HER DIRTY PROFESSOR
PENNY WYLDER
1
Georgia
Normally I don’t pay much attention to the other students in my classes, but it’s hard to ignore people while they’re watching porn in the seats right in front of me. Two of them: a wealthy Abercrombie-type kid, and his sorority villain girlfriend. Both Barbie- and Ken-doll blonde and spray-can tan. They huddle together, eyes glued to an iPhone propped up against a beaker, snickering and whispering to each other.
It’s a fairly large class with long science tables lining the room in two parallel rows. I’m surrounded by Bunsen burners, flasks, beakers, stacks of notes and flashcards, electric balances, and burets. The place always smells like rubbing alcohol.
The distance between our desks make it difficult to see the little screen from where I sit, but not so difficult that I can’t make out the two naked bodies humping away at each other.
Dog-earring one of my notebooks, I glance over at Mr. Johnson, who’s lecturing about alkaloids and chemical reactions at the front of the room, oblivious to the perverts in front of me.
I continue to glance between the video clip over their shoulders and Mr. Johnson. As far as I can tell, it’s normal porn. Two people in a staged room with bright lighting, going at it. So why are the couple in
front of me watching it in the middle of class, laughing? Seriously, who watches porn in public? I try to stretch farther for a better look, but I’m too short and the table is too wide. They either know something I don’t, or they’re ridiculously immature. Whatever it is must be worth the risk of getting caught, which only sparks my curiosity more.
For as long as I can remember I’ve always been an overachieving, overly curious girl. It’s my Achilles heel. My mom thinks it’s an asset, but for me it’s a burden. I can never seem to mind my own business. It’s great for academics, always wanting to know what happens next in books, or how someone came up with an equation. That inquisitiveness got me to the top of my class, earning me a spot as high school valedictorian before I graduated last year, but when it comes to my social life, it hasn’t helped me make any friends. I can’t seem to stop myself from butting in where I don’t belong. I try to hold my tongue. It doesn’t stay still for very long. I’m just too damn nosey for my own good.
As much as I tell myself to ignore it, I can’t help myself. I lean forward, practically on top of my desk, tapping the girl on the shoulder. She slowly turns in her seat, a glare already prepared on her face before looking at me.
“What’s so funny?” I whisper to keep Mr. Johnson from hearing me. He’s wandered to the other side of the classroom with his back to us.
The girl—I think her name is Serena—looks like she puts on her makeup with an airbrush, hair sculpted out of satin, nothing out of place. All of her clothes bear logos and have French names. She’s alien to me. I can’t imagine a world where I could afford a pair of shoes that cost more than my parents’ combined monthly wage. I can’t even fathom for a second being her. I wouldn’t know where to start.
She looks at her boyfriend (I have no idea what his name is) as if she’s not sure if she should tell me. He gives me a once-over like he’s sizing me up, then lifts a perfectly waxed brow and nods.
Serena hands me the phone. I notice her manicure is perfection like the rest of her when our fingers touch. “It’s Mr. Johnson,” she says.
At the top of the screen is an advertisement for a website called Rocket Cocks that boasts nothing under eight inches. I don’t need to whip out a ruler to see that the actor who my classmates believe is my teacher definitely fits the criteria in the size department. Only thing is, he looks too young to be him. Before I can really get a good look at him, Serena yanks her phone out of my hands.
Irritated, I glance up and find that Mr. Johnson has moved back to our side of the room. He looks right at me and our eyes meet. On instinct, without meaning to, I glance right at his crotch. In a split second I’m picturing him naked, with a dick as thick as my wrist and long as my forearm when fully erect, pointed at me.
I jerk my attention back to his face. It’s too late. I’ve been caught. He has this wide-open look of surprise on his face, and he stumbles on his words when he starts to lecture again, as if he’s forgotten what he was saying. He’s quick to recover and goes on to teach the rest of the class while I cuss inwardly for being so damn obvious.
Serena giggles into her hand and whisper-coughs, “Busted.” Her boyfriend quietly laughs along with her.
Leaning back in my chair, I grumble and try to ignore them the rest of the period—which is extremely difficult when I keep hearing them say things like “biggest dick I’ve ever seen on a white dude” and “I bet he makes barn animals jealous.”
Class is over at three. Thank God. I try to get out unseen. As I’m leaving, Mr. Johnson calls my name. I close my eyes and let out a long sigh, then open them again just in time to see Serena and her boyfriend smirk at me as they leave. Bracing myself for the reprimand I fear is coming, I turn on my heel, walking slowly through the dispersing crowd until I’m standing in front of him.
He leans against the whiteboard where the day’s chemical formulas are written in green dry-erase ink in his scribbled teacher handwriting. He’s wearing a white button-down and tan slacks and somehow manages to make it look good—not stiff and boring like my other professors. He’s also younger than the rest of them too. Mid to late thirties would be my guess. With short cropped hair, scruffy stubble, and wide shoulders, he could be Tom Hardy’s twin. He’s tall, too. This guy really lucked out in the genetics department. Sexy and with brains to boot.
After everyone leaves, he folds his arms across his chest. Here it comes, I think, bracing myself for whatever is next. Of course he has every right to lay into me for being distracted during his lecture on the dangerous chemicals we’ll be working with this year. I totally deserve it. Doesn’t make it feel any better, though. I’ve never been in trouble with teachers. They love me. In middle school I was teased relentlessly by other students for being the teacher’s pet. I was never able to really connect with kids my age. The thought of having Mr. Johnson mad at me has my stomach turning inside out. This sucks. Especially since he’s my favorite teacher and science is my best subject.
Instead of barking his disappointments, he surprises me and says, “I know you’re here on a scholarship, so if those wealthy brats sitting in front of you are dicking around, I can either move them or you. Whichever you would prefer.”
Speaking of dicking around . . .
My eyes slip back down to the mound bunched up beneath his slacks. If there’s enough flesh gathered there to make that big of a bulge when he’s soft, I can only imagine the prize awaiting whatever lucky girl falls into his bed when he’s hard. My gaze only lingers a second before I look down at my shoes.
“It’s fine,” I say, kicking at a piece of petrified gum stuck to the floor. “Normally they don’t bother me.”
He lowers his head, trying to get me to look at him. “I don’t think that gum is moving. It’s been there since I started working here five years ago.”
I smile and try to stand still.
“Whatever it is that they’re doing—is it anything I should know about?” he asks.
When he opens his mouth I notice his white teeth overlap just the slightest bit in the front, making his lips look even fuller. “Georgia?”