by Sierra Hill
Glancing up at the erasable note board hanging on the door, I see she’s scrawled out a few items she needs on her list.
OJ
Eggs
Cheese
Tampons
Oh hell, no, sister. I think not.
I must have said this out loud because Pussy Cat stops eating and glances with a menacing look in my direction as if to say, “Quiet, human. I’m in the middle of something here.”
Snapping the door shut, I begin making myself a cheese and salami sandwich on the last two slices of bread left on the counter, and review the first two days of the semester in my head as I scarf down my food.
Day one.
Ugh, pass.
Day two. With the computer design lab I’m in, and the challenges I have with computers, I’d prefer to reminisce over day one.
Professor Lucas Mathiasson.
You know those memes about the hottie high school math teacher in the tight jeans and clothing?
Well, Lucas is just that – minus the tight clothes.
I thought I did an exceptional job of keeping myself in check during our session, even though finding out he was my professor was quite shocking. I could barely keep myself from getting a full-blown boner while I watched him in the front of the class, acting all sexy professor like. And that led to several dreams I had last night about the two of us together in his office, Lucas bending me over his desk and fucking me from behind.
Even though he expressly stated from the get-go that we wouldn’t be doing that again. Part of me was disappointed, but the other part appreciated the way he put me at ease, eliminating the awkwardness between us.
While it’s obvious that there is a strong and palpable chemical reaction between us – intensified by the hot as fuck night we had together this summer – Lucas painted the boundary lines and made it clear that neither of us could cross it.
Which should make me feel better that we’ve moved forward and left the past behind. Right?
Wrong.
The only problem with that? I’m not good with rules.
It’s an innate desire in myself that recognizes boundaries are made for crossing.
Like the fence Mrs. Dorsey, my neighbor when I was a kid, put up between my childhood house and her house because my friends and I kept running through her flower garden.
Guess what? It didn’t stop me!
And speed limits? Get real. Luckily, I’ve only received two tickets for driving over the limit since I first got my license at sixteen.
And the expectation that coloring in between the lines is the only acceptable form of coloring? Nonsense. Intuitively, that’s what led me to pursue a degree in art and fashion design. I wanted to break the rules and create my own works of art.
Rules are meant to be broken. Boundaries are meant to be pushed.
Lines are definitely made to be crossed.
Which may very well spell trouble when it comes to Professor Lucas Mathiasson’s plans when it comes to me.
7
Lucas
It’s just another average Saturday night for me, turning up to babysit my godson while his father, my long-time unrequited crush, heads out on a date with his child’s nanny. Nothing weird about any of that, is there?
Sometimes I feel like I’m the main character in a Shakespearean tragedy.
Ringing the doorbell to Garrett’s front door, I step in through the unlocked front door and call out my arrival.
“It’s Luc. Anyone in need of a Lego Master champion tonight?”
I hear the small, excited giggles, followed by the slow-paced movement of an assisted walk coming down the hallway. As I turn the corner, I’m greeted with the sight of the bright, beautiful smile of my five-year-old godson, Caleb, his walker discarded to the side and his arms thrown wide so I can lift him in my arms.
“Hey, buddy.” I wrap him tightly in my hug and snuggle my nose into his warm neck, blowing raspberries into his cheeks, to which he laughs adorably. “I’ve missed you, Caleb.”
Time had gotten away from me over the last month as I prepared for the start of the school year. The last time I hung out with Caleb was at his birthday party, and even then I didn’t get to spend any one-on-one time with him.
“How’s my favorite boy in the world doing?”
I pull back enough so he can put his hands on my cheeks, which he often does as a sign of affection. Or it could be that I amuse him when I make fish lips and pretend to try to eat him. Either way, I adore the gesture and look forward to it each time.
Caleb moves his own mouth, working valiantly to form words, each consonant, and vowel a troubling result of a damaging and catastrophic car accident he was in when he was just a toddler. A car accident that killed his mother.
Garrett and I had grown especially close after the tragic turn of events, and it broke my heart to see him have to deal with the after-effects of losing his wife and managing through the life-altering challenges of having a disabled child.
The remarkable change, however, is seeing the slow, but constant improvement in Caleb’s motor skills and verbal abilities, much of which has happened since Brooklyn started as Caleb’s full-time nanny earlier this summer. With the time she’s given him, along with the regular therapy, he is already ready to start kindergarten.
“Unca Wuuuuuuu…cah…” Caleb says, his speech is broken and elongated, but clear as day.
“That’s right, buddy. Good job. I’m so proud of you. I know you’ve been working so hard this summer with Brooklyn and you’re going to be going to school soon, too.”
Caleb gurgles with excitement, his little legs kicking and wiggling over the prospect that he’ll get to go to school this fall.
“Hey there, Lucas. I see you got the full welcoming committee treatment.”
I turn my head to look back over my shoulder and see Brooklyn walking toward us from the back bedroom area. She’s dressed in a floral-patterned dress, sandals, and a light green jean jacket.
While she doesn’t do it for me, I can appreciate what Garrett sees in her. She’s intelligent, grounded and genuinely cares for Caleb’s development. Not to mention beautiful.
I set Caleb down on the floor and watch him move off toward the playroom in the front area, where we’ll be building some awesome Lego creations before I put him to bed in an hour or so. For all his motor challenges, Caleb knows how to produce the most elaborate structures with bright colored plastic pieces.
“Hey, buddy, why don’t you go get all our stuff ready and I’ll join you in just a bit.”
“Ohh-kaaaay,” he agrees, toddling off with a slight swagger to his gait.
Turning to Brooklyn, I open my arms and give her a hug and a brief peck on her cheek. “Hey lovely.”
When she pulls away, she blushes a pretty pink. “Thanks for coming over tonight. I’m sure you had much better things going on with your weekend than coming over to watch a rambunctious five-year-old.”
I wave her off at the ridiculous argument. “Please. I’m a boring old guy with no social life except online art forums with even older curmudgeons who want to talk about how the Roman period of art influenced Renaissance artists.”
Brooklyn gives a short laugh and rolls her eyes. “Okay, point taken. But, speaking of art, how’s the first week of the semester going for you? I heard that Kyler is in one of your classes. Small world, right?”
Very, I say inside my head.
“Yes, it does seem that way, doesn’t it? I guess it was only a matter of time before our paths crossed, considering his degree program and interests in art.”
Brooklyn turns toward the kitchen, with the open design that flows into the playroom where Caleb is already hard at work putting together his masterpiece.
“My friend Peyton says he’s a phenomenal artist. She and Kyler are roommates and she mentioned that Kyler was excited to work with you on his special fields course. That’s cool that you two already know each other, even peripherally. I hope it doesn’t create a pr
oblem or conflict or anything.”
Oh, there’s a conflict alright, just not due to our association that way.
I can feel a crease forming in my brow. Kyler mentioned his interest in working with me? Well, that’s interesting. I wonder if he said anything else? The worry churns like butter in my stomach.
Bending down to sit on the floor next to Caleb, I absently pick up a few Legos, flipping them in my fingers like a good-old-fashioned gunslinger, and reminisce over the interactions I had with Kyler this past week.
He’d emailed me on Thursday, in which we exchanged a few back-and-forths about research on imagery and symbolism. It ended up in a lively conversation that I thought about hours after our final email.
The easy repartee between us sparked something inside me that I haven’t felt in a long time, if ever. Kyler’s responses were intelligently composed, even if a tad on the satirical side, with a heavy dose of playful innuendo.
In fact, I had to stop myself on several occasions from throwing in my own hint of intimacy in the conversation, chiding myself for even thinking about going there. It’s exactly what I don’t want to have happen between us.
The line can’t be crossed.
I smile at Brooklyn and shake my head noncommittally. “No conflict to speak of.”
From my view into the kitchen, Brooklyn grabs her purse off the high stool at the island, as Garrett rounds the corner of the open concept room, his tall frame always knocking the wind out of my chest.
I tamp down my response that’s always there when I see Garrett. He’s been in my life for over a decade but always has a way of taking my breath away. The smile he flashes at Brooklyn is both intimate and seductive, and I have to drop my gaze to Caleb, moving my attention elsewhere to avoid watching the warmth blossom between them.
It’s masochistic to wish I was in her shoes and want him to stare at me with that same longing and knowingly sensual gaze. It hurts to know I will never have that with him.
Redirecting my attention elsewhere, I ruffle Caleb’s hair playfully when he shows me what he’s put together, as I hear Garrett whisper something to Brooklyn that makes her giggle.
Fuck, just kill me now.
“Hey, man.”
The weight of Garrett’s hands presses into my scapula, the heat radiating through my skin and burning into my soul, elicits a shiver that runs down my spine. “Looks like Caleb’s brilliance is once again outshining his uncle’s lack of competence in this department.”
Garrett chuckles low, the vibrations skimming down the length of my arms until he finally removes his hands and leans down to kiss his son on the top of his head. Caleb turns his face up with a huge grin for his father and everything about this moment lights my heart with love and envy.
One day, I want this same scene in my own life. With my own partner. My own child.
Will that ever happen? Would I reconsider getting married to a woman just so I can have a family of my own? Or to make my grandmother happy? Marry someone of the opposite sex just because it’s what conventions have established for centuries just to have a child of my own?
Garrett’s instructions knock me out of my contemplations.
“He’s already had his bath, so you can put him to bed around eight. He’ll probably want you to read him a few stories at least three times.” He shifts his gaze back to Caleb, admonishing him gently. “Only two times, buddy. No more than that. Don’t think you can pull a fast one over on Uncle Luc.”
“Nah-ah. Twee.” Caleb obstinately holds up three fingers and I have to turn my head away and stifle my snicker.
“There are times I wish he wasn’t so good at math,” Garrett concedes, shaking his head at his son. “Just be good and do what uncle Luc tells you to do tonight, okay, buddy?”
Garrett gives a resigned sigh and once again pats me on the shoulder before he stands and claps his hands together.
“We have reservations at eight and then we’re catching a late movie. I’ll text you on our way home, but it’ll probably be after midnight. You’re free to sleep in the guestroom if you want. Just make yourself at home.”
“Of course, not a problem. Just enjoy your alone time together. I’ve got a castle wall to build.” I point down at the current structure I have in place with the Legos.
I glance over my shoulder and watch longingly as Garrett takes Brooklyn’s hand in his and they head out the garage door. I let out a giant breath of air as it shuts behind them, shutting out any and all possibilities of me and Garrett.
There is nothing in this world that makes me happier than to see Garrett finding joy in his life again after all that he’s been through. His wife’s untimely, tragic death. Retiring from the NBA. Dealing with a challenging diagnosis of his son’s development. A move to a new state and starting a new coaching job. A legal battle of custody with Caleb’s biological mother. And now, falling in love again with someone who has literally changed his life and his heart.
The only tragedy I can see is that it wasn’t me who helped turn his life around.
Sure, I was there by his side when he needed my support.
But it was as his best friend and not even close to the same thing that he shares with Brooklyn.
The realization hits me hard and leaves a hole in my heart. I’ll never have that with Garrett and it’s my own damn fault that I’m a lonely, empty shell of a man.
8
Kyler
“Damn, kid. You were on fire tonight.”
I turn from my spot in the dressing room, which isn’t more than a 10x10 closet, to see a guy named Atlas that I work with pop his head in through the cracked doorway. He’s wearing a long pink wig and sparkly boy shorts that clearly advertise his very full package.
Not too unlike the slingshot G-string thong I wore earlier on stage, with the red-hot chili pepper displayed prominently on my package, which seemed to do the trick with my audience tonight. It brought in a ton of tips.
The crowd was on fire. Chanting, singing, and swaying along to the EDM music blaring out of the club’s speakers. Drinks were flowing and sex was in the air at every corner of Hot Knights.
I’ve just changed out of my dance gear and into a black mesh tank and shorts, removing the make-up and glitter I had painted on my face with a wet towelette. I’d been sad to lose the face painting I did of the chili peppers on both cheeks, as well as the arrow and words “Fire down below” I’d painted on my abs.
“Thanks, Atlas. I appreciate that. You were great, too.”
I shove all my stuff into my bag and slip on my slides, ready to head home for the night. I step by him, squeezing through the door, but our chests brush together in the small passage. He seems to like this idea and doesn’t back away, adding his hand to the mix by sliding it down my bare shoulder and arm, seductively grinding his half-hard cock against mine.
“You got plans tonight, baby? I’d love to have a stiff drink and then a taste of your stiff cock.” He emphasizes this with a squeeze of my dick with his palm.
I smile tightly and shake my head. “Tempting offer, Atlas, but I can’t tonight. Maybe some other time?”
He pouts out his bottom lip as I firmly pry away his hand. He flicks a lock of the pink-colored hair away from his face and sighs with dejection. Maybe under different circumstances, I’d take him up on his offer.
We’ve flirted for ages, circling each other like fresh meat to a hungry lion, but I’ve made the decision not to sleep with anyone I work with. It’s never a good idea, even if it was just for a night. Too many complications, feelings, and jealous irritation can arise when you see a partner of yours dancing half-naked around other men trying to gain their attention.
My avoidance of commitment has grown to historic proportions. Dare I say I’ve worked really hard to put on the act of a fuck boy who’s always up for a quick hookup? In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s what everyone calls me around here because I’m down to fuck and have a good time.
Since breaking up with Max, I’ve h
ad fling after fling with an outrageous amount of men, my tallies growing longer by the day.
But lately, it’s become an annoyance of how my body and brain have seemed to derail like a speeding train off the tracks by the existence of one very hot and off-limits sexy professor.
Even the tame — and grossly academic – emails Lucas and I exchanged throughout the week have done a number on me, increasing my heightened awareness of just how attractive and sexy he is, and how much I enjoy being in my professor’s company.
After the third email discussing the topic of sex in art, I couldn’t help but lean toward naughty and flirtatious innuendo. And Lord help me, but Lucas responded in kind with just the right amount of insinuation and inference with every reply back to me. Including the one that had me jerking off in the shower to his words later that night.
Dear Kyler,
While I appreciate your suggestion that the line between pornography and erotic art is slim, I think you’d have a hard time discerning the difference, as both are material meant to create an arousal and reaction within the human brain, and therefore physical response.
Both forms tap into the basis of human sensuality, which I would conclude, drives the lustful, twisted animals within our very human nature. The question lies in whether by articulating these deeply hidden traits is in essence an artist’s license and a form of self-expression, or simply crude and graphic baseless sexual perversity?
It drives the point of whether art is meant to be arousing. And if so, do you conclude that it makes it pornographic?
Professor Mathiasson
Ps: I suggest more research on this topic and you can enlighten me with your fresh perspective on Tuesday.
I’m sure the professor didn’t mean to fuel my lustful thoughts with his scholarly language or give me a hard-on with his educated and academically written response, but it was all I could do to keep from sliding my hand down my pants to tug one out as I read the words in his email.
