With my professor

I always sat in the front row, pretending to follow equations that meant nothing to me. His hands moved across the board—strong, veined, impossible to ignore. I stopped trying to learn anything beyond the way his forearms flexed when he wrote. After class I stayed late one afternoon, skirt riding higher than it should. He closed the door. I dropped to my knees without asking. My blonde hair spilled over my shoulders as I took him in my mouth, slow and hungry, until he pulled me up and bent me over his desk. He came across my face, thick streaks landing on my lips and cheek while I looked up at him.