My Vietnamese Student Ch. 01

I fell for her on the first day of class. She was petite and slim, with wavy shoulder-length black hair, almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, and an incredible smile that would fill her entire face. She carried herself differently than the rest of her eighteen-year-old colleagues. She was mature, sophisticated, and possessed an incisive intelligence that radiated from her every glance.

This was the first day of her freshman year in college, yet she already had a part-time job working in finance. She was also involved in the university's "Model United Nations," which would take up nearly forty hours of her week. She was ambitious, courageous, and driven. Personal wealth wasn't her ultimate goal, although it would surely accompany her efforts. She was determined to make the world a better place for those in poverty, but she wasn't overly idealistic or blind to the inherent hopelessness of it all. She was born in Hanoi but came to the U.S. when she was a child. Her American name was Veronica.

Our class was in the evening, and she was often visibly tired from long days and lack of sleep. Yet the whole room always seemed to revolve around her, or at least it did to me. I doubt that her male colleagues could appreciate her beauty, as guys at that age are usually caught up in the plastic, pop-culture perceptions of femininity. It was always the revealingly dressed, slutty American girls who seemed to get the most attention. Veronica always showed up in professional attire, and her manner was always businesslike. I was probably the only one who concentrated on catching a glimpse of her sensuality through her professionalism, either a skirt that showed the under-curve of her slim thighs whenever she crossed her legs, or black pants that tightly clung to her firm round butt.

She was too smart. Despite my best efforts to be discreet, I knew that she knew that I was into her. But she could also tell that my feelings went much deeper than vulgar lust or desire. I was only ten years older than her, but there was nonetheless something fatherly in my affections. I wanted her to succeed and be truly happy, and I wasn't about to sabotage any of that by coming on to her as her teacher (although it was well known MANY others in my position certainly made advances on their female students). Still, I hoped we could at least develop a friendship. Each evening, I prayed that she would come talk to me after class, as many students often did, but to no avail. Veronica was always too busy, and would hurry out of the room as soon as the session ended, checking her cell phone. Whenever we ran into each other on campus, she would flash a knowing smile and say hello, but then would look down and continue on her way, denying me the opportunity to stop her for some conversation.

Still, there were encouraging signs. Lots of smiles directed my way when I was teaching, letting me know she was watching and listening. Her essay assignments had a tendency to focus on the erotic aspects of the literature we were studying, and seemed to be sending me secret signals. At times it was as if she was reading my mind, referencing the very type of eroticism I found most appealing. She wrote of the physicality of the female body, as opposed to the idealistic fantasies of literature, and how real women sweat and defecate. She cautioned about how surrendering to lust could lead to one's downfall and suffering. On a more carnal level, I caught her staring directly at my crotch on numerous occasions. My guess was that Veronica was so caught up in her professional endeavors that she was neglecting her sexuality. I yearned to be the one to help her explore her body and her desires, but saw no way of obtaining the opportunity.

Finally, that opportunity would at last arrive, albeit through a fortuitous coincidence. Our supervisors had informed us that we should take the time to meet individually with our students, to talk to them in person about the class but also about their experience at the university in general. This was meant as a checking-in, just to make sure that these young people were handling the pressures ok and that there were no emotional red flags. The meetings would be mandatory, and so I passed a sign-up sheet around the room. Veronica chose the last available time slot, a Friday evening at six o'clock. My heart skipped as I watched her sign her name on the form with that ever-present, all-knowing smile on her lips. This was beginning to get interesting.