by Sierra Hill
Kyler
Me: I’m hyperventilating. Help me. What do I do?
The minute I left the lecture hall I booked it outside to catch my breath. My body is stiff, tight, and amped up over what I just learned in conversation with Professor Mathiasson. Or Lucas. Or Luc. Fuck, I’m so confused about who he is to me.
Is he just an acquaintance? A hookup? A professor? A mentor?
Leaning against the exterior of the brick building, my shoulder rests against the heat that penetrates through my skin. It grounds me as I type out a text to my roommate and friend, Peyton, while I hold an electronic cig in my other.
Pey-Pey Le Pew: What are you talking about, Pretty Boy? I’m not a mind reader.
She inserts the face with the thinking expression emoji.
Inhaling deeply, I let it out in one gush of air and stare down at the blue light of the e-cig and ponder my response.
I’ve been living with Peyton since earlier in the summer when her best friend Brooklyn moved out to become the live-in nanny to Coach Parker. She’s become my closest confidante in this world, except for Dax and Roarke from the bar where I bartend.
And while I’ve found myself sharing many intimate details of my life with Peyton, she doesn’t know anything about my hook-up with Lucas this summer. She doesn’t know about the strange six-degrees of separation that has linked us so fatefully with Brooklyn, Garrett Parker, and his friend, Lucas.
The same Lucas that happens to be my one-time lover and now art history professor.
Deciding that honesty is the best policy and there’s no reason to beat around the bush, I tell her about my dilemma.
Me: I slept with my professor.
The phone rings a second after I hit send and I choke out a laugh. When I answer, I can hear background noise, as if she’s walking through the same halls of the university campus as I am.
“You what? You just slept with your professor already today? How in the world does one do that, Kyler? Geesh, I don’t even understand how fast you can work sometimes.”
I give a snort of laughter, taking a final puff and blowing it out. “I didn’t mean today, you goof. But I did sleep with him this summer. Once and only once.”
There’s a pause of silence, with only the muffled noise of hallway chatter filling the space over the line. The thing with Peyton is that when we talk sex, it’s hypothetical for her because she has yet to ditch her V card. There are many reasons behind that status, and while she’s a great sounding board on my love life and issues, there are times I think she gets a little annoyed over my blasé attitude toward sex and hookups.
She sighs. “I suppose it was inevitable considering the revolving door of boys you’ve cycled through since I’ve known you.”
“Hey now. Are you implying I’m a manwhore?”
“Not implying anything,” she tsks. “Your words, not mine.”
I crinkle my forehead and try to count the number of lays I had this past summer, ticking them off one by one. Okay, maybe I lost count after twelve. So sue me. I’m single and safe. Plus, my jobs make me a sex magnet for the horny boys that see me either behind the bar or on the stage performing.
Which, for the record, I’ve been working secretly since I moved in with Peyton last June. Even she is unaware of my second job as a male exotic dancer in a gay nightclub called Knights. Think hanging birdcage, go-go boots, and a snug black rhinestone thong that catches the eyes of many from across a dark room. That would be me, in all my almost-naked glory.
I’m not thrilled by this secondary job as a male performer, but it was either that or make ten bucks an hour delivering pizza to pay off my school loans and my debt. And the tips I receive bring in over five hundred a week, along with my bartending tips, affording me the room I rent with Peyton, a beat-up old truck, and tuition for school.
“Whatever, Miss Prudent. But the fact still remains that he’s now my professor and I just learned that he’s also going to be my independent field study mentor this semester.”
“What? I thought you were paired with Professor Gershwin?” She asks, knowing all the key players in the program since we’re taking the majority of the same design classes.
Pushing off the wall, I start my walk down the sidewalk to the entrance of the building where in a few minutes, I’ll need to face Lucas again – this time one-on-one. Mano e mano.
“He had an unexpected emergency and is on a leave of absence, so I’m stuck with Luc…I mean, Professor Mathiasson. And I can’t switch or drop it because I need it to graduate and I can’t afford to go another semester. I’m so fucked.”
I open the exterior door to the building and head in, bypassing some familiar faces of three of my classmates who are huddled in a group chatting. I nod my chin in greeting and scoot around them, making my way toward the stairwell to the second floor.
“Wait. The Lucas Mathiasson? As in, Garrett Parker’s friend that we met at Caleb’s birthday party last month? That Lucas?” Her voice is an octave higher, riddled with incredulous disbelief.
I bound up the steps, two-by-two until I reach the landing at the top which gives Peyton just enough time to digest the name of the professor I just mentioned. Her shock is palpable and comes across as a shriek of horror.
I get to the bank of doors outside the Art Department offices and scan the doors to find 205, the name scribed on the placard as Associate Professor L. Mathiasson. There’s a funny Peanut’s cartoon that says “The Doctor is In.”
I nod, responding quietly. “Yup. One in the same.”
Peyton’s last remark before we end the call is both endearing and painfully truthful.
“Kyler Scott. You’re fucked.”
Knocking on the dark wood grained door, I mutter, “Don’t I know it.”
5
Lucas
“Come in,” I respond to the knock at the door, clearing my throat and inhaling deeply. Without looking up from my book, I know who it will be this time.
With both a sense of dread and desire, I brace myself for the barrage of heat and emotion that is going to hit me the moment I look into his angular, freckled-face, and hazel eyes. A face that probably gets a thousand likes every time he posts a selfie on Instagram.
Eyes that I’ve seen half-lidded with desire and wide open in pleasure as he’s climaxed in my mouth.
I swallow down the need that bellows low in my groin and tip my glasses off my nose to rub away the ache at my temples.
“Hello again, Professor.”
Kyler’s voice is velvety soft, like the lick of honey off a teaspoon. Fuck, I like the sound of that coming from his mouth.
I realize I’m staring at him, my nerves stretched tight and ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Just like the pencil in my curled fingers. I slide my glasses up my forehead to rest on top of my head as I lift my chin toward the chair and gesture with the flip of my palm in front of me.
“Come in, Kyler. Take a seat.”
He gives an uneasy glance behind him, as if he were walking into the lion’s den instead of my office, and then steps across the threshold, letting his backpack sag down his arm to hit the floor as he takes the chair offered.
Despite my earlier pep talk, this proves to be more difficult than I imagined. It’s awkward and uncomfortable. Calling upon my advantage as the older and wiser of the two of us, having at least seven years on him, I decide to get everything out on the proverbial table.
“Listen, Kyler. This is weird and a strange twist of fate. But what we did together this summer needs to remain in the past so we can move forward without any discomfort. For the record, I’ve never had any type of relationship with a student before.” I emphasize this as I stare down my nose at with and narrow my eyes, to which he lifts a skeptical brow.
“Really? Never?" He asks incredulously as if that's so hard to believe. "Not even a quick blowie under the desk?”
I choke out a cough, trying to erase the image of Kyler on his knees under my desk, his mouth and hand wrapped
around my pulsing cock. It’s no use though because my dick has already seen that graphic depiction and there’s no going back.
I discreetly adjust my half-mass erection with my hand.
“Never. And it won’t happen, either. I pride myself on being the type of educator who doesn’t abuse privileges or the trust of my students. I don’t aim to be a scandal-making professor that has rumors and gossip spreading around about his Lothario dalliances.”
Kyler meets my glance briefly and grins a sexy smirk. “Lothario dalliances? You’re so old-fashioned.”
I want to laugh, but level him with my insistent gaze instead. “My point is that whatever happened between us this summer – while fucking fantastic – won’t happen again. Ever. Period. We must erase it from our memories.”
Fat chance of that happening for me, at least. Before I knew he was my student, I was willing to do anything to get another taste of Kyler. One more chance to see if it really was as spectacular as I remembered it.
But all that chemistry has to remain in the past. There’s no time for dwelling on it because Kyler Scott is now my student and I am his teacher. End of fucking story.
As if finally grasping the sincerity of my pledge and urgency in my tone, his agreement is swift, signaled with a curt nod of his head.
“Good. I like things uncomplicated.”
I mutter under my breath as I dig through my stack of paperwork. “Kid, you are anything but uncomplicated.”
Once we set the ground rules, we got down to the business of his independent special fields course outline. In his undergrad program, Kyler chose to develop his own course of interest, in lieu of other classes in his program’s curriculum. Because it was the first day, his task was to initiate the dialogue of the direction and focus and what he believed the end goal of his studies would procure.
Kyler nibbles unconsciously on his bottom lip, his eyes cast downward at the notebook in his lap, as he considers the question I posed about his outline proposal.
“I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about the theoretical perspectives on gender and sexuality in art.”
“That’s an excellent topic. I think you’ll find a plethora of scholarly articles and books on the subject matter. How do you think you’ll distinguish your perspective from what’s already been written?”
I lean back in my chair in a reflective position, giving him some time to ruminate over his position. This special fields course and the work that it entails is a far cry from reading some textbook and answering a few questions on a final exam. It’s meant to be thought provoking and aimed at combining historical, critical, and theoretical perspectives for the student to narrow down their thesis.
While he taps at his laptop keyboard, I can’t help but admire Kyler’s physical beauty and the way his uncertainty in this moment transforms him from overly-confident twenty-two-year old college student to an insecure fourteen-year-old kid, worried that he’ll do or say something wrong.
And that goddamn lip biting is about to drive me crazy because it draws my attention directly to his full mouth. The mouth I have been very acquainted with and wanted seconds of for months.
“Professor?”
Kyler’s voice jerks me out of my perverse reverie, driving my eyes up to meet his inquisitive gaze.
“I’m sorry. Say that again?”
His face flushes a bit, which is something I haven’t seen him do before, and a hint of a smile forms around the corner of his mouth. This lifts his entire face, which only emphasizes the freckles on his pronounced cheekbones even further.
“Well, like you said, Professor, there are many books and articles on the male and female gender in art, but I want to pay homage to the gayness of art.”
I choke out a cough and lean forward, thrown by how cavalier he is with this revelation.
“Excuse me? Is that a thing?”
Kyler’s laugh is milk and honey and warm kisses floating on a breeze. How utterly poetic I am.
He’s too young. Too pretty. Too much my student.
I keep reminding myself of those three complications as I listen to him expound on his ideas with an almost timorous smile. Because he’s not only beautiful, but Kyler is bright and speaks with excitement over his chosen topic of study. Which, I’ll admit, turns me on more than his pretty looks.
“Yes, it is,” Kyler continues, a note of anticipation in his voice. “You see, art has impacted history, cultures, and civilizations throughout time, and gender and sexuality are at the center of it all creating the framework in which we derive art. But there’s so much more to that, you know? Over the years, as the LGBTQ and queer people began to openly share their sexuality and represent it in their arts – the forms of art in music, or writing, or visual and structural arts, there’s been a shift in how we ‘see’ art. I want to peel the layers back and identify how art speaks to audiences and whether that queer label changes the significance of the piece.”
He takes a breath, inhaling and exhaling as his chest expands and deflates underneath the blue cotton T-shirt and gray jean jacket he wears, his expression hungry for my approval.
When I meet his eyes, I give him an encouraging smile, nodding thoughtfully at his explanation and obviously thorough thought process.
I take the proposal paperwork from the stack on my desk that was given to me by Professor Gershwin’s assistant, pick up the ink pen and sign my name at the bottom, acknowledging my approval and acceptance of Kyler’s plan.
I pick it up and hand it to him across the desk. “This is my approval to move forward with your special fields coursework. I’d like you to have a complete outline of your plans, citing some of the research you’ll be using for our next session.”
Glancing over to my laptop, I pull up my calendar and check the date of our next meeting.
“Next Monday, same time, same place. And I’ll send you an email with my contact information should you have questions or need any guidance between now and then.”
Kyler tilts his head down as he reads over the signed form and stands, pausing for a moment before bending down to pick up his bag, slipping it over his arm and shoulder.
“Sounds doable. Thanks, Professor.”
I can’t help the way my eyes land on his backside, to the curve of his ass in those tight skinny jeans, and feel the throbbing ache in my dick. I have never had any problems in the past with inappropriate desires or infatuated thoughts over my students. It was a clear line in my rule book that I didn’t cross.
But Kyler Scott did something to me this summer and I had better find a way to turn that part of my brain and physical response off if I am going to spend the next semester with him as his educator.
6
Kyler
I’ve quickly learned that Tuesdays are shaping up to be a fire breathing beast for my schedule.
Not only do I have three classes, one of them a three-hour frigging lab, but I also have a full shift at the bar tonight and only a short forty-five-minute break in between classes and work. During which I have to run home, shower and change, and look in after my cat, Pussy Cat and check in with Peyton if she’s around.
Exhausted and tense, I leave campus, the heat of the day turning my run-down car into a sauna in the middle of a desert, and make the ten minute drive to my apartment.
I’ve loved living with Peyton these past three months, and aside from the fact that Pussy Cat hasn’t warmed up to her yet, we’ve got along like peanut butter and jelly. In fact, we’ve become so close that we’ve shared a lot of our intimate history together, including my relationship – and the devastating end of it – with Max, my ex-boyfriend.
The intensity of the anguish and pain still come and go in waves since he kicked me out of the condo we’d shared at the end of last semester.
I’d met Maxwell Bentitou when I was eighteen, two-weeks after leaving home for the last time. In fact, I have quite the track record of being kicked out of male owned homes.
First, it was my own father, Car
l, who learned that his son was gay when he found me making-out in my car with my neighbor, Charlie, on the eve of my high school graduation. Needless to say, my staunchly religious and conservative father couldn’t, and wouldn’t, permit a sinner like myself to live under his roof.
The very next morning, I packed up my belongings that I’d already planned on taking with me to college and moved out. While I have been in contact with my mom on occasion since then over the past four years, who has never tried to apologize or intervene on her only son’s behalf, I’ve not seen my father since.
The thought has me rubbing the heel of my palm over my heart as if the dull ache was real. I get out of my truck and sprint up the two flights of stairs to our apartment where I unlock the door and the soft purr of Pussy Cat reaffirms why I’ve chosen to give my love to only a cat. At least with her, I don’t feel as hurt when she acts like a diva and won’t return my affections.
I open the door and set my bag down on the kitchen table, noticing immediately my beautiful white and gray Tabby cat perched up on the back of the small sofa in the living room. I walk over and lift her in my arms, which she allows willingly but begrudgingly.
“Hey, baby. How’s my Pussy Cat girl today?” I nuzzle my nose into her neck, as she actually leans in to allow me this one concession.
That lasts all of three seconds until she stiffens, her lithe body arching, and then gracefully jumps out of my arms to land on the small kitchen table, her tail swishing in the air to tell me she’s had enough.
I walk into the kitchen, opening the pantry to extract her evening dinner. A canned fish paté of some sort. The odor is noxious, and I wrench my nose away in the other direction, depositing the lid in the garbage underneath the sink and pulling out a clean bowl to empty her food into.
Placing it on the floor, I watch as she cautiously peruses with interested eyes what I’ve provided her Queenship tonight.
Turning toward the fridge, I rummage around for a can of Diet Coke and something for dinner. Our refrigerator is almost bare, with only the essentials to get us by until one of us goes grocery shopping next, which will likely end up being me since Peyton has a strong aversion to food.
