The Guy in my Class (Part One) [FM]

*I’ve never written erotica before, so I’m open to suggestions; this isn’t a true story, per se, but there are elements of truth in it. I’m really curious to know what you think of it, even if what you think about it isn’t very complimentary. Incidentally, I’m a guy; I just think the point of view of the woman in this story is more interesting to write from, and I hope I did that well.*

I’d noticed him from the moment he came into the class, really. I didn’t want to notice him, I wasn’t looking to notice anybody, but there it was.

I was a freshman. Still living at home, because I couldn’t afford the dorms, driving into school every day, parking, fighting traffic, just to get this mystical degree that would change my life. My mom was pushing for it, of course; I was a first generation Cuban girl, of course she wanted me to get the education she hadn’t gotten. She didn’t know what that entailed, really; there was no money for tuition, no understanding that it was going to be hard to work full-time and to go to school full-time. But I was a good daughter, and I wanted to make her proud of me. I wasn’t going to school to meet people or to be distracted. I was there to learn.

It was an English literature class. I had tested out of an earlier course; AP credits from high school carried over, and so I was bumped up to a 200-level class. It was the kind of class where you’d read a book and then discuss it in a circle for the entire period of class. Talk about symbolism and allegories and the abstract parts of a book that elevate it to the status of literature.

I noticed his shock of blonde hair, dangling to his shoulders. His smile, the way it seemed to mock and accept at the same time. The way his eyes seemed to dance, their piercing blue…there was a sense of levity about him, a sense that he was taking the class only as seriously as he took everything else. Not at all.

And yet…his opinions. He talked all the time. Never condescending, never belittling…he seemed to enjoy the conversations we would have in class for the sake of the conversations themselves. And he was smart. So much smarter than I was, and probably than the rest of the class was, too. You could tell half the time he was only barely engaged with the conversation, that he was on autopilot while we were struggling to keep up.

His name was just John for the first few weeks. I was becoming mildly obsessed with John. His look, his intelligence, his understanding of things I was only passingly aware of, all of that made me interested in him. He was different from the boys I had dated, different from the people I knew. I found myself thinking about him when I wrote essays…”What would John think of this idea?” “How would John phrase this thought?”

And, like any girl who’s developing a crush on someone she sees as out of her league, I journalled about it. I had long journalled to organize my thoughts, and soon my journals became retellings of John’s witticisms, recountings of his outfits, memories of the gentle jab he took at a classmate’s idea. I only saw him for an hour on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, but those three hours were my whole week.

Even his whiteness amazed me. He was so much different from everything I knew; I tried to imagine him with his liberal ideas and his sandals and Jesus hair in my kitchen, talking to my mother, me next to him, holding his hand, praying they could find some common ground.

I found out his schedule. When he ate, where he worked, how he spent his off time. The coffee shop in the morning, his coffee order…the route he took to his classes, the dorm he stayed in. Where he ate in the campus cafeteria. I sat near him at lunch, a table or two away, on my own, hoping he’d notice me; I made eye contact with him once but there wasn’t so much as a nod in return, and I realized then that I had never registered to him.

Of course, there wasn’t much about me to register. I was far too shy in class. It was participation based, and while my essays received great grades I knew I was falling behind because I was too meek to speak up in class. How could he remember me if I never talked?

Still…I masturbated to the idea of him at home. This wasn’t a chaste infatuation; I wanted his mind to analyze me, I wanted his body inside of mine, I wanted him to deconstruct me and to put me back together in whatever way he saw fit. It would never work otherwise, I was too Cuban, too other, too poor, too dumb, too meek, but I’d let him redefine that, let him rewrite me, if only he’d have me.

I’d had crushes like this before, of course. It’s not like I’d suddenly become shy. I knew my own character arc, how I was destined to ride this infatuation out until the semester was over, finally conceding that I wasn’t good enough for him anyways and moving on, sadly, only to become infatuated with a new stranger I never had a chance with.

And that arc was to continue…until I lost my journal.

It was a dumb mistake to make. I’d taken to writing the things he said down in class, though. I’d learned his last name – Murray – and took to a clever shorthand of using his initials to recount his words.

“JM: I don’t know, when a stripper is tying a guy’s shoes outside of a town that’s literally French for ‘of the cross’…I tend to think we might be talking about Jesus.”

“JM: I think that Daisy Buchanan is the biggest villain in American Literature.”

“JM loves romances, I think he thinks that they’re real.”

This had been going on for weeks at this point. We were past midterms. I’d been his little court reporter, recounting everything he said, wondering if he’d noticed me. It was crazy, I know. I know I should have been smarter. But I was studying late in the library, only partially because he worked there and I could watch him, and forgot to bring it with me when I was packing up.

There were pages and pages of these quotes. Of my observations. His John-isms. Of my first name written next to his last name. “Alicia Murray”. A whole page of “Alicia Murray”s, like I was in junior high again.

I went back to the library the next day to find it, but of course it was gone. I looked at the table next to the one I’d been at. Under the tables. In the racks under the chairs. Frantically trying to stave off the humiliation of being discovered.

“Are you looking for this?” I knew the voice but didn’t want to know it. I was so stupid. Careless and stupid and naive and now everyone would know. Or, at the very least, he would know. Or knew. Already knew. I turned around, saw the journal, the pink Moleskine with the nice paper that I’d been so proud of, in the hand of the boy I’d seen fit to obsess over from afar.

“I…I am, yes.” Meekly. Sheepishly. Because he knew, now. Knew what I was thinking when I looked at him. “D-did you read it?”

That smile, that mocking, teasing smirk…those eyes, focused on me for the first time…”Oh, I definitely did…I had to figure out who’s it was, after all.” My heart beating out of my chest, my mouth dry, my hands clammy. “I see you’ve been very attentive in Literary Analysis 253.”

“It’s an interesting class…” I stammered. I wondered if it was possible to disappear from shame. Wondering if he’d read all of it. The fantasies, too.

“You seem to be less interested in the class and more interested in the conversation,” he said. Stepping forward. I felt like a planet being pulled into his orbit. Like I was his moon. “Did you mean everything you said in here?”

I couldn’t talk anymore. I just nodded. Meekly. Not meeting his eyes. Obviously I meant it, I wouldn’t have written it if I hadn’t meant it. There wasn’t a way to lie this away, to pretend.

He smirked. Handed the journal back. “It’s good to have a fan, I guess.” And he walked away.

I skipped the next two classes. I couldn’t go. Couldn’t be in the room with those eyes, with that stare, that smirk, knowing he know something about me I’d never thought to share with anyone. But I needed to be in the library. I needed to do actual work for other classes. My world was collapsing, I couldn’t let it collapse to dust.

Three days later I was in the stacks. Looking up some book on politics in a section of the library nobody really went to. My back was to the aisle, I was reaching for a book, and that’s when I felt him. “Let me get that for you.” My body facing the shelves…him behind me. Pressing against me. His arm reaching up. “I’m wondering if you really wanted my attention, or if you just have a little crush,” he whispered. His hand on my hand now. His mouth next to my ear. His breath on me.

“I-I want it.” I knew what I was agreeing to. I knew he wasn’t looking to pay attention to me for me. I knew what he wanted. I felt his hips against my ass. I heard the tremor of excitement in his voice.

I braced myself against the shelves. He grabbed my wrist. Pulled my hand back to him. Back between his legs. I felt him in my hand, exposed, hard. I wanted him. I wanted to do this for him. This was something I was able to do, a way I was able to be useful, and I wanted that. Wanted to be useful to him. It wasn’t my first time. I didn’t turn to look at him, didn’t turn to see what he was doing. I knew. I knew I wasn’t Alicia Garcia to him, I knew I was just a girl, just an object he was using, that that smirk and those eyes and that mind had needs that I was able to satisfy, even if only briefly, even if only like this.

He came on the back of my jeans. He barely touched me. I didn’t need to be touched, didn’t want that. I understood. I understood that he owned me from the second he’d read what I’d written about him. I felt him throb in my hands, felt a little bit of wetness on my back, and I knew what I was. I wasn’t a girl he’d ever date, not pretty or glamorous or rich enough. I was a girl he’d use when it was convenient. I heard his moan, though, and that moan was enough for me.

He took my phone from my side pocket. Texted himself. “I might want to get in touch with you sometime. Would you want to see me again?” And I did want that. I did want more of this. I was in his orbit, after all. I was his.

“Good,” he said. Zipping up. Pulling away from me. “I’ll be in touch soon.” And just like that, he left me there. Sticky and wanting and ashamed, but feeling oh so very useful to him.

I just prayed that he’d text me soon.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/9qhid8/the_guy_in_my_class_part_one_fm