Of course, that’s all assuming that I could date Emmaline. I’m thinking about fucking her…and suddenly I want to feed her dinner? Date her? Have a future with her? I’m just about the clingiest fucking creep there’s ever been. Give me a day and I’m going to be thinking about getting her pregnant.
Yeah…that offhand thought makes me nearly burn myself on the stovetop. Christ almighty, I never thought I’d have a kid of my own. But Emmaline, I can’t write her future for her, shit.
I shouldn’t see Emmaline until class in a few days. I need to give all of this insanity some mental space.
I finish my dinner and pour over The Mary Shelley Reader. My well-worn copy has such a frequent place at my table that I have bookends centering my table. Her concern with the results of emotional drama, well, they are my concerns now.
I’m one of those dramatic, literary obsessed types. That’s why I teach English courses in a college rather than running any of the media conglomerate that pays my bills. They called Mary a hack, they made fun of her, but Shelley was wise and gifted as her contemporaries. I wrote about her as much as I wanted during my time in school, and my family money, well, that meant I had certain loyalties in those that were supposed to be my teachers.
It's no wonder that my respect for authority has already shattered. I would abuse my authority to have Emmaline. I know about the artifice of academia, and if I did leave this world because I wanted to be with Emmaline, well, that’s my business.
Such grandiose ideas for a man who has never even kissed the woman he wants to sign his life away for.
I flip through the reader, enjoying Mary’s letter to Byron. She looked up at the Italian sky and saw only change.
Yes, that’s the way it works sometimes.
I punched out some shitty kids and I jerked off thinking about the girl they wanted to attack. I drank her weight in whiskey and wine, and ate a steak that cost more than her whole meal allowance for the month at the campus dining hall…but I know that the winds of change are all there is to see now.
I’m losing my shit. Even if I wait to see her until our next class, I’m going to lose my mind.
Spearing another green bean on my fork, I know something. It comes across my thoughts swiftly, but I know it sure as I know my own name.
I could leave her alone. I likely should leave Emmaline alone. I'm more willing to leave her alone than I am to go after her the way that I want to. I can shove down all these feelings, and jerk my cock off until I rip it off, but I’m not going to be the one that pursues her.
I don’t know that I’m strong enough to resist Emmaline should she put a move on me, but that’s another problem for another moment.
I wash my dishes, clean up the kitchen, and head off to bed with The Mary Shelley Reader. She’s the only lady I take to bed in my home…and no matter how much I want to change that, I’m going to be good.
Well, as good as I’ve ever been.
I know she’s not mine, but I’d rather be without Emmaline than hurt her.
Emmaline
I’m holding my paper for Ethan’s class in my hand like I’m holding a gift or something. I realize how fervently I’m clutching and smooth it out, loosen my grip, and walk into the classroom. I’m early — but so are a gaggle of leggy girls wearing the shortest things that can still be called shorts.
When I realize they are talking about Ethan, even though I want to hide in their presence, I listen in to hear what they're going to say about him.
I don’t catch much, something rumor-iffic was underway but oh well.
Everyone else starts shuffling into class and I realize that I’m not going to catch up with Ethan before class. Everyone is afraid to be late to his class.
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“Hand in your assignments, and today’s lecture on voice in academic writing, and other writing, and we'll begin,” Ethan says.
I want to hide behind someone today like I did last class, but I can’t help peaking out from behind them to look at Ethan during the lecture. His sensual voice makes my nipples so hard they are practically blasting through my shirt and the hoodie I’m wearing. I wore something because I like to be able to shove a pen in the hoodie pocket for when the pen I’m using just up and dies during a lecture. I’m furiously taking notes, trying extra hard to pay attention.
“When you’re in that position,” Ethan says and clears his throat. I look up at him for that pause and catch him looking at me. I wait several seconds before slinking back, and I don’t hear a word he says!
I'm instead thinking about the positions I’d like to be in with him. Fuck, why is Ethan so sexy? I feel like my heart is going to stop beating. I missed the last sentence of what he said, and while I don’t want to take too detailed of notes and go into total overkill mode, I would like to maintain the context of the lecture.
Looking around, people are looking terrified or aroused. I must be silly and imagining that Ethan has ever showed any attraction to me. Not when so many people fawn over him. Is it my imagination that thinks he also enjoys the fear? The control?
Why does that turn me on so much?
My pen is in my mouth and I’m imagining Ethan telling me to take off my thong. I’m sitting here in a hoodie and I almost suck on the tip of my pen, imagining one of Ethan’s fingers in my mouth.