A lovely 19-year-old girl named ...

I detest the way in which some men allow their attentions to be drawn solely to the curves of the late teenage-early twenties female, as if this period in the life of the woman exhausted the temporal promise of her charms. Especially as the charms of the body remain pure only so far as we do not partake of conversation or emotional, non-physiological, exchanged. By this event women turn beautiful and ugly, and this shallow form takes on the the capacity for life. Suffice this proviso to be proof that the following reflections emerge not from any poorly conceived celebration of the young woman in general.

Or so I apologize?

But I do have a student who is perhaps 19 or 20 and lovely. I have wanted to write something about her for the past few days. She is very quiet and continually has the look of surprise. She says little in class and I call on her primarily because it allows me a chance to look at her without having to turn my head towards other students, to keep myself from enjoying her vision for too long.  

In fact, at first nothing recommends her appearance like that of other students. Perhaps this is because she is so shy. Yesterday was the first time that she came to my office hours and that only to drop off her essay. She was flustered.  I was speaking with another female student and so waved for this girl to wait a moment.  The other student left and then Anne, let's call her Anne, entered.  She handed me the paper and said practically nothing, amounting to "here it is." She turned to go and quickly left.

Yesterday she wore a skirt and tights underneath. The skirt extended to the middle of her thigh. Her shirt or blouse revealed cleavage that I had been trying to gaze upon the entirety of the class she attends. With female students I try to be very careful not to give them the sense that I view them with any desire ... aforementioned encounters notwithstanding. This is difficult, I think, because interaction between men and women in public spaces is frequently mediated by the sexuality implict within our dress. Women's clothing in particular is most commonly designed to pose the body as an object for contemplation.

Her legs were lovely, I thought, as I watched her walk away from my office. I imagined the scent between her legs of her tights and then her exquisite warmth.

She is actually beautiful, with eyes that attend to the world in an especially open gaze. Her hair possesses tight curls, is light brown, blondish. She reminds me of the girl that I dated early in college: Jodi. Jodi had the fairest skin, as does Anne. Yet Jodi had freckles and strawberry-blond hair. Both Anne and Jodi have (had) this look of confusion and surprise. Perhaps it's a kind of naivete, but I don't think so. 

I closed the door to my office and looked at a website about adult secrets, where people post theirs. A female student somewhere posts "I get off on staring at my professor in class and thinking about how I would like to fuck him."

Time for Meditation on Pussy

Today I again solicited Pet. She stands by her promise, unknown, to Anya, not to sleep with her groom-select. Although I know that were I to soften Pet with liquor, as she has a easy way with, her bedroom door would again open. Or so I think.

And the truth is that I am not even sure I would so enjoy being affirmed in my solicitation. I thought about it this afternoon as I drove back from the Newark airport, where I left my friend. He had been visiting for the past four days and is the only one who knows everything. We've known each other since graduate school when he studied creative writing and I studied literature. He was the non-cerebral type who got drunk a lot and had every luscious pussy solicit him. Including this ballbuster named Gina who eventually turned out to be cheating on him, having never ended her previous relationship with a man who also turned out to be her fiancé. Tough times. He's now married, a professor like me, teaching literature and creative writing, although I've switched fields.

We confess to each other our unfortunate deeds whenever we get together. I have had nothing to confess, as my dear reader would know, despite all the half-baked attempts that I've made. In fact, that is not completely true, I suppose. I mean, if there was a serious persistent unremitting drive that freed itself from responsibility and witness, then couldn't I be successful in finding some entertainment for my cock?

I like to think so. Last night we went to this barbecue joint, myself, my friend, Anya and then another friend from graduate school and his very pregnant wife who I once lusted after. From a distant. She is still quite beautiful. Jewish with olive skin and dark hair. She is a lawyer and in fantasies my cock has penetrated her holy of holies on several occasions.

It has occurred to me that I have a distinct problem with the romantic possessions of my close friends, some desire to conquer each of them. My fellow confessor is married to a startlingly beautiful Russian woman that I know I underestimated. This makes me think of Myra. Oh Myra and the wonderful taut skin across her midriff, her hipbone. That physiological zone has bedeviled me since high school and college, when lovely Jodi splayed herself on my cock. I see Myra's profile on Facebook, a friend of other friends, who the machine tells me I may want to befriend. And that that I do. 

But I would rather humble myself between her open legs and lick that clit up and down, watching her squirm. The blond down above her labia, barely visible on her alabaster skin. I would pull her hips into my face and press my tongue inside as far as it could go. Would that I were Gene Simmons and could taste the deepest salty goodness within her.