Page 4 of Dad's Best Friend Professor
I might’ve attempted to behave just like him when I was his age—assuming an agreeable manner just to survive. But it was against my nature, and I soon gave up the pretense, which was why I was a misfit everywhere I went. Even when I was still an undergraduate, I tended to be skeptical of what I was being taught and liked to challenge any dominant scholarly views. I’ve rarely fully agreed with any school of thought, not to mention all, which is what this young colleague is doing. But there are a few good theories I support and defend.
After I introduce myself and thank them for having me, I tell them about my academic background. “My research interest has always been on the nature of war, and I’m a proponent of the biological, rather than social theories.”
The effect of my declaration is instant, and already I’m able to separate the ones who welcome me from the ones who don’t.
Dr. Davis doesn’t hide her sneer. “So you’re one of those who believe humans are born with violent tendencies?”
“Not violent, but dominant,” I say. “And not all humans, but some men and women like to dominate.”
She has the grace not to carry on the argument, but I know right away that she isn’t going to be a friend.
After the department meeting, I attend another meeting for all new faculty members at the university club. The event is more relaxing, and we’re also served an early dinner.
I’ve had plans to prepare for my first lecture, but I change my mind on my way back to my office. I have a whole week before class starts. What’s the hurry? Besides, I’ve taught this class a dozen times, and I’ve memorized all the lecture notes. So, I walk toward the parking instead. It’s not yet five. I might be able to catch Anna before she leaves my house. I can’t wait two more weeks to see her.
As I drive home, I reflect on the events of the day. Despite some unwelcoming faces, I have a strong wish to obtain tenure here at Sunnyvale. It just feels like home to me. I grew up in this town. Honestly, I’m tired of moving for new jobs and living in different places across states every few years. It was exciting when I was young, but it’s tiring at my age. Damn. Does it mean I’ve gotten old? I’m not even forty. Why am I thinking about settling down already? Settling down means bowing down to colleagues you dislike and making peace with your enemies. Can I do that? I cringe as I recall Dr. Davis’s sneer.
Chapter 3
Anna
I say goodbye to Tony and linger at the door until he enters his SUV and pulls out of the driveway.
After I return to work in the kitchen, I can’t get him out of my mind. I have so many questions about him. I want to know whether he’s got a girlfriend anywhere, but he doesn’t give me any hints. Silly. It’s not like I’ve got a chance with him. I chide myself. The man is melting hot, but he’s exactly twice my age and my dad’s friend.
The most I could get is to clean his house for him twice a month.
After I’m done cleaning the pantry, I go to his bathroom. It smells like his body wash, and it makes me hot and bothered instantly. I pick up the jogging shorts he wore earlier and remember the bulge on it before he showered. I check the inside of the crotch panel and see a clear white streak. Holy shit. I don’t hesitate to sniff it. My lady bits are on fire instantly as I inhale his musky scent over and over, and I slip my hand to feel my drenched female parts.
Gosh. This is crazy. I’m a pervert. I dump the shorts back into the basket before scrubbing the shower stall vigorously to forget what I’ve done.
After taking a break, I go into Tony’s study. I clean up the shelves and desk drawers, and then I put the books onto the right shelves according to the labels on the boxes. These clear instructions make me guess he must be a great professor. And remembering how passionate he was about history earlier, I’m tempted to take his class. I cringe at the idea. If I take one more class, I’ll have to abandon my plan of learning how to play the guitar. I push the thought aside.
There are about ten boxes of books in the room, and it takes me about an hour to put them onto the shelves. But after that, I start to organize the books by color and size, which takes another hour.
Before leaving the room, my eyes fall on a box in the corner. Tony told me not to worry about it because there weren’t books in it. But then I notice the label written on the side —Old Photos,and it piques my curiosity.
I stand there, battling with my conscience for a second. This is wrong. I shouldn’t pry into Tony’s personal things. I’ve transgressed enough for the day, and I should stop. Tony trusts me and leaves me in his house alone. I shouldn’t let him down. But then again, all I want is to find out how he looked when he was a kid or a teenager.
Finally, my curiosity gets the better of me, and I open the lid of the box. I gasp when I realize there’re so many albums. I take one out and flip the cover. Immediately, I’m greeted by the same grin I saw a while ago, but on the face of a young man. Tony was about seventeen. He was skinny back then but cute. I turn the page for more pictures of him in high school. He was no doubt athletic. There are pictures of him playing badminton, tennis, and basketball.
I’m so engrossed in the photos I sit down on the floor after picking up the next album. Half an hour later, I’ve gotten a pretty good glimpse of Tony’s life, from when he was a baby, to schoolboy, to college. My dad starts to appear in the fifth album, and Tony becomes more filled out and muscular.
There’s a picture of me in Tony’s arms as he stands next to my dad. I must’ve been no more than five years old, and he must’ve been around twenty-five. And holy hell is he gorgeous! The sight of those abs and biceps makes me drool, and to think I was lucky enough to be in those thick arms? I can’t take my eyes off the photo.
I can hardly close my mouth as I browse the photos in the next album. Tony looked like a supermodel in his twenties. In fact, he might’ve been. There’re pictures of him in various name-brand clothing: Lacoste, Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein, and quite a few are underwear—holy shit. I’m so flushed as I stare at his beautiful abs and the bulge under the tiny white briefs he wears.
Self-consciously, I glance around to see whether Tony has installed cameras in the room. And seeing none, I gawk at the pictures over and over. When I reach the last page, I feel a bit disappointed that I’ve reached the end of the photo show. I’m about to close the album when I see something hidden inside a pocket on the inside back cover.
It looks like another photo. I slip my finger into it and pull the piece out, it’s stuck but I ease it out inch by inch carefully. I see Tony’s face, although he isn’t looking at the camera but staring down on his side, his brows slightly knitted. His shoulders and chest come into view—he’s leaning against a wall. One of his hands is on his masculine hip, and the other one—holy mackerel—is gripping the base of his very rigid, erect, long, and thick cock.
My thighs tingle, and lady bits clench. My mouth hangs open. This can’t be true. I blink and stare at the face. I can’t see his eyes, but the jawline and the aquiline nose are unmistakable. He is young, but he is Tony.
My eyes are glued on his male appendage for a full minute before they travel to the rest of his gorgeous, naked body. I’ve never paid attention to a man’s butt before, but Tony’s powerful glutes make me drool. The rest of him is pure perfection: the thick but smooth biceps and the small veins on his arm, the thin layer of hair that covers his chest. I’ve seen pictures like this online, but I’ve never impressed and even thought them gross.
But not now. I only see beauty. My eyes linger on his proud manhood that’s jutting out, making a right angle with the plane of his flat stomach. Dear Lord. It is so big I wonder whether it’ll fit in any woman’s anatomy at all. Just imagining it hurts. Yet despite that, I would give anything to take it and to taste it.
Without thinking, I pull out my phone and snap a photo of the priceless image. And then I carefully tuck it back into the cover pocket of the album.
