Page 37 of Bad Professor

I know nothing about her, but I want to. I wonder about her constantly. What are her kids like? Why did she get divorced? What does she do for a living?

Why did she take my Lord of the Rings class?

She stands out like a sore thumb. She stands out like a beacon, a light drawing me home.

How can I think of home and Tilly in the same sentence?

I shouldn’t even think about her at all.

But I do. I dream about her and wake up hard, the sound of her gasps ringing in my head.

On Wednesday, I have another lecture, and I anxiously study the faces, looking for Tilly. It’s a third-year course, so I don’t really expect to see her there.

Then again. I never expected to see her in my fantasy class either, and there she was.

She’s not there. I go about my discussion on angry female writers but never really hit my groove.

Tilly isn’t in my Intro to Horror class that night, either.

I have no idea if Tilly is a full-time student. Or an English major. She might only be taking the one class.

I check my class list to see if she’s dropped out. I stand at the front of each class, half in dread and half hoping that she’s there. I’ve never shut down a woman like that before.

I was a complete ass.

On Thursday I wake up—after yet another dream about Tilly—and tell myself that I have to text her and apologize. I’ll come up with some explanation so she doesn’t think I’m a total douche who really does regret the night I spent with her.

Because I don’t. How can I? I think about her constantly. I’ve dreamed about being with her three times—that alone should put that night into the top five of all sexual experiences.

I will text her with an apology and then it won’t be strange in class next week and we can just settle into a regular professor-student relationship. Strictly professional.

Tilly is in my first class on Thursday, the Taylor Swift one.

Along with the fantasy course, I designed a class studying the themes and symbolism of the music collection of Taylor Swift. It’s a half course, only four months long and consists of mostly females.

This was going to be my test. Now it’s like a final exam with Tilly here.

And here I thought I’d have to worry about giggling, immature coeds with their little skirts and bucket lists about sleeping with professors.

I’ve heard about the bucket lists, and I’ve been told I’m on a few.

But I don’t think about any of that after I see Tilly walk in—before I had a chance to text her with the apology.

She walks in and holds every ounce of my attention as she takes a seat in the second row. Immediately, I know jerking off in the shower this morning wasn’t enough.

Because Tilly is the problem, wearing a little blue dress that hits mid-thigh. Her legs—I didn’t spend nearly enough time on her legs that I should have.

The dress is snug around her waist. I have a vivid memory of holding that waist in my hands as I thrust into her, and tight across her chest.

I shove the memory of her chest away or I won’t be able to stand in front of this class of mostly women. Her ex-husband must be a total and complete idiot to let go of someone who looks that good.

Tilly won’t meet my eyes.

I take a deep breath and think ugly thoughts about desiccated grandmothers and Will Ferrell streaking in the movie Old School.

I stand before the class, scanning the faces but not making eye contact. “You’re here because you’re a fan of Taylor Swift,” I begin. “I’m here because I think she’s one of the best songwriters of this generation and want to show you that she does more than just report on the status of her relationships. She’s created a great platform to talk about her beliefs as well as her breakups, and I know there are a lot of women—men to—that can relate to what she goes through. There’s more than just broken hearts in her music.”

Tilly is staring right at me.

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