36 Inches: A MFMM Romantic Comedy

by Alexis Angel

  I think about texting her, but I don’t want her to pump me for details. As hard as the first day of classes are, we’ll have something fun to talk about over coffee tomorrow morning.

  Maybe it'll give me enough time to accept that I was just doomed from the instant I got on his schedule, because he’s everything I didn’t know I wanted in a man.

  Ethan

  I fuck a lot. I fuck so many hot women that I should never, ever have time to look at students. I'm a college professor and that means I see lots of hot young girls staring intently at the body they just know I’m hiding behind my clothes. But none of them have a shot.

  None until Emmaline. Emmaline is the kind of pure soul that I should never want. In fact, I know the instant I see those chocolate curls and big hazel eyes, this is the younger, hotter version of a woman that I grew up with and never loved. My best friend through elementary to high school, Emmaline’s mother Joelle was never interested in me.

  Kids nowadays and their dumb 'friendzone' bullshit have no fucking clue.

  Sure, I was fucking obsessed with Joelle and thought I loved her. She was clever, beautiful, and always there. As a friend. It took me years to realize that we simply weren’t a good pairing.

  We didn’t share any of the same values, Joelle didn’t share or understand my passions. And she was swept up in our mutual friend Daniel. Daniel was not like me. He was the good boy, and I was the bad. Joelle was a good girl, and she belonged with him. I’m not even sore about it. It's been a little while, but I even still hang out with Joelle and Daniel.

  Am I still that bad boy? Well, my act hasn’t entirely straightened up now, but I’ve always been good about not fucking students, or even wanting to fuck them.

  And we’re talking some hard work and dedication on my part because there have been literally a classroom’s worth of blondes and a few kinky redheads that left thongs (the redheads all left me filthy notes with them) but I’ve never even considered fucking them. I fuck women my age, or maybe a tad younger, but not the girls who are basically half my age. I don’t fuck students. I don’t want to fuck students.

  And I’ve come to understand that even though Joelle loves me, she loves me as a friend. So when I see Emmaline, I can’t just be hung up on her mother. There’s something more.

  So how come the second I see her daughter, I can’t fucking stand the idea of not touching those brown curls? It was just a sexual attraction at first and I told myself I could overcome that, in that instant. But my old, obsessive ways do spring into motion. I know that I can’t get this girl out of my head. Not right now.

  This is how she breaks my concentration—I’m out here scaring the class like I normally do, sorting wheat and chaff and letting people know that this is not the class they’re going to fuck around in. You don’t have to love my subject the way I do, but you do have to work the course hard enough to earn your grade. I don’t believe in the curve, or in rewarding mediocrity.

  I’m lecturing about all these expectations when Emmaline tries to slip in late, unnoticed.

  “Lateness is another thing that will not be tolerated, which, if you arrived on time, you’d know …” I pause for her name.

  “Emmaline,” she says quickly. “Emmaline Travers.” Her voice cuts through the silence I demand in my classes when we’re not actively discussing something.

  My eyes flicker from half the class looking like they want to drop the class now, and the other half giving me the I’d-fuck-this-teacher eyes. I’m used to both, and almost don’t see her. I'm doing my general thing where I let the fear and the admiration wash over me for just a second, but then I have to be professional.

  That soft little voice shouldn’t have stirred me. But that name, and then … how can I not notice her? I try not to be visibly shaken by the sight of her. That’s Daniel’s last name, and Joelle’s too, for a lot of years. And I know those eyes. I can’t be professional when I see her. I hold my breath, clench my fists, and feel my cock already getting hard. Wildly fucking inappropriate, and something I can’t let get noticed. I’m going to have to sit behind my desk like some old fucker if I get hard right in the middle of class. Her fear rouses the part of me that I keep under wraps during class, only calculating the right amount of that part of me for when I need to scare the new students.

  I’ve been so very good. Never have I been inappropriate with a student, even though I've left many students disappointed because of that. I enjoy my job. That’s why this career is my chosen path, despite other things that have paid more, taken less of my time. I’ve been very good so that I won’t jeopardize that. Nothing has ever tempted me.

  But now I know I’m in too deep.

  On the outside, I’m professional. I finish the lecture, talk over the syllabus, give out my first paper — to be done in class — and another to be brought to the next class. I like to see where my students are. Pressure and preparation can show you two sides of someone, and I like to gauge both with those writing assignments.

  I try to catch another glimpse of Emmaline, but where she’s seated, I can’t see her. I keep my cool, figuring I’ll find her after class.

  But I did a number on her. She’s gone before most of the rest of the class is. Damn.

  I head back to my office, and I find a grainy picture of her in the student directory. It doesn’t do her justice.

  I plug her name into Facebook, something I haven’t visited in a while. Too much annoying political drama…but sure enough, we have a mutual friend.

  Joelle Travers is Emmaline’s mother.

  Fuck.

  I should be thinking about how I need to stay away.

  Instead, I’m thinking about when I’ll see her again.

  Emmaline

  I’m never late for class!

  And late on the first day of class?

  The class that I’m looking forward to way too much?

  I got a little too excited last night, and then I overslept. I desperately needed that coffee with Delia, but I didn’t make it because I just kept falling back asleep. I woke up several times, checked my phone, no big deal. Then I miss my alarm entirely because I still don't have a roommate to make me wake up, and if it wasn’t for Delia attempting to beat down my door, I’d possibly still be asleep.

  Dr. Ethan. His name is written on the board, and that’s when I realize, Dr. Ethan Wesley likes to be called by his first name. I’ve had other teachers like that, and it was nice then. With all the stress of college, it isn’t so bad when a teacher wants to be a little informal.

  But with him?

  “Lateness is another thing that will not be tolerated, which, if you arrived on time, you’d know…” He pauses for my name. God, I see all kinds of people in the room, fawning over him, and here I am, thinking about how sensual his voice is.

  Oh, shit. I should actually answer.

  “Emmaline,” I say my name quickly. “Emmaline Travers.” I say my first and last name for him in this too quiet classroom. No one is moving a muscle, either transfixed or paralyzed by him.

  I sit down behind someone, trying to keep my eyes off of him.

  But that’s not enough.

  I’m taking notes through class, getting to know what his course is going to be like. How am I supposed to focus on this class when the sound of his voice stops my pen and puts my heart in overdrive?

  I keep trying to take notes, leaving ten of the graph squares on my note paper blank for marking up and calling out things later. I’ve never sat in any lecture and started to lose track of what the teacher was saying. Yet, here I am, hanging onto Dr. Ethan’s every word and forgetting to even write things down.

  I’m relieved when he says that we’re going to now write our first paper.

  After the intimidating lecture, which I only caught the tail end of and even find myself a little freaked out about, no one dares groan when he says that he expects everyone to keep writing until the end of class. The second handout contains the paper that we are to turn in next c
lass.

  He is demanding. But for some reason the idea of Dr. Ethan as being so domineering and demanding just makes me squirm in my seat. When I do, I catch a quick glimpse of him. Thank God he’s looking in the other direction because if his eyes lock on mine, I might faint in class.

  Wouldn’t you figure? I’ll make sure and tell Delia when we have coffee tomorrow (I promised to make it this time) that apparently being attracted to a guy gives me, like, narcolepsy.

  My brain has the good sense to not let me freak out when I take my copies of the assignments and then pass them on.

  I’m a freaking English major. This is a writing assignment. Even though I’m a planner in so many ways, I have no problem writing something off the cuff for class. The size of the booklets he gave us, well, he’s expecting a lot.

  Why do I feel a flutter in my stomach when I think about him reading my paper, maybe being pleased by it?

  Okay, that’s the kind of pressure that I don’t need. I take a deep breath, shove the second assignment into my bag, and get my pencil case out to start on this one.

  I read the assignment prompt.

  ‘Discuss an experience that changed your opinion. Use this to explain your story, but not to persuade. The reader should be able to picture your experience.’

  For about three seconds, I think about writing about Delia convincing me that trying a vibrator would make my life easier. I decide against buying a ticket on the train to inappropriate land and try not to imagine Dr. Ethan reading about me masturbating.

  Girls throw themselves at him all the time, I’m sure. The guy in front of me looks like he’d rather skip lunch and have the professor instead. Can’t blame him, but that’s not me. This whole foolish fantasy needs to stop. I need to write about something.

  I think for a second, indulging my bad habit in holding the capped end of my pen in my mouth.

  I’m 19. Opinions are supposed to be changed like underwear. Deeply held, then discarded, right? For a maddening few seconds, I don’t know what to write, but then I put my pen to paper.

  My topic is a little strange. I write about the death penalty, and how my nextdoor neighbor getting murdered ended up changing my mind about the death penalty. I never saw much of the girl my age who lived there, Carrie I think her name was, and what I saw of her parents, they weren’t great … but it wasn’t like their death was a good thing to me. Then, after someone went down for that murder, the whole neighborhood seemed to be out for blood. I thought the death penalty was just part of justice, and I didn’t feel that way when some stranger ancillary to my life might be on the execution block.

  My brain flits to the idea that my narrative might not be that insightful, or well written, but I can’t let myself think about that and I just write instead.

  I get lost in the writing, and I try to think about only that. Every few paragraphs, I start to imagine how this paper is going to be in Dr. Ethan’s hands, and I start to run my fingers over the paper. As if, somehow, by touching the paper, I’m running my fingers over his hand. Totally inappropriate, and I pull myself back into the story. It isn’t inherently personal. The story is internal. The writing might be insufferable. But when I write, I don’t let my doubts go beyond knocking on the door. The more I write, the less I hear them.

  When class is out, everyone passes their papers up. I pass mine, and I head out of class as quickly as possible. The room is suddenly stifling, and I shuffle out of there and fill my lungs with the outside air as fast as I can.

  I settle under a favorite tree of mine for my between class sessions, pulling out my phone and earbuds. I’m grateful to have my normal rituals, and my general excitement for being back at school with a new semester is all that’s on my mind.

  I click the music app on my phone, but my screen goes black and then a call notification blurs out my home screen’s apps.

  ‘Mom’ flashes over my phone screen when I’m about to start my study playlist. Between classes, I like to annotate my class notes, while everything is fresh. I open up my pencil pouch but answer the call. I can highlight and talk, surely. I don’t know that I can forget a word of what Ethan said in class.

  “Hey mom!” I answer, grateful to hear her voice.

  “Hey, how’s my baby doing? How’s the new semester treating you?” My mom is her normal cheery self, just calling to check in.

  I smile. I probably talk to my mother every day, still, and I’m glad she’s my other closest friend. Her, and Delia. “I’m doing good, Momma. How about yourself?” I say into the phone.

  I pull out my second assignment and start to read over it, but I can’t stop imagining Dr. Ethan’s voice reading it … and that makes reading a lot more difficult.

  “Not up to much. Busy with work, same ol’ same ol’,” my mom says, and then she pauses. “Everything okay, sweetie?”

  Well, shit. I’ve been on the phone with her for two seconds and she already thinks something is up.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m just reading over this new assignment and I think I need to go ask my professor something before my next class starts,” I say. I feel bad lying to my mom but there’s no way that I can explain this.

  “Okay, sweetie, you sound busy so I’ll let you go,” my mom says, her words slowing at the end.

  I can tell that I'm supposed to insist otherwise, or spill. Instead, I sound like I’m in a rush and say, “Okay, bye, love you, Mom,” and as soon as she tells me that she loves me too, I hang right up.

  I look back over the writing assignment and I try not to feel too put off by the prompt.

  ‘In class today, why did you write something personal? If you didn’t write something you consider personal, explain why it is.’

  The mental jujitsu required to write for this class is absolutely maddening. I may not be the only person to know that he wrote about Mary Shelley, but her assessments on the value of life spring to mind as my possible opening fodder. But if I hook with the line, how do I lead into something personal?

  I start trying to mind map, but I just waste a bunch of graph paper. I don’t get my notes edited. I need to clear my head and get ready for my next class. I can’t screw up every class I start this semester over what Delia calls my “old timey lady boner” over a professor who’s like 200 percent off limits.

  Emmaline

  After the hellish English class debacle this morning, I'm grateful that all my classes went smoothly today, when I finish my after-class notes for my Calculus II lecture today. I’m the only sophomore in that class, the first in the university, and I had to get special permissions for it. That was easier than the English class, in my major.

  That’s because the professor didn’t distract me with his voice. I could be the good student I normally am, instead of the girl who’s thinking about drawing their professor’s name in little hearts rather than writing down important notes. This is not who I am!

  Not only that, my thighs are sticky … I'm not the person to be sitting around with pent up lust and thinking filthy thoughts and not about school…

  I need to go for a run.

  I slide into some leggings, and change from the bandeau bra I was wearing into a sports bra. I put a racerback tank top on, and find a pair of socks, and then lace up my running shoes. Every step I take, I’ll clear my head. When it starts to burn, then I can get past all of this. I’m not looking to be this girl. Emmaline Travers doesn’t have a perfect GPA, a shiny organized planner, Instagrammable notes, and the insatiable urge to let some dumb crush on my teacher ruin my life!

  I start running, and I’m working up a sweat, but I’m still thinking about how I started to sweat when Ethan chastised me in class. I never thought of myself as the kind of girl who would get turned on being scolded, but something about the way he had authority over me and I was in trouble for being late … why the hell was it hot? I guess I should talk to Delia about it, but that’s the problem-solving stage, and I’m not actually working on solutions. I’m literally trying to run from the probl
em and make it go away! I laugh inwardly for a moment, picking up my pace and heading for the trail down the river. How did I let myself get so caught up in this? I know a run by the river is just what I need to cool my head. When my legs start burning, I know that I should slow down some, get myself to a more tolerable pace so that I don’t over-exert my stamina, but all the same I’m trying to distract myself. Maybe the aching muscles and pushing myself harder are just what I need.

  After all, I didn’t put on the freshman 15, but I do have about five solid pounds that could stand to leave. That’s what I get for getting too hyped about avocado toast when I’ve got a ramen budget. Back to brown rice for me and time to remember that ‘good fats’ still make your ass fat!

  Yeah, no more green douche fruit. Avocados are a fruit right?

  See, this is the sort of high-quality, collegiate thinking I should be doing.

  I see that some of the typical jock itches that were in English class with me are on the trail. I don’t even have time to finish a thought about how they are the kinds of guys that I'm supposed to be interested in before they start howling.

  Greeeeeat.

  “Hey, you could come sweat on this dick, save yourself some trouble!” One of those dicks yells out, and I can hear them over my running playlist.

  They all laugh together like a pack of hyenas.

  “Naw, naw, let her get all sweaty, make sure that ass is lubed up before I break it in!” Another one shouts that out.

  Wow, boys my age, they sure know how to charm a girl. I roll my eyes and just keep running. Now I’m keeping my pace because I’m feeling a little winded, but no way in hell do I want to be near those douche bros.

  I’m going to head up the river and then back, and I’m already thinking about turning up my music to drown those fuckers and my thoughts out. I would never get within a mile of dating a guy like that. But if Ethan wanted to touch me, I’d be up for anything.