Her Dirty Professor Series (21+)

…

Loche Johnson

I’m excited to go on a date with Georgia. A real date. I pick her up at the bus station. She’s already waiting for me when I get there at seven. She stands in the middle of a cone of light cast down by a parking lot lamp, stunning in a sparkling black dress with her hair pulled back, showing off her long, slender neck. I get out to open the door for her.

“You look beautiful,” I say.

She smiles up at me, eyes shining. “So do you.”

I made an effort to dress up tonight, wanting to be worthy of being seen in public with such a goddess. Still, no one’s going to be paying a damn bit of attention to me with her standing there, other than to cast their jealous looks my way.

I can’t help but stare. I can see this with her. Date nights, special evenings for birthdays, anniversaries, and other big moments we choose to celebrate. I see a future with this woman. I think I love her. That though paralyzes my lungs. I haven’t had much luck with love. I’ve just never really connected with anyone other than Georgia before.

Once she’s in the car, we drive a half hour out of town. I normally listen to blues. She likes something a little faster, so we compromise on classic rock, though neither of us are really listening to the radio since we talk the entire time.

Seems like we’ve only been driving a few minutes when I pull into the parking lot of Bocelli’s, a restaurant I found by accident when looking for a place to eat on my way home from a teaching conference. It’s hidden from the road, cozy, and the food is delicious. We’re seated in the back per my request, at a table in the corner. The dim lighting gives her skin a soft glow.

“What’s good here?” she asks when we get our menus.

“What kind of food do you like?”

“Burgers.”

I raise my eyebrows. Maybe I didn’t quite think this through. It’s been some time since I was a struggling student myself on a burger budget. Since then my tastes have become a bit more refined.

Looking at the menu, I realize nothing is in English. There are no burgers.

“The oysters here are great,” I say. Her face twists comically and I fight the urge to laugh. “What, you don’t like them?”

“I’ve never had them, but I’ve seen people eat raw oyster shooters, and, ew.”

“These aren’t raw. They’re fried, and they’re fantastic. Haven’t you ever heard that they’re an aphrodisiac?”

“Really?” she says, looking skeptical.

“How about I order the oysters, you order the steak, and we’ll share.”Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

“Sounds like a deal.”

After we order, the waiter brings out a bottle of wine. “So, how the hell are you still single?” she asks after she’s a glass in. I pour another for her. I take slow sips of mine since I’m driving.

“Just never met the right girl, I guess.”

“How is that even possible? You’re sweet, kind, and arguably the most intelligent person I’ve ever met, and definitely the most attractive.”

I can already tell the wine is loosening her up. When we first walked in, she was on edge, peering around the room as if to case the joint. Now she’s molded herself into a comfortable position in the booth, and her gaze rarely leaves my face. Her cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, and she seems to be letting down her guard a bit.

I blush at the compliment. Other women have told me I was attractive plenty of times, but there’s something humbling about the way Georgia says it. Feels more genuine when it comes from her versus others.

“I don’t know. There’s never been a connection before,” I say.

Until now. I want so badly to say it to her, but I’m not sure how. If this is just some casual fling for her, I don’t want to hear it. I’m not ready. All my other relationships have all been physical, but it’s different with Georgia. I can’t tell her that, though. Men aren’t supposed to feel vulnerable and afraid. Except that’s exactly how I feel when I start to open up to this girl. If she said it first, that’s one thing, but I have a feeling her walls are up as well.

“What about you, why don’t you have a boyfriend? You’re brilliant and sexy.”

She looks down at her wine glass with the most beautiful, shy smile and fingers the stem. “I guess I have the same reasons as you. I’ve never connected with anyone, until-” she starts to say, before being cut off by the waiter.

Until what?!

I want to yell at the waiter, tell him to go away. Was she about to say something about me? About us?

Goddamnit.

By the time he leaves, the moment has passed. She’s all but forgotten what she was about to say.

Instead, she pokes at the fried oysters with her fork as if they are about to jump off the plate and attack her.

“I’m afraid to try one.”

“Be brave,” I say.

She looks at me with an eyebrow raised and a hint of a smile. “You first.”

I have a feeling none of us are talking about the food.

I’m not quite ready for that, so I take an oyster and pop it in mouth to get away from the subject. She tries one next.

“It’s good,” she says, nodding her head.

“I told you.”

Our conversation picks up again. This time we talk about easier things. Our favorite foods, TV shows, movies, and anything else we can think of to learn more about each other. Spending time with her is easy. There’s never any uncomfortable lulls in the conversation, and even when neither of us are talking, I just enjoy her company.

We only pick at our food because we’re laughing and having too good of a time to eat. She sips her wine and I switch to iced tea, and we talk until the restaurant is about to close. When the waiter comes around and asks us if we’d like anything else, I tell him, “No, thank you, just the check,” because I want to get this girl home and in my bed as soon as possible.

The alcohol has made her flirty. I think she knows where I’m going with this, because she gives me a sultry look with hooded eyes and a crooked smile, and she touches my foot beneath the table with hers.

After I pay the bill, we get up to leave. I lean in and whisper in her ear as we walk toward the exit, “I can’t wait to get you out of that dress and peel your panties off with my teeth.”

She tilts her head up to look at me and whispers back, “I’m not wearing any.”

This catches me off guard, and I feel myself blush and laugh like a nervous schoolboy. Maybe we won’t make it back to the house after all. All the different locations I can take her in my car start firing off in my head. There’s a wooded area off the highway a few miles down, or the bluffs where the students like to park. Though having sex in a muscle car with bucket seats isn’t ideal, I’m sure we can make it work.

I playfully bite her ear. She stops so suddenly I run into the back of her and have to grab her waist to keep her from catapulting forward.

At first I laugh because I think she tried to trip me up on purpose, but when I see her face frozen in shock, I look up and find Dean Meyer, my boss, standing with his wife in front of us.

“Loche,” he says, eyebrows raised high on his forehead. He glances at Georgia, then back at me. Realization irons out the confusion wrinkling his face as he figures out what he’s seeing.

While it’s not unheard of for a teacher to take students out to celebrate an accomplishment in the class, it’s typically with a group or somewhere brightly lit and very public, during the day. Definitely not a secluded, romantic restaurant.

I straighten up and take my hands off of Georgia’s waist. “Hello, Dean Meyer,” I say.

He lifts his chin. I can tell he wants to get to the bottom of this right now, but this is not the time nor the place. By the way his wife folds her arms over her chest, it’s obvious she’s put out by the interruption in their night.

My blood drains and my hands turn clammy. I guess I didn’t need my sex tape to ruin my career after all. There won’t be any wriggling my way out of this one.

I clear the lump in my throat and say, “I suppose I should explain myself.”