April's Fool

But I missed those weekly conferences with April. At first, I had a gnawing sense of unease and couldn't figure out why. All I knew was that something was missing! Then, one day after lunch, in the second week of that break, I caught myself unthinkingly preparing for my routine Wednesday afternoon meeting with April.

I laughed at myself when I realized what I'd been doing unconsciously. But the incident gave me the clue I needed, and, a day or two later, I identified April as the thing that was missing. I found that I hoped, fervently, that she was going to be in my second semester advanced calculus course—and not only because her performance the previous semester had convinced me that she belonged there.

So it was, on the mid-January Monday when classes began, that I reached into my departmental mailbox, my hands trembling, for the class rosters that awaited me there. There was no one else in the mailroom, so I didn't have to explain my immense sigh when I saw her name on the list of a dozen students in advanced calculus. I'm not religious, but I came closer then than I ever have to believing that there must be a God in Heaven.

A few moments later, when I reached my office, I looked at my other roster—the one for the numerical analysis course. Maybe you can imagine what I felt when I found April's name there, too. And maybe you can imagine what other things of April's I wanted to feel!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I sat in my office, the following Wednesday afternoon, wondering. Three o'clock had arrived, but April hadn't. Disappointedly, I told myself that I hadn't been expecting her: Though she was taking two courses from me, we weren't deep enough into the semester that she would have much academic reason to come in. Dejectedly, I began preparing to leave the office for the day.

But a quarter of an hour later, as I was stuffing a couple of books into my briefcase, an apologetic April presented herself. "The bus was late!" she offered, breathlessly.

I smiled, in relief as much as in greeting. "Well, it's not as if you had an appointment! But it's nice to see you. How was your break?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

April and I easily fell into another routine. She had even more reason to visit me this spring than she'd had in the fall: She was taking two courses from me this semester, and she said that she was thinking about going to graduate school in mathematics. It was a bit early, she knew, for such thoughts, as she was now only in the second semester of the third year of a four-year undergraduate mathematics program. Could she talk to me as the semester progressed, she wondered as she sat by my desk at our third meeting, for advice in pursuing graduate school applications.

We were soon meeting twice every week, at three o'clock every Monday and every Wednesday. I looked forward to those meetings, perhaps even more enthusiastically than I had to our first meeting of the new semester, even though nothing the least bit improper ever took place during any of them. Except that, still, April's thigh never failed to press against mine as we worked, together, on her growing understanding. But, just as the first time she had pressed her leg against mine, neither of us ever said anything about the contact that so delighted me.

Late that February, as winter was showing signs of ending, April came to our Wednesday afternoon consultation in something of a dither. She had seemed distraught the Monday before, though she had managed to hold herself together that day. This day, she was distracted and crabby, unable to concentrate on the matters we were discussing.

Somehow, we made it through a singularly unproductive session. When it was over and she was getting ready to leave, she looked me in the eye. "I'm sorry, Professor Harrison," she said, acknowledging for the first time that we hadn't accomplished very much. "I haven't been able to keep my mind on business this week, but…" She paused.

"Oh," I offered, breaking in, "we all have 'off' days. I'm sure you'll be in a better mood next week."

"I hope so," she replied. "I'm worried about Kay—my little sister. She's been hanging out with a guy who isn't very good for her."

I could see that she wanted to expand on that statement but didn't know whether she should. So I simply said, "Oh?" and looked at her expectantly.

She sat down again, and the dam broke.

There ensued a tearful half-hour, during which I learned many things about April and her family. She had already completed a baccalaureate degree in art history. And she had completed that earlier degree even though her mother was an abusive alcoholic who required a lot of care. April had moved out of the family home when she turned eighteen, though she had continued to spend a lot of time there looking after her mother and refereeing her mother's interactions with Kay.

In order to support herself, she had held down two part-time office jobs, requiring a total of about twenty hours every week, while completing her degree in just five years. When she was nearly done with that degree, she had discovered an interest in mathematics, which she wanted to pursue. Her family responsibilities had not diminished, but she was still holding down those office jobs—the market for art-historians being rather weak.

Her parents had separated at about the time April began her university studies. Their father had stayed in touch with his daughters, and he had given April a small house he had inherited but didn't live in. He was, in other respects, useless as a parent. Two years ago, then-twenty-one-year-old April had legally adopted her eight-year-younger sister. April and Kay now shared April's house, where both were safe from the physical abuse their mother still tried to inflict.

She told me about Kay's worthless boyfriend, with whom April was almost sure Kay was having unprotected sex. He was involved, April said, on the margins of the illegal market in hard drugs, doing a little dealing. She thought he was probably on the road to addiction himself, and she was desperately afraid that he would start Kay down that same road. April stopped after those revelations—a look of amazement on her face. I looked at her expectantly again. "Why?" she asked rhetorically. "Why am I telling you all my troubles? You're not my parent!"

Like most university professors, I have absolutely no formal training in counseling, so I had no professional qualifications to handle situations like the one that was then unfolding in my office. But professors—especially professors at an institution like mine, where the student body is composed largely of commuters—hear many stories of difficult family situations. So, of necessity, we develop some ability to deal with them, even though few of them concentrate so many problems—or so much strength and determination—in one individual. Thus, I found something useful to say: "No," I agreed. "I'm not your parent." As I said it, a part of me reflected on the fact that she seemed, in spite of her own dysfunctional parents, to know how a parent ought to behave. I continued, "But I'll listen to you whenever you need me to."

I could see the tension leave that remarkable female body. (Even under the circumstances, I couldn't ignore her femininity.) For the first time since she'd walked into my office—possibly for the first time in days—she relaxed. An expression of heartfelt gratitude flowed across her face as she said, simply, "Thank you, Professor Harrison."

Then a different kind of tension gathered in her, and she continued, "But I've bothered you enough for one day. You shouldn't have to listen to my problems. Besides, I have to go now, or I'll be late for work."

She got up and resumed gathering her belongings. Meaning to help her, I reached for the coat she'd set aside when she'd arrived. As she finished collecting things, I held it open for her. Seeing my offer, she smiled nervously at me and inserted an arm into a sleeve. I moved the garment to help her find the other sleeve. As she put that other arm into that sleeve, she looked up at me. Her smile lost its timorous quality and deepened.

Without warning, she reached up and kissed me on the lips!

It wasn't just a quick peck from a woman who was grateful that someone had listened to her troubles.

No! It was a real kiss—one that promises other, deeper, intimacies! Her soft moist lips pressed gently against mine, partially open, inviting my almost automatic, if shocked, response.

It didn't last long. It lasted, nevertheless, too long! But not long enough!

I regained my senses and withdrew my tongue. We separated; I looked again into her smiling eyes; and I uttered an astonished "April!"

Her smile deepened again. "Yes, Professor Harrison?" she asked sweetly, as if she thought I was about to ask her if she was prepared for class tomorrow.

Confused, stumbling over my words, I apologized: "I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have let that happen! I don't know what got into me! That was so…" I fumbled for a word, found one. "…inappropriate of me."

"Yes, it was!" she agreed, giving me a sneaky little smile as she picked up her books and her purse. "It was very unprofessional of you! But it's something I've wanted to do for a long time."

And then, suddenly, she was gone.

The scent of her hair remained in my nostrils for an hour, and the taste of her mouth lingered in mine through the rest of the day.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Later that evening, I remembered that my office door had been open when April had unexpectedly kissed me. I couldn't remember if there had been any activity in the hall then, so I had no idea what kind of trouble she might have made for me. With the realization of that state of affairs, came another realization: I wasn't worried about it.

Maybe I should have been.

There could be complications if someone had seen us. For one thing, my academic reputation was at risk. For another, the University frowned heavily on sexual relationships between a professor and a student enrolled under that professor—although there was little it could do about a tenured professor's behavior unless it could substantiate academic dishonesty or sexual harassment.

But April wasn't a selfish nineteen-year-old who was looking for an edge. I knew her pretty well by then, and I trusted her. Somehow, I knew—was certain—that if the University should take an interest in what was happening between the two of us, she would give a truthful account in which there could be nothing for me to be concerned about.

Moreover, I knew that my department colleagues, including the chairman, trusted me enough to believe me if I denied that April's physical charms had in any way affected my evaluation of her work. I did think that it would be wise for me to make copies of everything she submitted in the future. Then, if push should come to shove, disinterested people could verify that she had earned any grade I gave her. Covering your ass, I remarked to myself, never hurts!

Nevertheless, it was with some trepidation that I arrived early in my numerical analysis class the next day. Edgy as I was about seeing her after the previous day's misstep, I still enjoyed watching from my habitual perch at the front of the room as her delightful female body settled into its seat in the center of the first row. I was even more entranced that day than usual, because, for the first time since I'd become acquainted with her, April was wearing a skirt—a short skirt. And she contrived to show me bare thigh—a lot of bare thigh—as she seated herself.

I think I managed to conceal my lechery. I didn't let my eyes bulge nor my jaw drop; other members of the class seemed unaware. But, as she came to rest in her seat, knees together, legs uncrossed, I raised my eyes to look at her face. She was looking directly at me, and there was the sneaky little smile—the one I'd seen when she'd confessed wanting to kiss me.

That look told me, unequivocally, that she knew I'd been looking up her skirt. More, it told me that she'd planned that she would make a display, that I would look, that she would catch me, and that she approved! As I digested this bit of information, her smile deepened and she separated her knees a bit—quite a bit. Reflexively, my gaze dropped to the resulting sight of pink panty.

Good fortune came to my rescue, and the clock tower bell chose that instant to sound. Literally saved by the bell, I carefully swung myself off of my seat and turned toward the blackboard to begin the day's lecture. It was important that I not be too abrupt. I had to conceal my agitation.

When I looked back at the class after a minute or so, it seemed that I had succeeded. Mostly. Heads bent over notebooks wherein pencils recorded my words and symbols of wisdom. But April was looking directly at me. Her smile was no longer sneaky; it was a broad, deep grin. She knew exactly what she'd done, and my response had been exactly what she'd wanted from me. Ahh, well! I thought to myself as I dove deeper into the mysteries of Lagrange interpolation. This teacher-student relationship never has been quite normal.

She gave me that sneaky little smile again as she left the classroom at the end of the period.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was no surprise, the following Monday morning, when April took her seat in my advanced calculus course and, from under another short skirt, flashed the crotch of her panties at me again. They were green this time. Nor was the smile—the sneaky little smile—a surprise! I smiled back at her; I wasn't going to let her fluster me this time. I even summoned the courage to greet her: "Good morning, April! How was your weekend?"

She responded with something trite that I don't recall, and then it was time for class to begin. Somehow, I managed to conceal the turmoil that had begun, yet again, in my trousers. But I knew, then, that something had to give.

I stumbled through that lecture, through the lunch hour that followed, and through the hours that intervened between lunch and our informal standing appointment at three. I had mixed feelings about that meeting—feelings of anticipation and of dread. As always, I wanted—no, needed—to see her. But we had crossed a line, and I couldn't guess where we were headed.

I did know where I wanted to head. And I was all but certain that April was of like mind. But I also knew that the destination we both wanted was forbidden to me.

At three, when she arrived, I tried to pursue the ostrich strategy: I stuck my head in the sand, and I pretended that nothing had changed. We had a fairly disorganized session, in which we accomplished very little—each of us being lost in thoughts about what had happened between us. And she was still wearing that short little skirt, which didn't bring any order to the chaos in my mind.

We'd wound up the session when she made it clear—very clear—where she thought last week's transgression, and her more recent exhibitions, should take us. I thought she was preparing to leave, when, without warning, she closed the office door! Before I could even remark that I didn't think closing that door was a good idea, she had stepped up against me, thrown her arms around my neck, and reached up to press her lips against my own.

After a short (very short) struggle with myself, I responded: I wrapped my arms around her, and I pulled her tightly against myself. My tongue again found its way into her welcoming mouth. Unlike that first fleeting kiss we had shared four days earlier, this kiss extended, seemingly, into eternity—as if we both knew that we had found something worthwhile, something that could endure. Her tongue chased mine into my mouth, and then mine chased hers back. We repeated that action several times. When, at last, our mouths broke from each other, we looked into each other's eyes. We continued to hold our bodies together, and I delighted in the curves and shapes she pressed against me.

One of my own shapes was changing—becoming more prominent! She announced that she was well aware of that change by rubbing her body against the growing bulge in my pants.

"We can't, you know," I finally managed to say, weakly, hoping half-heartedly for contradiction.

"I think we're going to," she answered. "In fact, I think we'd better!"

That was the contradiction I'd wanted, but now I wasn't sure whether I had really wanted it or not. We held each other, quietly, for a bit. The double armful of willing woman didn't strengthen my resolve to avoid sexual entanglement with a student. At length, she wiggled against my cock again as she asked, plaintively, "Why can't we?"

I have to admit that I wiggled back against her as I replied, "It would be unethical. I'm your professor. I assign grades to you." There it was: I held a position of power over her, and I wasn't ready to overlook the ethical problems that a sexual relationship with a student would raise.

She, evidently, was in a position of power over me, too. Such was her power that my hands began roaming up and down the sides of her body, cupping the cheeks of her ass now and again, wandering occasionally to her tits, as she continued to hold us against each other. She did nothing to stop the trespassing.

I was still looking into her eyes, and she was still looking back. "You might be right if I was nineteen or I was a weak student," she said. "But I'm neither, and you know it. And I'm not some fifteen-year-old virgin who doesn't know any better than to let you knock her up. I've had men before, and I'm on the Pill!"

I began a reply, half-hearted again, my hands still wandering, "But—"

"You've got tenure!" she interrupted me before I was even sure what I was about to say. We were still wiggling lewdly against each other. "What's tenure good for if you can't fuck a student you want? Someone who wants to fuck you!"

Until the last few days, our relationship had been completely professional—well, except for a little covert rubbing and some unexpressed thoughts. Neither of us had used such language in the other's presence; though, naturally, I was no stranger to foul language in my private life. But her coarse words brought me, finally, to my senses.

Gently, firmly, sadly, still looking into her eyes, I pushed her enticing body away. "No!" I said, resolutely. "Much as I'd like to, it can't happen."

She pouted, but though she continued to look into my eyes, she made no effort to renew the embrace I'd broken. At length, she said, with an air of defeat, "I guess I understand. I hope you aren't angry with me."

"No," I said. "Never! I don't think I can be." I looked again at her body. I am Femininity! it fairly screamed at me for the ten-thousandth time. "I'm just disappointed about what can't be." I smiled at her. "Let's try to carry on as though this hadn't happened between us."

Doubtfully, she smiled back at me. But I could see the reluctance in her agreement and in the way she carried herself as, minutes later, she left my office.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

We stumbled awkwardly with each other during our next few meetings. We fumbled with the ideas I wanted her to think about; both of us had trouble focusing our thoughts where the professor in me thought they belonged. Those thoughts now focused where the man in me knew they belonged. So it didn't seem, during that period, that we accomplished very much in the way of mathematics—or anything else.

But we effected more than seemed apparent at the time. It probably helped that school was out for Spring Break during a week near the beginning of March, so that we were out of touch with each other during that week. Soon, we had repaired—pretty much—our broken teacher-student relationship, and we were again dealing with the mathematical concepts that I had loved for decades, but that she found new and exciting. Mathematics, at least, was something that we could share whole-heartedly.