Finish these sentences: “I have a little bit of a problem. I like to ______. It all started when I was ______, when _______.” Use this as a jumping point into a fictional story.
I have a little bit of a problem. I like to sleep with married, college professors. It all started when I was eighteen, when, as a freshman, I registered in Creative Writing 102 in late August, with Dr. Carlton. What I thought would be lessons on bringing out your inner novelist became lessons on bringing out your inner kept woman. The seduction was as easy and as lurid as some would think. Mildly naïve, I became enthralled by his robust affirmations of how I reminded him of a 21st Century Emily Bronte or the second coming of Mary Shelley.
“I am looking for a T.A. to help me along this year. Would you be interested in applying?”, he asked with smile full of the whitest teeth ever, like a shark surveying his next meal. That smile made his female students, and even some of his male students, swoon each class period. Each Monday and Wednesday, I would look forward to any ridiculous question rendered one of them for the sheer honor of a lingering second or two of Dr. Carlton’s attention.
Bewildered, I countered, “Aren’t T.A.s grad students? Since I’m only a freshman, I wouldn’t be much help.” Dr. Carlton was putting me on clearly. I’m lucky enough to turn my assignments in on time, no matter how “ace” they were to him.
“Let’s discuss this over some tea in my office,” he offered excitedly. “Or, if you like, we can grab some coffee on the way.” Before I had the chance to turn down the meeting, we were on our way to his office. As we stepped into the elevator, I noticed we were the lone riders. I couldn’t help but catch a whiff of his cologne. The scent reminded me of a posh setting in London, or more so Hammersmith, where Dr. Carlton was born. He talked often of his birthplace, and you could not help but visualize every scene with every breathtaking description.
I must admit that I am not being as forthcoming as I should with my narrative. The truth is that I welcomed the seduction. I craved it. I am the kid in the proverbial cookie jar. I never stop until I achieve my goal. I wanted Dr. Carlton and I knew he wanted me. Case closed. The thing is society blames the older man for luring the girl. It’s rare for the opposite to occur. No, he did not ask me to assist him. I offered my help.
However, the “office meeting” was his idea. It was merely the convenient spot to kickoff the seduction. My dorm room was clearly off-limits. That thought never crossed my mind. Bringing a professor to your room would be foolish. More so, his wife’s office was at home, and a proper affair wasn’t going to work there (his words, not mine). Besides, he felt guilty enough after only being married for seven years.
The seven-year itch? Yeah. It’s real. But, I was more than willing to provide the scratch.