Fear and Lusting in University (My Former Professor)

*This is an embarrassing, pathetic, very true story of something that plagues me. I thought writing it down might help, but it only made it worse.*

I was doomed the moment his voice first played through my headphones; deep, yet gentle, and laced with witty sarcasm. I’ve always had a thing for men who could nail a dry sense of humor, and an even bigger thing for intelligence and passion for literature. Though miles away in years and separated by our respective titles, I found we had much in common. I listened to him echo certain beliefs and interests that I have, and this made me all the more curious about him— the man who haunts my sleepless nights— my former professor.

Twice a week, our class would meet online to discuss interesting stories and learn about a particular genre of literature. Each class left me more inspired and delighted than the last. I’d join every meeting as early as possible and wait for his face to appear in his box, where he’d then launch into what he had planned for the following hour. I participated heavily to hear his thoughts on what I took away from each story. Every time he gave me positive feedback, I found myself filled with a giddy excitement.

Throughout the beginning of the course, I was motivated by this innocent desire to do well in his class. This soon transformed into something far more shameful. The first sign of the problems to come occurred when I decided to make his camera feed fill the entire screen. I must’ve cared more about his pixelated face than the slideshow he was presenting.

It was all downhill from there.

I can remember the moment I first imagined it. I’m no stranger to sexual fantasies, but when I thought of him in this way, my body reacted *so strongly* that it actually shocked me. After that, I chased this high again and again. The desire I had for these imagined moments to become real was almost painful— my body would ache for stimulation, every nerve a tingling plea for wandering hands, the weight of a body, the pressure of lips. These thoughts about him became something of a drug to me. They were just satisfying enough that I would return to them in every moment of stillness, yet not satisfying enough to keep me from wanting more. Even in my dreams, I couldn’t escape him. I woke countless times  blanketed in a layer of sweat and cursing reality for stealing away such a lush moment. I would think of him when I touched myself, pretending my own hands were his. I’d picture his lips on my neck, his breath in my ear, and the words he might say. I couldn’t get *enough* of him.

As the end of the semester approached, my fantasies had blossomed into outright desperation. I had a maddening desire to know him as something more than just a face behind my computer screen, and one day, I had the opportunity to. As the terribly cliché saying goes- my knees were *actually* weak as I walked through my university that day. On my way, I passed by students focused on their phones, eating their lunches, typing on their laptops, and chatting happily together. Their presence made me feel like an imposter. I wasn’t there to be a student that day. I was there only to see him.

When I met him, I could hardly look him in the eye. My chest was flushed red with anxiety, and I had to hold onto the leather strap of my purse to hide the tremor in my hands. He was much, much different than the man I watched on the screen. I didn’t know he’d be so tall, or that the webcam had dulled the intense beauty of his facial features. I gawked at him every time he turned away. I took in sneaky peeks of his prominent cheekbones, his arms, his hands, his pale blue eyes— absolutely dizzy with how much I wanted him. The spell he had on me made me feel like a young teenager again. I have never met a man that made me so nervous, so excitable, so sick with lust. Seeing him in person only worsened my condition— this nagging, unquenchable infatuation with a man that I can never have.

Feigning a somewhat nonchalant composure, I had a long conversation with him in his office. He was incredibly kind and helpful to me. His mind was a nice thing to pick while I had the chance— and fuck, if his voice wasn’t a hundred times sexier in person. I couldn’t help but mourn over the fact I couldn’t have met him under different circumstances— ones where we didn’t have the titles of professor and student, and ones where I was a little older— circumstances where I’d have a chance. The hand of fate is a nasty bitch.

Before parting ways, he asked me to stay in touch. I have since spoken to him online here and there, always finding an excuse to ask him a question or bother him with discussions about books and films. I assume he answers me out of kindness and his duty as my former instructor, never suspecting this terrible secret of mine. If he has any idea that I might like him, he probably thinks it is only an innocent crush.

I fantasize about him still. I still wonder how it would be to look into those blue eyes in such a moment. It *kills* me that I’ll never know. I imagine more wholesome scenarios as well, where we aren’t doing much besides sitting together, watching a film, or simply talking. Thoughts of him are an awful yet wonderful curse. I sometimes doubt that I will ever want another person so badly. He is everything I have ever dreamed of in a man, my former professor.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/phgbce/fear_and_lusting_in_university_my_former_professor