Standing in the shower, a small wave of anxiety washed over me. My eyes shot open as I finally realized what it was I was showering for in the first place. This meeting, rendezvous, get-together, date, whatever you want to call it, was only a half hour away. I slowly washed my breasts and stomach with my loofa, trying to convince myself that the longer it took for me to get ready, the more time would slow down, and the more time I had until he arrived on my doorstep.

Usually, men don’t make me nervous. As a 26-year-old, I felt I knew what to expect from them, and I had a self esteem that tended to air on the side of arrogance when it came to dates that always kept me in control. I knew that I had a power over men, and I knew I could make them want me considerably more than I could ever want them without hardly any effort. I knew I could dominate them. But this man was the exception the rule. In my own way, I had worked at this. It felt like a fantasy of mine was finally coming true, and my emotions could hardly make sense of it. He had been something in my life I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to have, and it made me want him all the more. Now that it looked as if I had finally sunk my teeth into him, I was certain I did not want to mess it up.

I stepped out of the shower, dried myself off and looked at the outfit that was folded up on my toilet seat: blue and white pinstripe cotton frill-top pants that stopped just before the ankle and a white spaghetti strap top that I would wear without a bra, as to make my nipple piercing easily visible. Even if I was oddly nervous to see him, at least I knew I would look amazing.

Walking toward my bedroom, the juxtaposition of its coolness and the damp heat of the bathroom sent a chill down my spine. Examining the space, I determined that it looked acceptable enough to invite someone into for the night. My bed was uncharacteristically made, floor freshly vacuumed, and my desk was cleared of the heaps of useless papers, tampons, books, and half empty glasses of water that it typically hosted. I tossed my towel in my hamper near my desk and closed the door to get a good look at myself in the mirror. The sight of my own reflection sent another chill down my spine, but it wasn’t one of anxiety or nerves, thankfully. It was of confidence. I couldn’t remember ever having liked the way I looked so much before. My skin was truly radiant from head to toe. The box braids on my head cascaded down and framed my face perfectly, but didn’t take away from my favorite facial feature: my high cheekbones. Turning my head to the left, I peered at the strap on harness I had purchased specifically for the guest I had coming over. I looked back at myself in the mirror and watched as a devious smirk spread across my face.There couldn’t have been a better night to sleep with my former college professor.

Just as I’d dressed, turned on some mood music, and finished pouring one of the two glasses of pinot noir there was a knock on my door. He’d arrived. I took my time going over to let him in, as I wanted to make sure I left every trace of nerves behind me. I’d waited so long for the opportunity to do this On my way to greet him, I took an oversized sip of the wine I had in hand a deep breath, and slowly opened the door.

He had been my professor in my junior year British Literature course. I was a linguistics major, and I wanted to take as many courses related to words and language as I could, even if it meant choosing them as electives. When the time came to register, I was certain I wanted to take the course with the same woman who had taught my Semantics and Phonetics class the year prior, Professor Wesley. She was a remarkable woman whose influence over me was both professional and motherly, and I told her many times that if I ever finished the book I’d been working on, I wanted her to write its foreword. My respect for her was unmatched, and I wanted to absorb every bit of information from her as I could. Thus, I was nearly in a rage when I learned I would be taking the class not with her but with a Professor Stanley, some guy who’d transferred from a college upstate. I tried with all my might to change my class schedule and work schedule to make it possible for me to be taught by my one and only true role model, but to no avail. My whole summer leading up to that fall semester was spent in frustration, wondering why my perfect plan had crumbled before me, that is, until I finally met my new instructor.

—–

He stood in front of me, smiling that sexy smile of his, and I felt a massive rush of adrenaline.