The Guest Speaker

I wake up on a drowsy Thursday morning around 10:30, just like normal. I roll out of bed to realize that I must have been having a wet dream, which makes me thankful I don't live in the dorms anymore. As I walk to the shower I think about how sad it is to be a 22-year-old college girl and yet I can only get action in my dreams.

In my bathrobe, with my hair in a towel, I sit down at my desk to check my email. Waiting in my inbox is an email from my Musical Structures IV professor reminding us that there will be a guest speaker in class today. That's my only class on Thursdays, so I suppose a little mix-up might make for a nice day. I close my laptop and continue my morning routine.

Thirty minutes later, I'm locking the door to my apartment and walking to the bus stop. I usually catch a bus at 11:45 and I arrive a few minutes early for my 12:30 class, which gives me time to get a most desirable seat near the front of the lecture hall but not too close.

I enter the vast lecture hall to see that I am the only student to arrive this early... But I am not alone. At the bottom of the lecture hall, testing a slideshow on the projector from his laptop was a tall, athletic-looking man of about thirty. As I descend the steps to the row of seating I had picked, I am able to pick out more details about him. His well-kept beard hugs and defines his perfect jawline, its stark black pigment contrasting beautifully with his ice blue eyes. His skin is flawlessly smooth and the sun-kissed color of amber. His bone structure looks like it was sculpted to the desires of Aphrodite herself, and his thick, wavy black hair sits neatly in a small bun at the nape of his neck, a few strands peeking out to frame his face. His broad shoulders fill his gray suit very well, and somehow it also manages to contour to his narrowed waist and hips. He is lean but well-built, and smartly dressed in a suit and bowtie. He steps away from his computer and turns to his side; now I am blessed to see that he has the ass of a college football player. Damn.

At this moment he looks up and towards me, as if noticing my presence. I, too, notice my presence in this moment, and I realize that I have been frozen halfway down the steps staring at him for about three minutes now. I am saved from embarrassment when, finally, the doors to the lecture hall open and students begin to file in drudgingly. Blushing, I sit down in a seat three rows behind the one I had originally picked. I pull out my iPhone and stare at it intently as if pretending I had a buzzing social life could save me from my faux pas ogling. 12:30 flicked onto my screen and I put my phone away, looking up and preparing myself for the boring hour-long lecture I'm about to endure. I scan the room to find no trace of my professor, but instead just that angel of a man gracefully waiting in my professor's place. He glances down at his watch, then looks up at the congregation and smiles apologetically, as if it were his fault our professor was late.

"This is musical structures four with Dr. James Blancher, correct?" he asks. His voice sounds like a perfect draw of the bow across the strings of a double bass, and I feel a sharp pang of desire tickle my crotch. A collective head-nod of "yes" signals to him that he is, in fact, in the correct lecture hall.

"Well, rather than letting you all sit in awkward silence for the fifteen minutes we're supposed to wait to see if Dr. Blancher will arrive, I will go ahead and introduce myself. I am Dr. Edmund Thickman, and believe me, I am in fact a thick man." He winks, and through the few timid giggles of my classmates, I tell myself that I'm not the only one wishing he'd prove it. "All jokes aside, ladies and gentlemen, I am the guest speaker that you may remember your professor mentioning in emails. If you don't check your email diligently enough to know what I am talking about, surprise; There's a guest speaker today." A handful of students chuckle softly as they know he's talking to them. "I am a pianist, and a professor of musicology. Today I will be discussing with you the importance of variable repertoire. But first, while your professor is away, I'd like to get to know the class a little better. Do we have any fellow pianists in the house?" Ten hands raise and Dr. Thickman grins, giving these students a kind of air fist-bump. He continues asking about the instrumentation of my classmates, and I stop paying attention to what goes on because, frankly, I don't give a damn about my classmates at this time. I decide instead to allow myself the luxury of daydreaming about this man for a few minutes.

I wonder how old he is. I don't see a ring on his hand, so perhaps he isn't married... He also looks fairly well rested, so I feel it is safe to assume no kids... But seriously, he can't be older than 27... How many years does it take to get a PhD in musicology? Damn, that ass. Oh my God, he's unbuttoning his suit jacket... pulling it off... I've never seen a man fill out a dress shirt so well—

"Huh?" I mutter after a girl to my left tapped me on the shoulder. I tear my gaze from the man that I now realize is looking expectantly at me.

"He asked you a question, Charlotte."

"Oh," I mumble stupidly. "I'm sorry Dr. Thickman, what was your question? I didn't hear it." I feel my cheeks filling with blood as I sit mortified at the thought of being caught practically drooling over him.

"I asked what instrument you play, ma'am," he repeats, his voice kind and gentle yet still thrilling.

"Oh, uh," Dammit, Charlotte, quit mumbling! "I play the flute." I twiddle my thumbs and look shyly into his eyes to see that he looks oddly pleased. I imagine a guillotine blade waiting above my head to put me out of my misery of embarrassment here.

"Flute, hm? That is one of my favorite instruments to hear. Maybe I'll hear you play someday." My eyes widen at the thought of him observing the one thing in this world I feel like I do well. He smiles softly, then turns and heads to toward the other side of the room. I take this opportunity to glance at my phone once more and I see that it is now 12:42. If Dr. Blancher doesn't arrive in the next three minutes, we will all be encouraged to pack up our things and come back next week. Part of me wants to stay and continue being mesmerized by Dr. Thickman, but part of me wants to get as far away from him as possible so I don't continue to embarrass myself in front of him.

What am I even thinking? There's no way he sees me as anything more than just a generic student in a class he doesn't even teach. But why did he single me out? Did he single anyone else out? I wasn't even paying attention... He very well could have asked everyone in my row what instrument they play and I simply wouldn't know for my daydreaming... And if that's the case, what am I doing thinking about having a crush on him?

One minute before call time, Dr. Blancher plows through the doors, interrupting Dr. Thickman's easygoing conversation with exclamations of how horrible the traffic was. Really dude? We all made it here on time, so can you. A collective sigh of disgruntlement fills the room as a lecture hall full of students who were packed up to go retrieve their notebooks from the bookbags and settle back in for the lecture. At least I can continue enjoying the view.

And just like that, a boring lecture became much more tolerable.

My iPhone reads 2:03 P.M. as I fly through the turquoise front door of the coffee shop I work at. A place called "Studio 9," it's a locally-owned hole-in-the-wall that is severely underrated. The walls are lined with books of all sorts, for all ages. Stacks of board and card games sporadically interrupt the sea of hardbacks. The seating is mismatched but impeccably comfortable, and all of the décor fits together in a nice shabby-chic sort of way. Most importantly, the coffee tastes wonderful.

I clock in at the front computer and begin my shift by grabbing a rag and wiping down the tables. I'm the only head barista working this shift and not two minutes into it, my first customer of the day arrives. I turn around with a smile on my face to greet a sexy-as-ever looking Dr. Thickman.

Shit.

"Hi, welcome to Studio 9!" I spout cheerily. Maybe if I pretend I don't know who he is, he won't remember me. Wait, do I want him to remember me?

"Hello, Charlotte. I'll take an extra-dry cappuccino, please."

Shit. Shitshitshit.

"I'll have that right out to you, sir. Just have a seat wherever you please." I hurried back behind the counter to prepare his drink, hoping that it would take long enough for me to collect myself.

I bring him his drink and as I bend over to place it in front of him, I notice his eyes flick toward where cleavage would be if I had respectable breasts. Instead of disgusting me, this unhidden display of interest from such a respectable man ignites a fire in my pelvic region. We lock eyes for a moment.

"Thank you, Charlotte." His perfect mouth bends gracefully into a kind smile. I smile back as best I can.

I knock on the manager's office door and ask her to watch the counter while I take a bathroom break. I hurry inside the small bathroom, lock the stall, and let out a sigh so intense it could almost be mistaken for a moan. I unfasten my jeans and pull them down to my thighs, revealing the black lace panties I wear to make myself feel sexy. I pull them down, too, and there is an unmistakable wetness to them. I am a sexually frustrated young woman... There is nothing wrong with touching myself... I need relief... But come on, Charlotte! This is weird! He's hardly even spoken to you and you're going to masturbate to him? ...Yes, yes I am... Just a little bit... My hands are cold from the chill in the bathroom, but that makes the pleasure all the more exciting. I let my fingertips creep downward towards my swollen button, and the icy touch sends pulses of fire through my body. I press on myself and rub it in slow, deliberate circles as the wetness increases rapidly. I imagine that it is Edmund Thickman's graceful, long fingers playing with me instead of my own. I imagine his icy blue eyes looking down into mine lustfully as he slips a finger into my hot, quivering vagina. The sensation is building and intensifying and I'm nearing climax when—Damn!—someone enters the restroom. I quickly wipe myself off and flush the toilet, then zip my jeans back up and exit my stall. Fuck, how long have I been in here? I wash my hands and hurry back out to the shop.

The clock on the wall indicates that I had only been occupied for roughly five minutes, so I'm not too embarrassed. I return to my work wiping down tables, my gaze flicking up towards Dr. Thickman once or twice. The way he looked at me earlier... Thinking back on the exchange, I don't understand why Dr. Thickman looked at me the way he did. I'm not much to look at; an underwhelming five-feet-two-inches, shaped like a twelve-year-old boy. My auburn hair is in a neat but loose braid and a headband, so it isn't even framing my dull hazel eyes or uneven freckles. I'm not pretty. But maybe if I try...

I move to a table that is directly within his line of sight. He's reading the back cover of a book he pulled from the shelf, but I have confidence I can get his attention without making a fool of myself. I "accidentally" knock a sugar dispenser off the table, knowing how much more work I would have to do in order to clean it up. "Uh, oh," I mutter, and I bend at the waist, poking my butt cheeks apart to try to make my ass look its best. My ass is the one thing about my body that I like in any situation; it is perky and cute and voluptuous. I slowly roll back up with the sugar dispenser in hand, then I turn to go get a broom and dust pan to sweep up the sugar on the floor. As I pass him, I notice that Dr. Thickman was looking me up and down with a sultry smirk on his perfect face. In the broom closet, I begin to adjust my bra and shirt to try to fake a bit of cleavage for when I go back out. What. The actual. Fuck. Charlotte, he's a professor! He's so out of my league. Why am I trying to seduce him? I pick up the broom and dustpan and weigh my options. Oh, hell, I've already put this much effort into it, might as well go the extra mile! I leave the broom closet and sachet back out to my mess. I throw in a wink in the direction of Dr. Thickman when I make eye contact with him as I bend over, facing him this time, to sweep up the sugar. I take my time, trying my best to give him as much of an eyeful as a man can get of barely-there boobs. I pop up with a jerk this time, hoping the jiggling caused by the abrupt movement might lend to an illusion of larger breasts. The look on his face is not what I expected it to be; instead of looking amused or intrigued, he instead has a stern look that somehow tears between anger and territorialism. It scares me.

I rush behind the counter to toss away the spilled sugar and try to wipe that look of anger from my mind. I put the broom and dust pan away and by the time I exit the closet, Dr. Thickman is standing sternly at the counter.

"Charlotte," he speaks urgently, yet under his breath, even though we are the only two within earshot. Then, as if having a change of heart, his demeanor softens into a more friendly tone. He hesitates before asking, "What time do you get off today?"

I pause in disbelief. "I clock out at 6 today." Is he about to suggest we meet up?

Our eyes hold for a few seconds as he seems to be making a decision.

"Would you like to join me for dinner tonight? I can pick you up at 7:30."

I stare blankly for a moment that feels like eternity. I haven't been asked on a date since my sophomore year in high school. "That sounds nice," I breathe.

"Okay, great," he says with a slight catch in his voice. Out of nowhere he produces a small piece of paper and hands it to me, our fingertips touching for a bit longer than usual for passing a note. "Here's my number. Text me where you want me to pick you up, and I'll be there at 7:30 sharp."

All I could manage was to smile at him, but that's all he offered me in closing, as well. I watched him walk confidently out the door.

This is fucking crazy. What if he's a psycho? I don't know anything about this man and I'm about to text him my address to come pick me up for a date. I'm gonna die.

"Hi, Dr. Thickman. This is Charlotte." I decide to forgo telling him my address just because it makes me feel a tiny bit less risky. "If you could actually pick me up at Studio 9 that would be great. I have to stop in and talk with my boss for a bit."

I put my phone down. It's 6:15, just over an hour before our designated meeting time. In the five minutes I've been home from work, I have managed to do nothing in the way of getting ready except worry about it. I decide to start from the basics and put on a new lacy red thong and my matching push-up bra. Standing near-naked in front of my mirror, I let my long hair fall from its braid into a curtain of loose waves. I guess I'm kind've cute... I open my closet door and pick out an emerald green sweater dress that I bought a year ago but have never had the confidence to wear. Its plunging neckline plays well with the push-up bra; I actually have a decent amount of cleavage. The dress hugs me tightly, somehow giving off the illusion of a curvy waist. It stops at the middle of my thighs, where a pair of opaque black tights keep my legs from being completely bare. I pair this with my thigh-high leather boots that I have kept in the back of my closet since I my junior year in high school. A dainty gold necklace, mascara and deep red lipstick are the last few accessories I bother with. I put on my black pea coat as the November wind howls outside, and lock the door on my way out.

During the ten minute walk to the coffee shop, I notice men on the street looking me over like I'm pretty. It makes my body feel warm and wet as I think about the thoughts I hope Dr. Thickman will be having about me later. I remember that I hadn't checked my phone to see if he replied, and immediately reach into my pocket to pull it out. There was a message from him that read:

"Hello, Charlotte. Please, call me Edmund... I would like to get to know you well enough for us to be on a first-name basis. I will be at the coffee shop at 7:30."

Unsure what to think, I put my phone back into my pocket and hurry up the steps to the coffee shop. It's 7:00 and I want to have plenty of time to sit and let myself calm down.

I order a black coffee and take a seat—realizing as I sit just how sensitive my lady bits are already. How is it possible for a man I barely know to switch me on so hard that just the thought of him has me dripping?

As I sit waiting, I realize that part of the reason I find him so appealing could very well be the mystery of him. It also could be heightened by the fact that I've not had any sexual encounters outside of the time I was drunk after my senior prom and slept with a guy who came out as gay two years later. Then, he walks in, taking my breath away with his hair relaxed at his shoulders, wearing a blue button-down that matches his eyes, grey slacks that hug his well-built lower half and an overall demeanor of sexiness. My pussy clenches.

His eyes meet mine and we both smile. I stand and his jaw drops.

"Charlotte..." he begins. "You look stunning." His eyes travel slowly up my body, lingering unabashedly on my chest before meeting my gaze.

"Thank you," I say, blushing. "I didn't want to disappoint."

He approaches me, gently placing his hand on the small of my back, and leads me out to his car.

"Trust me, beautiful," he whispers. "There will be no disappointment for either of us tonight."

In his car, a jet black Camaro, alternative rock plays softly under our conversation.

"I've never taken a student of mine on a date before," he admits, his voice cracking.

"Well, I've never been on a date before," I admit, twice as timid as he. His head twists abruptly toward me in disbelief.

"Shut up!" he exclaims. "How?"

"Well... I don't know. I suppose I'm not particularly pretty."

His eyes are back on the road but his eyebrows are raised in decided disagreement. "I can't believe you just said that." I blushed and he seemed to prepare his next words carefully. "I saw you this morning and my heart leapt from my chest. I don't know what it is about you, a student I don't know at all, but I am desperately drawn to you, Charlotte. I hope that's not creepy."

I sat there blushing, not knowing what to say. Finally I was able to mutter, "I'm drawn to you, as well," as we pulled into the parking lot of a small but inviting Italian restaurant. Inside, we took a booth in the dim light.

"What drew you to become a music professor?" I ask, trying to get to know my gorgeous date.

"Well, I began playing piano when I was six years old. It was an escape from a cruel world for me, and I've never stopped loving it. It is my truest love." His words came out slow and raw, and I could feel a mysterious pain behind them. "What about you, Charlotte? Why are you going into music?"

"I've never fit in or felt wanted in many places or situations. My instrument has been my partner in gaining myself a place in this world. It has introduced me to great people and taken my time away from toxic people." I answer honestly. "I want to someday inspire some other broken child to pick up an instrument that can make the world a better place."

At this time, Edmund reached across the table and took my icy fingers in his hands. I realize that I'm not nervous or scared at all with him. He calms me.