at a smarter, happier place. I may have bungled the first go-around, but second chances can happen, especially when you’ve a free evening, a good Pandora station, and a chaise lounge with a girl moving closer and closer to you by the minute. And yes, technically, as this is not a sex post, putting it on here may seem both irrelevant and strange, but it’s a follow-up, a reevaluation coming in both a typed report and a steely deliberation enunciated into my ear:

“Cam, if things ever change, trust me, you’ll be the first to know, because you’ve been on my mind. And I’m not going to cross any lines tonight, but if my situation is ever redefined, I’m going to get in my car, drive to you, and beat the living daylights out of you.”

I shivered.

She’s a blank page, and my ink runneth over. I’m spurting, leaking, staining the table and her cardigan and she’s just laughing, toothy and clever close to my skin. Four hours slipped by like I’d snapped my fingers and willed them away, and around 3AM, she got up to leave.

She hugged me, tightly, with more connection than before. Her hands slipped around my waist and she held me close.

I opened the door and her fist shot out, knotting my tie and locking her eyes to mine, and she slapped me across the face, the door closing on its own as she slid out before I even had a chance to register, calling out into the empty halls,

“Have a wonderful evening, Cam. We’ll be in touch.”


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