D'costas had always fascinated me, what with his dark eyes, Indian tan skin, and lush red lips. I met him at college, but he wasn't a student; he was an English professor, my English professor, and just a few years older than my nineteen years.
Professor D'costas always noticed me from behind his dark rimmed glasses. How could he not? I sat in the front row with a miniskirt. I'd catch him watching the skirt inch up my thighs when I crossed my legs. I giggled when he had to sit on the desk at the head of class until his hard-on died down. I could see it straining against the crease in his jeans—so close I could reach out and grab it.
It was an ordinary hot afternoon in D'costas class. We got our ethics papers back, but mine didn't have a grade. I coolly flipped through the stapled papers and saw a note on the last page: "See me after class."
This article appears in Apr 1-7, 2009.