by Daryl Banner
My mind is literally in a state of numbness. I don’t even know what I’m feeling. I’m still insanely horny, yet my stomach is tugged with an untimely barrage of feelings and frustrations and woes. I don’t even feel like getting myself off. I just feel …
“Teach!”
I come out of the bathroom, drawn back to the living room. He’s still on the couch, but he’s put his cock away and closed his jeans back up. His arm is over the back of the couch, the other gently stroking up and down his abs, invitingly. When he sees me, he chuckles, all his teeth showing.
I cross my arms, thinking on what I want to say. Then, quite suddenly, I blurt out, “Did you enjoy that?”
His eyes are so smart. His eyes have always been so smart, like he’s a hundred steps ahead of me, all the time. I’m always the one ahead of my class; it’s why I’m the professor, it’s why I intimidate my students, it’s why I have the reputation I do. How has this Justin kid gone and flipped it all around so easily? I don’t know who I am around him.
“Yes, I did. Question is,” he says, absently picking at something on the back of my couch, “did you get what you wanted out of this?”
“I’m … not entirely sure what I wanted.”
“Isn’t that the lesson here, teach?” He laughs again, runs his hand up his abs—and I follow, I so, so, so follow that wicked hand as it reaches his nipple, giving it a little pinch. “We all play roles, don’t we? I’m the hot guy in class you never had, aren’t I? That’s kinda the role I thought I was filling.”
“You’re not filling any role, Mr. Brady.”
“Really? We’re not on a first name basis yet? Seriously, I had my cock in your mouth, and I—”
“Justin.” I let out a light chuckle. I find myself overcome with this whole circumstance. I never imagined this semester to start off like this. “I’m freaking out a little because … I’m thinking about how you’re my … my …”
“Don’t worry about it. Flunk me. Pass me. Seriously, I just came over for the beer I didn’t know you had and the mouth I didn’t know was so … skilled.” He laughs, his wet teeth showing and his face flushing happily.
“Who the fuck are you?” I exclaim, but my tone is light, a smile breaking across my face.
He smiles too. Rising off the sweaty couch, ruined by our unabashed mischiefs, he grabs his shirt and flings it over a shoulder. “I’m the guy that just got off,” he answers, proud of himself, then struts out of my house, pink nipples and all. The door closes softly behind him.
I remain, boner and all, the guy that did not just get off. I’m a mess of horniness. I’m still turned-on, even now. Something in what he said makes perfect sense, yet I can’t say what. Something about the roles we play …
The hot guy I never had …
“Where’s my fucking pizza??” I cry out.
[ 7 ]
I spend Sunday in the office when no one else is there at all. There’s not even anyone in the computer lab, which is literally unheard of. The whole place is empty and I’m sitting in my office at my desk staring at my hands.
These hands gripped Justin Brady’s cock.
These hands ran across his pure, muscular body. They touched his clothes.
They wiped his cum off my face.
I couldn’t sleep at all Friday. I was restless all day and night Saturday. I couldn’t even jerk off, couldn’t get it out. Pent up, breathless, gutless, I stare at my hands and reimagine it all.
I hear the main door to the office open, somewhere out of sight around the corner. I stir, surprised that someone else is here. Belatedly, I recall the costume lady saying she had some scheduling conflicts to approve for the members of her costume crew and she might come in on Sunday to figure them out. Blowing it off, I stare back down at my hands. I imagine how much longer Justin’s hands were … how much bigger. Justin Brady, I can still hear myself whispering that night I jerked off to the fantasy of him.
Now, it’s no longer a fantasy. It happened.
It … sorta happened.
“Thom?”
I look up. Mr. Harrington’s standing in the doorway.
“Justin,” I say, surprised.
He seems as surprised. “Uh, sure, I can be.” He smiles. He’s not wearing his usual stiff clothes; he’s dressed in a snug green v-neck that shows off his pecs, with white-blue jeans. He looks downright adorable in people clothes.
“What’re you doing here on a Sunday?” I ask him, wrinkling my face.
He shrugs. “I got bored. Sometimes, can’t stand my own company. Gotta get out of the apartment and … see what’s up on a campus on a boring Sunday afternoon. Not so boring anymore, now that I’ve found you.” He laughs, leans against my doorframe. His arms bulge, stretching the sleeves of his v-neck. Why haven’t I noticed these things before? The only thing he’s ever worn around me is plaid button-downs, big sweaters, and pinstriped dress pants.
“I know the feeling,” I confess. I give a sad, sideways nod at my computer. “I still haven’t figured out my cast list. My head is all messed up and I have no idea what I’m going to do. No prospects, no hope, no nothing. Sundays suck. Some boy came by my house wanting to talk about Jesus. He was even down with the gays.”
“It’s a trap!” exclaims Mr. Harrington, and I have to laugh. “Hey, my name’s Jeff by the way. Nice to meet you.”
“Huh?”
“You called me Justin earlier.”
“Oh.” I frown, blushing. “I did?”
“Yep.” He smiles again. He has dimples. Deep dimples. I feel like I’ve always known this fact, yet am just now allowing myself to see them. “But you can call me whatever you want, really. I’ve been called much worse. You might have a reputation with your actors, but I got one with my singers. Too bad, really. I like helping people find their voice.”
“I think you helped me find mine,” I admit. Sucking on my lips, I disallow myself from saying anything more, all my dirtiest, sickest, most guilty thoughts consumed with the boy in the red-and-white high tops I kissed. I stare down at my hands again, the culprits.
“Why don’t we get a bite?” he asks, drawing my attention back to his cute face. “We’re the only ones here, Thom. It’s way too quiet to do work here, let’s be honest.”
“Let’s be very honest,” I agree, changing my mind about spilling nothing. “I need to be honest. I did a fucked up thing.”
He giggles. “Now this I’d like to hear.”
“I doubt it.” The hands I’m trying to look at are shaking.
“Try me. Think I’m gonna judge you? Fuck that. You’re the coolest person here, always have been. Try me.” He comes up to my desk, puts himself in the chair across from it—the same chair freshman Justin Brady sat in when he convinced me to give him private lessons at my house. “Let’s hear it.”
“I messed around with someone.”
He nods excitedly. “Yeah, definitely want to hear about this. Details. I want details.”
I frown at him. I was expecting at least a tinge of jealousy. I’m not blind and stupid; I know Mr. Harrington’s had a thing for me, I’ve known for a long time.
“Details?” I mutter.
“Yeah, let’s hear it.” His face is light, his eyes bright and inviting.
I get up and come around the desk, leaning against its front. “Well, it was someone I … definitely should not have messed around with. But I was a little drunk. I never drink, mind you, but I had a few beers this particular night. And I just … I just …”
“You let go,” he finishes for me. My eyes find his, anxious, uncertain. “Nothing wrong with that, Thom. Don’t be ashamed of being alive. C’mon.”
“I feel skeezy, to be honest.”
“You ought to feel human, Thom. We all get horny. We all get stupid, especially when we’re horny. Stupid is kinda fun, really. So’s skeezy. So’s drinking. What you did is just being … human.”
“I acted a fool, Jeff.”
He smiles, I guess because I used his f
irst name and not his last for once. “Imagine that. The acting professor acting like something. Next you’re gonna try to claim I sing.”
Now I’m smiling. “Y’know, I have never actually heard you sing.”
“It’s terrible. I have no idea why they keep me employed. Can we get out of this dreary office, please? You still owe me a bite of lunch.”
“Sing something.” I lift my chin defiantly.
He bites his lip, pensive, curious. “So that’s what we’re gonna do, is it? I gotta sing for my date, is that it?”
“Sing your heart out.”
And then he does. All the humor drops from my face as his eyes lock onto mine and his gentle voice makes music. I’m overcome as the lyrics drop from his lips, filling the office with shameless, uninhibited music from the filling and emptying body and throat and musical instrument that is Jeffrey Harrington.
When he finishes, the look on his face is strange, perplexing. “What?” he mutters, his crystal eyes on mine. “Was I that bad?”
I push off the desk, grip the arms of his chair with my hands, and plunge my face into his. When our mouths meet, it’s tender and soft. He tastes sweet. He smells clean, freshly showered, and a trace of cologne on his neck hints to me that he cared today.
Suddenly he pushes out of his chair, our lips never disconnecting, and he pulls on my clothes like they’re a puzzle. Our breath turning jagged, noses shoving air at each other’s faces as we kiss maddeningly. We grapple with each other’s stubborn shirts until they fall off, slipped over our heads or otherwise. He grabs at my pants, working the button as I do the same with his. Our eyes closed, we’re grappling in the darkness together, even with the office half-lit. My hands on him, his hands on me.
Then we’re on the floor and I’m staring down at him, a question on my face as I hover over him. My cock lingers by his ass, pointing, desperate. His left hand vanishes, wrestling with his jeans until he produces a wallet. From it, a single silvery condom packet drops out.
“This was planned?” I ask, teasing him.
“Always prepared,” he says quite seriously.
Then a condom is rolled onto my cock and, as though we were never interrupted, I spit into my hand like a pro and awaken the lubrication on the condom, stroking myself. Flinging his legs over my shoulders, sensitive and slick as a motherfucker, I bring the tip of my cock to his ass and draw circles teasingly.
Out of breath he says, “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
“It was a student,” I blurt out. “I messed with a student. He was a touch aggressive, but we kind of pursued each other. I can’t place the blame.” My cock pushes into his ass quite suddenly, slipping in faster than either of us expected. I gasp with pleasure; he gasps with surprise. His eyes grow wide, brow lifted. “I imagine that changes everything,” I whisper.
“I had a thing once with a student,” he confesses back. “It happens. It’s okay. It’s—Oh god, this feels good.”
I’m surprised. “Really? You? A thing with a student?—Who was it? When?”
“Well, no.” Jeff laughs. “No, not really. I just made that up just now so you wouldn’t feel alone. I’m so considerate, aren’t I? Oh god.” His eyes rock back as I fuck him slowly, my balls tapping his ass with each gentle thrust. “Harder. Do it harder, Thom. Go hard. Oh god. Tell me about the student.”
“He was a cocky fucker.” I thrust harder.
“Oh god. Tell me more.” Jeff reaches up and grips my arms, nearly clawing at them. “Oh god.”
I shiver, my pent-up cock tingling with the horny buildup of an entire weekend of fantasy and regret and longing. “He dominated me.” I thrust hard. “He took control of me.” I thrust harder, harder. “He owned me.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Jeff’s drunken eyes meet mine, his drunken, smiling eyes. “How’d it feel, mister control freak, to lose all your control?”
I grip his shoulders and, each time I thrust my cock into him, I pull his shoulders down, pushing my cock deeper into him, deeper, harder. He’s gasping now with every thrust, his firm body shaken by my every loving shove.
“It was freedom,” I admit.
“Whole new role for you,” he nearly sings, his voice lost as his breathing grows heavier, heavier. “Being owned. Oh, I’m close.”
“I’m closer.”
And then I cum inside him. With every thrust, I yell out, all of my demons flying out of my mouth like little roars. I don’t stop the thrusts, staring down into Jeff’s eyes as his mouth opens wide. It’s something like a gasp. It’s something like a personal heaven. It’s like a discovery, like a lesson, like a man who’s just found his … swag.
Jeff’s cock erupts between our sweat-ridden bodies. I’m still fucking him, even while spent, fucking his cum out of him. He isn’t as vocal as I was, his mouth open and his eyes seeing stars, though all he seems to look at is me.
I’m all he sees. His eyes smile, his face relaxing as the climax subsides. I drink in the sight of his satisfied face and wonder how such happiness, how this man under me, can lie under my nose for so long unseen. It just took a giving in for my stubborn eyes to open.
“You’re pretty when you cum,” I tell him. He smiles at that, those dimples of his showing in the dim office light, like two valleys of happiness in his face. “How was it for you?”
“Worth the wait,” he confesses.
I collapse into him, drawing his body into my arms and embracing him. Neither of us seem to care about the sticky mess we’ve made between us. It’s sort of beautiful, to make dirty such a clean, put-together person. There’s a thrill in ripping control out of the hands of a person who is always so controlling. A natural balance and necessity to shoving a professor under the feet of a freshman. Sometimes, it’s the teacher who needs the lesson.
Between us, one of our stomachs growl. I can’t say with confidence whose it was. “How about that bite?” he murmurs in my ear.
“Sure,” I say back. “Anything but pizza.”
[ 8 ]
When I pass through the doors on Monday, I feel a lightness I haven’t felt in years. I smile at the kids in the lobby and they have no idea what to make of it. I tell Gloria at the front desk that I love what she’s done with her hair, not even certain she’s done anything with it. I pass by Bill in the box office and wave at him, to which he returns a meek, hesitant wave.
The black box doors open and, though it’s ten already, I decide to “forget” to lock them and, instead, I merely stroll to my seat among the students. They draw silent at my arrival. I take my seat and mind the faces before me.
Justin Brady, sitting in the front row, turns around and gives me a subtle lift of his brow.
I smile at all of them, Justin included. “I’ve decided to erase your grades for your first monologue attempts,” I tell my students. “I’m doing something a little different this semester. You’ll have a lifetime of judgment and bad auditions and rude directors ahead of you, so why teach you to fear them from the start?” I toss my notebook to the side; it lands with an unimpressive thud against the back of a seat, slides to the floor. “This class is going to be your home. Live in it. Get comfortable. Don’t fear the stage; that’s your home too. Don’t fear your body because it’s where all the roles you’ll ever play live. Don’t fear your voice because it’s the voice of every role of life inside you. It’s the mother and the father inside you. It’s the job applicant. It’s the confident man or woman you’ll be on your next date. It’s the C.E.O. of a company. It’s … the cocky freshman.”
My eyes drift to a certain someone in the front row, whose hazel eyes glow with thought.
I nod at the stage. “New assignment. Get up there and perform your piece. Any piece. We’re gonna have fun. We’re gonna remind ourselves why we call them ‘plays’. So get up there,” I tell my students, “and play.”
The next hour is spent watching my students live on the stage. Some of them don’t get it right away at first, but soon, they start to take after one anot
her. They find confidence. They find humor. They find looseness. I don’t kid myself; none of them are exploding with stellar performances or moving me to tears, but the lesson today isn’t to be perfect. It’s to make a friend of fear. It’s to make a home out of the stage. It’s to own the stage before it owns you.
Or some shit like that.
“Thanks, Professor Kozlowski!” says one of the students on their way out. I return a muted smile. “See you Wednesday!” exclaims another, rushing through the door. I watch with bright eyes, wondering how long this delightful mood of mine will last. I can imagine myself already collapsing into a stew of misery, becoming my old, intimidating self by the end of the week. Who knows. I’m only human. I have to laugh at the ironies of my life, otherwise I’ll have nothing left to laugh at. Besides, I have some plans with Mr. Jeff Harrington later and I’m in too good a mood to mind.
He lingers. I turn my eyes to him and I feel a tinge of anxiety touch my stomach. “Justin,” I say rather cautiously, acknowledging him.
“Teach,” he says, smiling back. “I uh … I saw the cast list and, uh … I kinda thought that maybe you would’ve, uh …”
“You didn’t audition,” I tell him simply. “I can’t put you in a play when I really don’t know who you are as an actor. You’re young and you’re new to this. You said that yourself.”
Justin shoves his hands into his pockets. He hides the smile on his face, looking at a spot on the ground. “I know. I’m only half-kidding anyway. I didn’t really expect you to cast me in your spring play.” He lifts his eyes. “I guess I was just wanting to be a part of something.”
“You are. You already took the first step.”
“What do you mean?”
“You enrolled in my class, Mr. Brady.” I give a nod at the acting space. “You’ll be up there the rest of the semester. You have time to grow. There’s still the summer plays you can audition for early next semester, y’know.”
“Yeah.” He nods, a bit inspired by that thought. Then, with a lift of his eyebrow, he adds, “I guess I could learn a thing or two from you in the meantime.”
